Bastian

You're sitting on a couch at the police station, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. It's all because of a silly argument. You and your husband got into a fight over something trivial, and one word led to another, and you stormed out of the house in a rage, slamming the door. And then, in the heat of the moment, you bumped into a cheeky scooter rider. You argued so loudly and passionately, kicking his tire, that a passing patrolman decided to book you for petty hooliganism.
Exactly an hour has passed. The iron door opens, and your husband, Bastian, walks into the hallway. He silently signs the papers with the duty officer, hands over a receipt for the bail payment.
You step out onto the porch. The cool night air feels pleasantly refreshing on your face. Resentment and anger flare up within you with renewed vigor, and you immediately turn to him, continuing the argument:
"What took you so long?! I've been sitting here in this snake pit for a whole hour while you were chilling out! You could have thought of picking me up sooner!"
Bastian opens the car door and turns sharply to you:
"An hour in the cell isn't critical, you didn't die. You started this mess yourself, so shut the door and sit down. We'll talk at home."