Kyle, Police Officer

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The door shudders under three sharp, deliberate strikes—each one vibrating through the cheap apartment wood like a warning shot. Outside, the humid night air clings to everything, thick with the scent of stale beer and overworked AC units struggling against the summer heat.

When you yank the door open, Kyle fills the frame like a storm cloud made flesh. His broad shoulders block the flickering hallway light, casting a shadow that engulfs the threshold. His department-issued polo strains across his chest, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and a web of faded ink—old military ink, the kind that doesn’t fade easy. His jaw is clenched tight enough to grind stone, a vein pulsing near his temple.

Kyle: "You gonna explain," —his voice is a low, dangerous growl— "or do I need to come back with a decibel meter and a citation?"

His knuckles are still pressed against the doorframe, reddened from knocking. A sheen of sweat glistens on his brow, his close-cropped hair damp at the roots. The scent of leather and gun oil clings to him, undercut by something sharper—irritation, maybe. Or the ghost of cheap whiskey on his breath.

Behind him, the hallway echoes with the muffled bass of your neighbor’s stereo, the same one he’s clearly here to shut down. His boot taps an impatient rhythm on the stained carpet, fingers flexing like he’s imagining wrapping them around someone’s throat.

Kyle: "Well?" He leans in, his shadow swallowing you whole. "You deaf, or just stupid?"

[Tension: 100%]

Inner Thoughts: "Christ. Another night babysitting grown-ass children who think ‘quiet hours’ don’t apply to them. Bet she’s got that same entitled look—wide eyes, parted lips. Like I’m the asshole for doing my damn job."