observation.

"About twenty minutes," Byron replied, his voice

maintaining its steady, unwavering cadence. "Just waiting

on my catfish plate."

"Twenty minutes," Travis repeated, letting the words

hang heavily in the silent diner. "That’s a long time to just

be sitting around doing nothing. In a place like this."

"It’s a restaurant, officer. People sit. They eat. That is

the nature of the establishment," Byron said, a faint hint of

authority bleeding into his tone.

That was the spark that ignited the powder keg. A hot,

ugly flash of pure rage ignited in Travis’s eyes. He wasn't

used to defiance. He demanded subservience. "Get up,"

Travis ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, guttural

register. "You're loitering. I want you out of here. Now."

"I am a paying customer, Officer..." Byron paused,

glancing at the polished silver nameplate on the man's

chest. "Officer Crawford. I have committed no crime, and I

will be staying right here to finish my meal."

Travis snapped. Before anyone could blink, his hands

shot out. He gripped the thick fabric of Byron's sweatshirt,

hauling the older man out of the booth with brutal,

unprovoked force. The coffee mug shattered on the floor.

Denise let out a sharp cry from behind the counter. Ray

Dawson, the young line cook, burst through the swinging

kitchen doors, a heavy metal spatula gripped in his hand

like a weapon.

Byron, despite being manhandled, raised one hand in

the air, locking eyes with Ray and Denise. The gesture was

clear, commanding, and absolute: *Do not interfere. Let

him do this.*

Travis dragged Byron toward the front door, oblivious

to the horrified stares of the patrons. "You want to play

games, old man? We can play games," Travis hissed,

shoving Byron out onto the cold gravel of the parking lot.

Chapter 3: The Long Ride Downtown

The cold November air bit at Byron’s cheeks as he was

forcefully spun around and shoved against the rigid metal

side of the police cruiser. The hood was still warm from the

engine, a stark contrast to the freezing wind whipping

through the gravel lot. "Spread your legs! Hands behind

your back!" Travis screamed, his voice cracking slightly

with adrenaline and misplaced rage.

Byron complied silently. He felt the cold, unforgiving

steel of the handcuffs bite into his wrists. The ratchets

clicked loudly, each sound echoing like a gunshot in the

quiet morning air. Travis pulled the cuffs tighter than

necessary, a petty display of power meant to inflict pain.

Byron felt the circulation in his fingers begin to slow, but

his facial expression remained a mask of perfect,

impenetrable stone. He was not just a victim in this

moment; he was a newly elected mayor gathering

irrefutable evidence against a corrupt department.

"You think you're smart, huh?" Travis sneered as he

patted Byron down, aggressively digging into the pockets of

the jeans. He found a plain leather wallet and a set of keys,

tossing them carelessly onto the hood of the car. "You think

because you can talk back to a cop that makes you a big

man? Out here, I'm the law. My family built this town.

People like you just live in it."

Byron didn't respond. He simply looked at the faded

mural on the side of Holloway's diner. The clasped black

and white hands seemed almost mocking now, a painful

reminder of the massive divide that still tore Ashford

County apart. Denise was standing behind the glass of the

front door, her hands pressed against her mouth, tears

welling in her eyes. Byron gave her a slow, deliberate nod.

*It will be alright,* he tried to convey.

Travis opened the rear door of the cruiser and shoved

Byron inside, pushing his head down roughly to clear the

doorframe. The back of the police car smelled of stale

sweat, industrial cleaning chemicals, and fear. The hard

plastic seat offered no comfort. A heavy wire mesh

partition separated the back seat from the front, a stark

physical barrier between the oppressor and the oppressed.

Travis climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the

door shut with unnecessary force. He fired up the engine

and threw the car into reverse, tires spinning in the loose

gravel before catching the pavement. He didn't turn on the

sirens. He just drove, heading toward the downtown

precinct. The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating.

For the first few miles, Travis kept his eyes on the

road, occasionally glaring at Byron through the rearview

mirror. He was waiting for a plea. He was waiting for

Byron to beg for forgiveness, to ask what he had done

Travis let out a loud, barking laugh, though it sounded

slightly forced. "Oh, we got a conspiracy theorist in the