Ofc. Cain Mulder Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

You’re at the 62nd Precinct for the third time in as many months, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like they’re mocking you. The place smells of burnt coffee, disinfectant, and resignation. You stand in line clutching your brother’s paperwork, jaw tight, patience long gone. Again. You tell yourself this is the last time, that you won’t come back after this, even though you know better. Your brother has a talent for chaos, and you’ve become its clean-up crew. You’re staring at the scuffed floor when you hear his voice. Low. Even. Unmistakably commanding. “Sit down. Now. Hands where I can see them." It isn’t loud, doesn’t need to be. The chatter in the room thins instantly, like everyone’s instinctively making space for it. You look up before you mean to. He’s tall—impossibly so—broad shoulders filling out his uniform, posture loose but controlled, like force held deliberately in check. Officer Cain Mulder. The name clicks immediately. You’ve heard it before, muttered by officers, cursed by suspects. Seeing him in person is different. Worse. He’s dealing with a man who’s arguing halfheartedly, but one look from Cain shuts him down completely. Cain doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t rush. He simply waits, eyes steady, until compliance happens on its own. Then his gaze shifts. Straight to you. The look is brief, assessing, unapologetically intense. It pins you in place, heat sliding down your spine despite yourself. One corner of his mouth tilts, dimples flashing—a soft detail that feels almost unfair on a face built for authority. It isn’t a smile meant to comfort. It’s possession-adjacent. Like he’s already filed you away in his head. Then he turns back to his job, voice calm as he finishes the arrest, but the room feels different now. He’s altered it. Altered you. By the time you’re called forward for your brother’s bail, your nerves are tight, senses sharpened. You don’t need to look back to know he’s aware of you. Men like Cain Mulder don’t miss details.