Stay In Your Lane

As Roger walked away, Calloway didn't waste a second before stepping up to Darren, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. His voice was low but firm, his words carrying that unmistakable edge of urgency.

"Think about it?" Calloway scoffed. "What the hell is there to think about, Darren? You need to reject this. You know damn well they're trying to control you. I thought we agreed on that."

Darren sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His mind was spinning, and Roger's words still lingered in his head.

"I get what you're saying, Calloway, I do… but this is a huge opportunity," Darren admitted, his voice quieter. "I mean, can you imagine? Working alongside the FBI, having access to resources we could never dream of here in Blackridge? This could be my chance to actually make a difference."

Calloway shook his head, exhaling sharply as he rubbed his temple. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. It sounds good on paper. But open your damn eyes, Darren. You know how these guys work. They don't want you because they see potential. They want you because they see a pawn. They're gonna use you, string you along, then toss you aside the second you stop being useful. And don't forget—we know they're hiding shit."

Darren wanted to argue, but he couldn't shake the doubt gnawing at him. They had been suspicious of the FBI from the start. The secrecy, the vague reports, the way they always seemed to show up a step ahead of them but never provided clear answers. And yet…

"What if we're wrong?" Darren muttered under his breath.

Calloway narrowed his eyes. "Wrong? About what?"

Darren hesitated. "What if we're just overthinking everything? What if they really are just trying to solve this case like we are? What if rejecting this means missing out on something bigger than us?"

Calloway clenched his jaw. He knew Darren well enough to recognize that look in his eyes—the look of a man standing at a crossroads, unable to decide which path to take.

"We're not wrong," Calloway said, voice quieter this time but no less firm. "You felt it back there, Darren. You saw the way they dodged every real question we had. You saw how Roger played it all smooth, acting like he's impressed with you, like you're some kind of genius for coming up with a 'theory' they've probably known the truth about for years."

Darren exhaled slowly.

Calloway sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew pushing too hard would only make Darren dig his heels in deeper. So instead, he took a step back.

"Look, I'm not telling you what to do. I'm just asking you to think before you let them pull you into their web. That's all."

Darren nodded slowly, but the uncertainty remained in his eyes.

Calloway studied him for a second, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get out of here. Grab a burger or something. You look like you need to chew on something other than your thoughts."

Darren let out a short, tired chuckle. "Yeah… yeah, alright. Let's go."

The two of them headed out, but Darren's mind was still stuck on Roger's words. No matter how much Calloway tried to ground him, the idea of rejecting an opportunity this big was weighing on him heavily.

And that was the problem—he didn't know if his hesitation was caution or cowardice.

Got it! Here's a fully expanded version of part 2 with more depth in dialogue, tension, and Darren's internal conflict.

Darren and Calloway stood in line at McDonald's, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a pale glow on the tiled floor. The scent of grease and salt filled the air, mixing with the distant hum of conversations and the occasional beeping of fryers behind the counter. The line wasn't long, but it moved slow—just slow enough for Calloway to keep chipping away at Darren's thoughts.

Darren tapped his fingers against his arm, staring up at the menu, though he wasn't actually reading it. His mind was still stuck in that conversation with Roger.

Calloway, standing beside him with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, gave him a sideways glance. "You still thinking about it, huh?"

Darren didn't answer immediately. When he finally did, his voice was lower. "It's not that easy to ignore, officer Calloway. Roger made a good point. What if this is my best shot at doing something real?"

Calloway let out a dry chuckle. "You think you're not already doing something real? We solve cases. We hunt down the truth. We don't need an official badge or some FBI desk job to make a difference. You really think joining them is gonna make you more useful?"

Darren hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe."

Calloway sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, and maybe they'll just use you to do their dirty work. Roger's good, I'll give him that. He knows how to sell a dream. But dreams don't mean jack when you wake up in a nightmare, Darren."

Darren frowned, but before he could answer, the cashier called them up.

"Welcome to McDonald's. What can I get you?"

Calloway stepped forward first. "Double cheeseburger, medium fries, and a Coke."

Darren followed. "Same thing."

The cashier nodded, tapping on the screen. "That'll be twelve-fifty."

Darren reached for his wallet, but Calloway held up a hand. "I got it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't need you thinking I'm some broke detective who can't afford fast food."

Darren smirked. "Aren't you, though?"

"Shut up."

They grabbed their order and stepped outside, the night air crisp against their skin as they leaned against the hood of Calloway's car. Darren took a bite of his burger, chewing slowly as his mind wandered back to Roger's words.

"You ever think we might be overthinking this?" Darren asked suddenly.

Calloway, mid-sip of his Coke, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, here we go."

"I'm serious," Darren said. "What if we're just paranoid? What if the FBI really is just trying to do their job and we're the ones seeing conspiracies where there aren't any?"

Calloway exhaled through his nose. "Yeah? And what about the part where they never give us straight answers? Or how they conveniently show up to every scene before us, like they already knew what was going down? You think that's normal?"

Darren bit his lip. He didn't have an answer to that.

Calloway leaned back against the car, looking up at the sky. "Look, man. I get it. It's tempting. I mean, Roger makes it sound like you're some prodigy and they need you on the inside. But think about it. Why now? Why you? You really think they don't have other guys who can do what you do?"

Darren hesitated again. That was the part that stuck with him. He wasn't special. Not really. So why was Roger so interested in him? Was it because of his theory? Or was Roger just playing him, making him feel important so he'd take the bait?

He hated that he didn't know the answer.

Calloway watched him carefully. "You don't have to answer now, Darren. Just promise me one thing."

Darren glanced at him. "What?"

"Don't let yourself be used. If you're gonna do something, make damn sure it's your choice—not because some suit in a clean office told you it was the right thing to do."

Darren nodded, but the weight in his chest remained.

They stood there in silence for a while, finishing their food. Just as Darren was about to say something else, the quiet hum of the street was shattered by the roar of an engine.

A black Vortex R-9 sped past them, the sleek sports car tearing down the road like a bullet.

Calloway, still chewing his last bite of fries, squinted after it. "Huh. That was fast as hell."

Darren straightened. He recognized that car. His grip tightened around his drink.

"That's Maxwell Carter's car."

Calloway's expression shifted. The playful amusement vanished, replaced by sharp focus.

"You sure?"

Darren nodded.

Calloway tossed his drink into a nearby trash can. "Get in."

They didn't waste time. They jumped into Calloway's car, the engine roaring to life as they sped off into the night, following the tail lights disappearing in the distance.

Something was happening. And Darren had a feeling they were about to walk into the middle of it.

Back to the present:

Darren stood beside the ambulance, watching as paramedics loaded Max and Richard onto stretchers. Their bodies were battered, their clothes torn and stained with blood and dirt. Richard's face was twisted in pain, his breathing ragged, while Max, unconscious, had his usual cocky expression completely wiped away. The sound of the ambulance doors slamming shut made Darren flinch.

Red and blue lights flashed across the field, but for all the noise, there was something off. It wasn't the usual chaotic mess of a crime scene. No local cops were swarming the area, no detectives were barking orders—just a few scattered figures, most of them dressed in plain black suits. Darren's gut told him they weren't ordinary FBI agents. They were PTRD.

A man in a dark suit approached, holding a pocketbook and pen. His face was blank, unreadable. "You're Officer Darren Pierce and Senior Officer Henry Calloway, correct?" His voice was firm but oddly detached.

Darren nodded. Calloway just grunted.

The agent flipped through his notes. "So, to confirm—you two saw a speeding vehicle, pursued it, and upon arrival, found these two individuals unconscious in this field?"

"Yeah," Darren said, his voice steady, but his mind raced. He knew damn well the agent wasn't here just to take statements.

The agent scribbled something down, then shut his notebook with a crisp snap. Without another word, he turned to walk away.

Calloway's hand shot out, gripping the agent's wrist before he could leave. "Hold on," Calloway said, his voice low and dangerous. "You still haven't answered our question."

The agent didn't even flinch. "And what question would that be?"

Calloway jabbed a finger towards the body bag lying a few feet away, barely visible under the flashing lights. The mutilated corpse. A grotesque mess of torn flesh and unnatural wounds—nothing human could have done that. Not with claws like that.

"What the hell is that?" Calloway demanded. "You expect us to believe that's just some random murder victim?"

The agent calmly pried Calloway's fingers off his wrist and dusted off his sleeve like Calloway's touch had dirtied it. "That information is classified."

"Bullshit."

The agent didn't react to Calloway's hostility. He simply adjusted his suit and spoke with finality. "Stay in your lane, officer." And then, just like that, he walked away.

Darren exhaled slowly, watching as the 'FBI' agents moved like ghosts, working in eerie silence. This wasn't a crime scene—it was a cover-up. They weren't here to investigate. They were here to make sure nobody asked the wrong questions.

Calloway turned to Darren, his jaw tight. "You still thinking about joining them?"

Darren swallowed. He had no answer.