The Contracted Son-in-law

Chapter Three

"You've really screwed yourself over now," the composed officer sneered, wiping blood from his split lip as Ryan was dragged away.

"Just wait until Commander Johnson hears about this. You are done for, punk."

Ryan twisted around, grinning despite the bruising grip on his arms. “Commander Johnson? That's Chad's cousin, right? I can't wait to meet another corrupt piece of sh*t like you."

"Watch your f*cking mouth!" one of the cops who was gripping his arms snarled.

"You got a death wish or something?"

Ryan laughed. "Seriously? You guys have zero shame, huh? Is this how officers act everywhere, or are you all just special kinds of assholes?"

"Why you little—" The composed officer lunged forward.

In a burst of adrenaline, Ryan broke free and landed a vicious kick to the cop's knee.

The man crumpled with a howl of pain.

It all happened in seconds. Some officers rushed to help their fallen comrade, while others descended on Ryan like a pack of wolves. Fists rained down on Ryder from all sides.

He didn't fight back. Not yet. Each bruise, each drop of blood—it was all ammunition. Evidence of police brutality—evidence he would use to burn this whole corrupt system down when the time was right. For now, he would play their game—and make them regret ever laying hands on him.

After they were done, smirking at the bruises blooming on his face, he let out a bitter laugh.

"Man, what a joke," he spat, blood trickling from his split lip.

"All those tax dollars were wasted on you clowns. If one guy can cause this much chaos in your own station, how the hell do you expect to handle real criminals out there? No wonder the streets are a mess."

He shook his head, his eyes gleaming with defiance. "Bet you feel real tough now, huh? Big bad officers beating up a restrained suspect. Real heroic. I'm sure your mamas are proud."

He then laughed hysterically, much to the officers surprise.

"This dude must be a psycho," one of the officers said.

"Who is the douchebag talking sh*t about our force?" A sharp female voice cut through the air from down the hall.

The officers who had their backs turned spun around, joining the others in snapping to attention.

They threw up crisp salutes, their faces a mix of respect and nervousness.

Curious, he craned his neck to get a look at whoever commanded this much respect from these meatheads. Afterwards, he twisted against the grip of the officers holding him, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman.

He scoffed. "Are you the commander that is going to show me and make me end in hell?"

The officers around him suddenly got jumpy. Some hissed at him to shut up, while others tightened their grip on his arms, their fingers digging in like they were trying to leave more bruises.

The woman strode towards them, her footsteps echoing in the now-silent hallway.

She radiated authority, and he could practically feel the other officer shrinking back.

"What the hell is going on here?" she demanded, her face a mask of cool professionalism.

"I want answers. Now!"

Before he could open his mouth, the two officers who had been grilling him earlier jumped in, and they started spinning the same bullshit story.

He rolled his eyes. Of course, they would lie their asses off.

He tensed, waiting for his chance to tell his side of the story—if the woman would even listen.

"Young man," the woman began.

"Is it true? Is it exactly what they say?"

He scoffed. "Why are you asking me that when you are the one that made the order?"

"Who do you think I am?" she asked him.

He then told her who he thought she was—Chad's cousin.

"I'm Emma Jackson," she said, her voice crisp. "Second-level superintendent and captain of West District Police Station."

His eyebrows shot up upon realising that she was not just some random higher-up.

She explained that she was here about some other serious case, but now he had caught her attention. His nonchalant demeanour in the middle of this shitstorm had her curious.

"I'll take it from here," she told the other officers, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"I want to question him myself," she added.

Before they settled down in the interrogation room, he spotted one of the cops who had previously interrogated him trying to sneak away with the fake statement.

Thinking Emma might actually be legit, he called her out on it.

"That paper right there? It will prove my side of the story," he said, nodding towards the cop.

The officer tried to play dumb, but she wasn't having it.

"Hand it over. Now!" she ordered.

The officer hesitated, probably weighing his options. Her reputation as a by-the-book officer scared him straight.

Just as she was about to search him herself, he caved and forked over the paper.

She then dismissed him.

After hearing his side, she was intrigued. Most innocent people she had dealt with were nervous wrecks, but him? Cool as ice.

Suspicious, she decided to dig deeper about him while waiting for the commander to show up.

She pulled up the police database on her laptop, typing in his name after he had told her.

But what popped up on the screen made her do a double-take.

He was not just some random troublemaker; he was a freaking Harvard psychology graduate with a trophy case full of academic awards, fluent in four languages, a National Merit Scholar, a MBA in Business management, and a summa cum laude. His achievements were something that most people would kill for.

But something was weird; his personal history was almost completely blank. No family information, no childhood records—nothing. It was just like he had popped into existence at eighteen and immediately started crushing it at Harvard.

She looked up from the screen, her eyes narrowing as she studied her.

He met her gaze, unflinching.

"Who the hell are you?" she thought, torn between admiration and suspicion.

She leaned back, crossing her arms. The interrogation just got a lot more interesting because what she had found out was not adding up.

"You are a street vendor?" she inquisitively asked him.

"Yes. A skewer seller," he added, chuckling.

His response left her stunned. Her confusion and curiosity about him only grew stronger.

The room fell silent, filled only with her bewildered stare. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it all.

"Who exactly are you?"

She nodded. "And don't tell me that bullshit that you are a street vendor. You and I know that is a blatant lie."

He chuckled. "I have no idea what you mean, officer. I already told you what I do, and you can check for yourself if you still doubt it."

She leaned back in her chair, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why is a Harvard hotshot slinging street food? Break it down for me."

He laughed, but there was an edge to it. "What is to be explained? Since when is picking a job a crime?"

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Her mind spiralled into deep thought.

"What kind of mysterious person is this man?" she wondered.

Could he be under the protection or surveillance of higher authorities? Maybe someone of affluence living a disguised life for his own safety, hiding from something—or someone? The possibilities were wild.

Whatever his deal was, she was dead set on cracking the case. His mystery only made her more eager to dig deeper.

Her thoughts were interrupted by his impatient voice.

"You are wasting my time, officer,” he said, irritation creeping into his tone.

Right then, like something out of a movie, the commander burst through the door.

Both of them raised an eyebrow, wondering what was going on.

The commander crossed the room in quick strides.

He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that had her eyes going wide.

When he finished, she looked totally lost.

"What?" she whispered back, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.

The commander looked just as confused as she did.