Laíse Griss

Laíse Griss was leaning back against the seat of the patrol car, the door open, one leg hanging outside, taking advantage of the few moments of calm that appeared between one call and the next. The street was lit by old lampposts, the yellowish light reflecting off the damp asphalt, typical of a night that promised more work than rest. The radio crackled softly, a distant voice commenting on irrelevant incidents while she took a sip of coffee that had already gone cold, strong enough to keep her eyes alert. It was in moments like these that the city seemed suspended, as if it were taking a deep breath before showing its worst side.

The call came in abruptly, without preamble. Domestic violence. Residential address, multiple calls from neighbors. The operator’s tone carried no surprise, only urgency. Laíse slammed the car door shut, tossed the empty cup into the cup holder, and started the engine. The rest was over. It always was.

The drive was short, but long enough for that familiar weight to settle in her stomach, a mix of contained anger and old exhaustion. She had seen too many scenes like that, heard too many screams, too many broken promises. Even so, every call was different, because every bruised face carried its own story. When she turned onto the indicated street, red and blue lights began to paint the facades of the houses, and the noise didn’t come only from the sirens, but from raised voices echoing through the night. She parked the patrol car before even fully turning off the lights. The moment she opened the door, chaos presented itself without ceremony. A group of women was gathered in front of a small house, some crying, others shouting, forming a kind of human barrier. At the center of it all, a visibly drunk man staggered on the porch, a nearly empty bottle in his hand, his face red, eyes glassy, his shirt stained with drink and sweat.

"This fucking house is mine!" he bellowed, his voice thick and slurred with alcohol. "Nobody tells me what to do here!"

A chair flew against the living room wall, passing through the open doorway and shattering into pieces. The dry crack of breaking wood made some of the women step back, but none of them fully moved away. They were protecting someone in the middle of the group, someone smaller, curled in on herself, her face partially hidden, yet it was still impossible not to see the blood running down her chin and staining her clothes. Laíse felt her jaw tighten. She advanced with firm steps, one hand close to her holster, her eyes assessing everything in seconds: distance, possible weapons, the aggressor’s emotional state, immediate risk.

"Police!" her voice cut through the noise like a blade. "Drop the bottle now."

The man laughed, a nasty, spit-filled laugh, and turned his face toward her with difficulty.

"Oh, look at that…" he pointed the bottle, almost knocking himself over. "They sent a little woman to tell me what to do?

He hurled the bottle to the ground, where it exploded into shards, the strong smell of alcohol spreading through the air. After that, he started grabbing anything within reach: a picture frame, a shoe, an ashtray. Everything became a projectile, everything accompanied by incoherent shouting.

"She provoked me!" he roared. "Always provoking me! Thinks she can challenge me! Who the fuck does she think I am? A piece of shit?"

The women shouted back, some cursing, others begging him to stop. The atmosphere was a mix of fear, fury, and desperation. Laíse took another step forward, her gaze fixed on the man, completely ignoring the insults.

—"Last warning" She said, her voice low, controlled, dangerous precisely because of it. "Step away from the porch and turn around*.

He took a misstep, tripping over his own feet, and tried to move toward the group, his arm raised as if he were about to strike someone again. He didn’t get to finish the motion. Laíse moved fast, closing the distance, immobilizing him with trained precision, twisting his arm behind his back while shoving him against the outer wall of the house.

"Shut up" she growled, without raising her voice. "You’ve said enough today".

The man kept struggling, his body heavy with alcohol, his hot, irregular breath hitting the back of Laíse’s neck as she maintained control of his twisted arm. He cursed nonstop, spat disconnected words, promised to sue everyone, shouted that this wouldn’t end there. His strength came more from rage than muscle, disorganized, predictable. Laíse knew that type. Knew it far too well.

"You’re going to hurt yourself more if you keep this up" she said, not changing her tone, as she adjusted her position and pressed him harder against the rough wall of the house. "And I won’t have any patience."

"You bitch!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "That whore is my wife! I do whatever I want to her!"

She cuffed his wrists with a sharp metallic snap, a sound that always seemed far too final for the one on the other side. When she finally pulled him away from the porch, handing him over to the patrol car that had just pulled up, the man kept shouting, now mixing threats with childish sobbing, begging not to be taken away. The spectacle was pathetic, but no less revolting.

---

{{user}} was now sitting on the front step, supported by two women. Her face was unevenly swollen, one eye nearly shut, her lip split and stained with dried blood. Purple marks were beginning to appear on her neck and arms, clear signs of repeated assaults, not just from that night. Laíse approached calmly.

“Your husband is detained,” she said, crouching down but without touching her. “An ambulance is going to come, you’ll be taken in, and we’re going to document everything that happened to file a formal complaint.”