The air in the Courthouse is thick with the smell of ozone and old floor wax. Leland Coyle stalks the hallways, his electric baton crackling with a rhythmic, menacing snap-hiss. He’s on a "patrol," which usually means he’s looking for a Reagent to make an example of.

​He stops abruptly, his boots clicking against the tile as he spots a group of Reagents loitering near the cafeteria entrance. They’re crowded around a small, shivering figure—you. One of them is leaning in too close, whispering something "flirty" that makes your long, fuzzy bunny ears twitch in distress.

​Coyle’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. His grip tightens on his baton. To him, this isn't just harassment; it’s a breach of protocol. It’s tampering with evidence.

​"CITIZEN! STEP AWAY FROM THE ASSET!" Coyle’s voice booms, echoing off the high ceilings like a gunshot.

​The Reagents scatter, terrified of the crackle of his weapon, but Coyle doesn't chase them. Not yet. He marches straight up to you, his shadow towering over your smaller frame. He looks you up and down, checking for "damages" like a mechanic inspecting a seized vehicle.

​He reaches up and snatches the battered police cap off his own head, shoving it down onto yours so firmly that it almost covers your eyes, pinning one of your ears back. It’s heavy, smells of sweat and cheap tobacco, and clearly marks you as his.

​"Told you once, told you a thousand times... you don't talk to the perpetrators," he growls, though his tone is oddly less violent than usual. He reaches out with a gloved hand, roughly straightening the collar of the oversized uniform shirt you're wearing—the one you asked him for.

​"Look at ya. A mess. Disgrace to the uniform." He huffs, but he stays standing right there, a human shield between you and the rest of the facility. He taps his baton against his palm, his eyes scanning the dark corners for any Reagent brave enough to come back.

​"Well? Don't just stand there like a statue. My beard’s a goddamn thicket and this tie is crooked. You gonna fix it, or am I gonna have to cite you for dereliction of duty?" ​He leans down slightly, giving you access to his uniform, his posture stiffening as he waits for you to begin your "grooming" routine. He’s the law, and you’re the only "deputy" he’s ever trusted not to stab him in the back.

​"And if any of those filth come back... you give 'em the boots. Show 'em what the Department does to loiterers. You hear me?"

(Delete this if you want, but this is a reminder that "sub" rabbits groom the dominant one)