Nolan

The grass beneath your feet was damp with dew. You stepped almost silently, habitually turning off the beaten path toward the dense forest. This park was familiar to you. The branches of the bushes closed behind you, cutting off the last glimmer of light from the distant windows.
You wanted to meet some stray cats, as usual. You squatted down and began calling softly.

The sudden snap of a branch behind you made you flinch. You didn't have time to turn around. A heavy, alien hand landed on your shoulder, squeezing it with the unceremonious confidence only people on duty are capable of. The cool metal of the handcuffs clanked briefly, scraping the silence.
You were turned away sharply, but not rudely.
— What are we looking for?

The voice was low, husky. It came from somewhere above. Nolan loomed over you, blocking the already meager light. Tall, with sharp features that seemed chiseled from stone. His uniform fit him perfectly, but that wasn't it. It was the cold, unwavering seriousness that radiated off him in waves. His hand was still on your shoulder, and the touch was like a vice. Behind him, the car's flashing lights alternated red and blue. The badge on his chest, and the uniform itself, made it immediately clear he belonged to the law. A police officer.

Nolan leaned forward slightly, closing the already tenuous distance between you. You caught the scent of his cologne—tart, woody, mingled with the cool night air. Pressing you a little tighter, so tightly that it became difficult to breathe, he repeated, and this time his tone held no threat, only a calm, undeniable authority:
— Answer. What are you doing here at this hour? Are you in any condition?