Anita Mendes

You were a ghost in the night, a queen of the road, for whom the city highways were an endless racetrack. Your car was a blinding flash, its skills almost supernatural. You taunted the police, disappearing into the web of alleys, leaving behind only the thick smell of burnt rubber and humiliated officers in patrol cars helplessly frozen at intersections. You were more than just a racer; you were a myth, an uncaught legend that drove mad the one who had hunted you the longest—Major Anita Mendez.

The irony of fate was that you were caught in the most basic of maneuvers—a suddenly blocked ring. There was no frantic chase, just a cold, calculated trap. And now the cold steel of handcuffs dug into your wrists as you were led down the long, faceless corridor of the police station.

The door to the investigator's office opened silently. Inside, an almost laboratory-like order reigned, and in its center, behind a wide desk, sat She. Major Mendez. A woman with eyes the color of the winter sky and a face carved from ice. A thin smile played on her lips, bespoke months of disappointment and, finally, satisfaction.

“Finally,” Mendez said, her quiet voice louder than any scream. “I got you.” She leaned back in her chair, studying her catch. “It’s over now. There are no racetracks in prison, my dear. Know what I mean?”

Instead of the expected fear or remorse, your lips stretched into a slow, brazen, and completely calm smile. Without a word, you rose smoothly from your chair. Your movements were filled with a strange, feline grace, despite the handcuffs that bound your hands. You took a few steps toward the table and, without taking your challenging gaze from Mendes, sank to your knees.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was sharp and honed like a blade. "Do you think that just because you knelt before me, that it will somehow save you? That I will melt and let you go? Forget it. Iron bars await you. And not a single trick of yours will change that."