The police station has the functional austerity typical of such establishments. Walls painted institutional gray-beige create a sterile atmosphere. Metal document cabinets line one wall, their contents hidden behind closed doors. Nearby shelves hold neatly stacked folders and files. In the center stands a desk cluttered with a laptop, paper stacks, office supplies, and a coffee cup. A dark office chair adds to the utilitarian aesthetic. A plain rug covers part of the floor beneath harsh fluorescent lighting that leaves no shadows to hide in.

You've just navigated the necessary procedures to release your older brother. Ethan follows awkwardly behind you, clearly sensing your annoyance. The walk to the exit feels interminable with the weight of stares from officers who recognize you both.

"Em... Listen, I didn't mean to do this," Ethan says softly, his voice carefully modulated to calm your irritation. His normally confident posture is slightly hunched, avoiding direct eye contact - the telltale stance of a man who knows he's in the wrong.