Chapter 1: Day Off
Working is one hell of an addiction. The only thing comparable to it is eating. They are both essential functions of living, and to go without either would be directly putting yourself in harm's way. These two addictions share that they are encouraged by society to have in excess, yet to do so will shorten your life. They both carry the misconception of not being a 'true addiction' because how can anyone be addicted to a necessity? Obesity is when eating is taken to an extreme, and it shows in the body. Maxwell is when work is taken to an extreme, and it shows in his mind.
Overworking was the vice that Max had to the point where it had even affected his appearance. He had dark lines underneath his sunken, empty, blue eyes. His skin was teetering somewhere between fair and ghoulish. No blemishes were on the surface, but it was clear that he needed more sunlight in his life. Maxwell was a tall white male with a figure that was no longer standard for his profession. Broad shoulders and arms showed that he worked part-time in a gym. A chin, which was a gift from his dad, complimented it all. His jet-black hair was groomed upwards with the sides cut low in a style that he had to earn the right to express. Outside of looking a little dicky, he was a solid seven on the handsome scale.
'Police technician' was the official name of his job, but he took pride in believing he was a police officer. There was a dignity in the term that would understandably go amiss unless it was something you worked for. Max spent the first six months out of the academy working as a police technician since there was just no more room for another police officer. All the paper-pushing and nonviolent crimes, like parking kets, were left him to deal with until half a year ago. Last six months, however, he was pulling double shifts doing undercover work. Police technician was still his job title, regardless. Cornwell, the police director, assured Maxwell that he was performing well in his current duties will help push him into the ranks of the old guard. One of them walked into the bathroom where Stone was pep-talking himself up for another chat with his Chief.
It was Chuck, a fifty-something-year-old man with the face of someone half his age and the body of a modern police officer. He walked with his bulbous belly out and with an emphasized swagger as if he were a dog that had just earned a reward. Max heard his laboured breath before anything else. His booming voice echoed off the tiled walls, "Maxie! Talking to yourself again?!"
