The police station was bustling with activity even at that late hour. The prisoners taken in the warehouse raid was taken in as one, but then quickly separated and handcuffed to chairs or desks, departmentalized and contained so as to not discuss what had happened between them. Many complained about the rough treatment, a few even sporting brand new bruises. Nobody cared.<br/><br/>Jean-Luc was placed on a chair in front of a desk, face to face with the gruff detective Vallon. A picture of a young smiling girl was on his desk, his daughter, one arm around her father who seemed much happier in the photo than what the writer faced now. There was a kind of fire in his eyes; determination.<br/><br/>"Jean-Luc du Paix, from Paris..." Detective Vallon glanced to him and then back to the picture on his driver's license. "You got a little bit of explaining to do young man, like what the hell you are doing in my city, and why..." He threw the little pouch of green crystal powder on the desk in front of him, "...are you carrying this? Is that some kind of new drug, hmm? Better start talking son, and pray that I believe you."