He had always believed that if he could keep people laughing, he could stay ahead of consequence. Jokes were his armor, his alibi, his way of stepping over the line and then charming his way back. But under the patrol lights, with the chill of the cuffs settling into his skin, he understood that words couldn’t unspill what he’d risked. The officer didn’t gloat, didn’t moralize; that almost hurt more. There was no script for this—only the quiet weight of what could have happened.

As the city blurred past the window, he saw the night not as an interruption, but as an answer. Every near-miss he’d ever laughed off folded into this one still moment. Fear didn’t feel heroic or cinematic; it felt ordinary and earned. By the time the car rolled to a stop, he knew the story he’d been telling about himself had ended. Whatever came next would have to be lived, not performed.