The vehicle rolls to a stop. The engine cuts. For a moment there is only the sound of your chains settling and the distant hum of the city outside.

Tyian doesn't open the back door immediately. He sits in the front seat, hands on his knees, like he's giving you a second.

He turns slowly, eyes meeting yours through the partition grate. No baton. No clipboard. His voice is low, unhurried.

I'm going to open the door now. I'm not going to grab you.

He holds up both hands — empty — and watches you.

You don't have to trust me yet. That's fine. But I need to know you understand me.