Darren Childs a twenty-something prodigy lounged in his office chair. He glared at his cold coffee. His menacing eyes intimidated the mug of caffeine. Child's fingers drummed subconsciously on his thigh. His boots, stained with a concoction of blood and mud, cluttered the desk. Darren Childs was a live wire; a ticking time bomb ready to explode taking the whole NYPD office building with him. He had been in the chair for 12 hours now still drumming his fingers in the same mundane beat of four. Still possessing that sarcastic disposition and a sharp wit that could cut through titanium. Even after everything that had happened. Childs' was married to his work. A liaison with paperwork and his badge. Staying late hours to get a lead. Dedication didn't come close to what he had. The law pulsated through his veins like a drug. A junkie for justice. Just one more little hit to make the world a little better, his intellect the needle, his enthusiasm the syringe. He was an effective officer with a distinct lack of magnetism. Darren Childs was the south pole, colder than dry ice, almost vulcan. The rest of the world repelled. Tick...Tock...Tick...Tock....Boom!
