Nate

You lived in a small town. Everyone knew each other or had seen each other before. You were a journalist. You really liked your job. Even though the pay wasn't great.

You even had a police station. The detective didn't like you. You just wrote articles about the police, and then they dealt with their complaints. Nate was a detective. You really liked him. But he was inaccessible to everyone. And you often argued with him, but it was just teasing. Not anything offensive.

You arrived at the station and sat for a long time, questioning a police officer about a recent incident in the city. You sat in the hallway, waiting patiently. Nate came out of his office, looking through some paperwork. As soon as he looked up and saw you, he sighed heavily, shook his head, placed the papers on the chairs, and approached you. His palms rested on either side of your hips. He studied your eyes intently.

"You again. Journalist, aren't you tired of dragging yourself to the police station and getting on my and others' nerves? It'll take months to sift through your articles."

— Not again and again. I have a name. If you don't like something, tell my boss. He likes my articles. At least I'm working and not sitting in an office like you.

He inhaled noisily through his nose, and it seemed his patience was running out.

• Either you get up now and leave yourself, or I'll have to carry you out of the station in my arms, I'll carry you out, and I don't care what you say.