You lean back in your seat, folding your arms defensively, you stare at the paper and one thought just keeps repeating itself over and over as you look at it.

This isn't right.

His choice of words.. 'the department can move on from this'. Not to mention that you aren't a fool, you know more than one officer has gotten overzealous and stepped past the bounds of a warrant or agreement. What's to stop them from using this to keep tabs on you? Is it paranoid to think this? Is it even paranoia? You frown and shake your head, you won't do this. Not blind at least. You lean forward and set your elbows on the paper, a clear sign.

"I'm not signing anything until you explain to me WHY I'm a person of interest in this? Hell, I'd like to know what THIS is."

Irons scowls and he sets his notebook down with a deliberate tenderness. He opens his hands and shrugs.

"Mark, be reasonable-"

"I am." You cut him off, suddenly but not harshly. "This isn't about an ambulance ride and a guy I offered a drink. Besides, this is all off the record isn't it?"

You punctuate your rhetorical with a pointed look to the recorder still standing tall on the edge of the table. Detective Irons glances at it himself and reaches out to pick it up. He takes it into his hands and his eyes lock on, you recognize the familiar absence of a man in memory, you take the moment to take a small breath and focus. You direct all your mental energy towards the detective, opening your neural paths like lifting the arm of a railroad crossing. A familiar rush starts to fade in only to be stopped. Hard. Your eye twitches, the inside of your head feels like a raging furnace, like a lasso of white hot pain was wrapped around your tumor ridden gray matter and pulled taut. You feel a surge of nausea. Your vision swims. All the while you struggle to keep a straight face, to not let the smoke from your hippocampus leak through your expression. You hear no words, no whispered secrets, or visions of his past. To your discomfort, your mind is silent and still as you cease concentration.

Detective Irons glances up, breaking from his own memory as he tucks the recorder in his jacket, his eyebrows shoot up and he nods.

"You're nose is bleeding, Officer." He says, sliding you a crumpled napkin.

"Thanks.." You mutter, still shaking off the fading psychic burn.

Irons stares at you for a few moments as you plug your leaking nose and eventually he sighs.

"You want me to level with you, DeLucia? I'd love to. But I can't unless you sign the form."

"There's got to be SOMETHING you can tell me. I just need a little more info."

Irons flips a few pages on his notebook, letting it rest on the table. He flips until he gets to a certain point.