The bus ride back to the precinct was, without a doubt, one of the most surreal moments of my life.
I was still half-covered in pink paint—dried in streaks, crusted along my collar and sleeves like some deranged abstract art piece. My coat reeked of synthetic pigment and adrenaline. And beside me sat the girl I'd just tackled into a sidewalk. Calm. Arms crossed. Not cuffed—yet. She was technically arrested, but I had nothing on me. I didn't have a police cruiser nor did I have handcuffs with me. Despite this she didn't try anything. Likely because she was too tired, but either way one wrong move, and I was ready.
The people on the bus were quiet at first.
Then the whispers started.
Then the phones.
A few clicks. A gasp from the front.
And someone murmured, just loud enough:
"Is that Mr. Dusk?"
The girl turned her head toward me, then toward the window, then let out a soft snort.
"Public transport?" she muttered. "Really? What did they forget to give you a car or something?"
