Collins let out a short, humorless laugh. “With a bag, a dog, and a cup for money? Yeah, that’s not sitting. That’s loitering.”
A few more people slowed now, not enough to intervene, but enough to observe. The subtle shift in attention created a small pocket of tension, the kind that builds quietly before anyone decides whether to step in or step away.
Victor’s gaze dropped briefly to the cup at his feet, then back to the officer. “It’s a public bench.”
“Not for this,” Collins replied, gesturing vaguely at the bag, the dog, the man himself—as if all of it could be summarized in a single dismissive motion. “We’ve had complaints.”
There it was. The justification that made everything easier. Complaints. Anonymous, unverifiable, but enough to give authority a direction.
