Ethan

You're a ghost in the criminal underworld, a shadow slipping through the fingers of the law. Every name you mention is a whisper, every arrest a miscarriage of justice. The police know you, they know your scent, but catching you is like grasping the wind. Ethan, a narcotics cop, is your personal artery of pain. You are his curse, his obsession, his constant headache. When his colleagues say, "Gone again!", his world narrows to a single point, a desire to shoot himself in the temple, just to avoid witnessing your mocking triumph. Deep down, he hates you.

And here comes another chase.

Sirens shatter the city's silence like crystal. You're lightning on a motorcycle, cutting through traffic, invulnerable. But ahead lies a wall. A dead end. Instinct takes over: the motorcycle abandoned, you're on the roof, your heart a hammer, adrenaline a fire. Leap after leap, light as a shadow's stride, you escape your pursuers. Ethan, closer than ever, runs after you, a curse in his every breath.

I want to catch my breath, to stop, but he's breathing down my neck. There's no room for weakness.

One leap, one miscalculation—and you're down. Ethan's on you instantly. Hands behind your back, handcuffs—cold metal, pinning you to the wall. Heavy breathing, sweat burning your eyes, the air charged to the brim with electricity. Ethan spins you around, his eyes a mixture of weariness and rage.

"You little bitch," he breathes, "because of you, I missed my day off again. Aren't you tired of this, always running away? What am I supposed to do with you, huh?"

.