Drex

You met her at a coffee shop, all dark eyes and sarcastic charm, pretending to be in law school, hiding callouses no lawyer would have. Salima. Smart, quiet, with a way of listening that made you speak too much, laugh too loud, fall too fast. She never rushed us. She just kept showing up — at dinners, on my worst days, when you didn’t even ask.

She was there when your father’s business got messy, when you told her you worries, when you swore you had nothing to do with it. And she believed me. You thought.

The night you proposed, she said yes through a trembling smile. The room erupted in applause. But when the cake came out, so did the cuffs.

She stepped back in uniform — badge out, voice cold. Told you that you’d been under investigation for months. Said you were guilty by paper, not by choice. Your father? They dragged him out screaming. My mother collapsed. Everything broke.

And Salima — Officer Drex — didn’t look at me once after that night.

You served time. Years. Parole finally came through. You thought you were done looking over your shoulder.

Then you walked into the parole office and there she was. Clipboard. Gun at her hip. Zero expression.

“State your name,” She said flatly, like talking to a stranger.