police officer

You were the best Formula 1 driver, in the top 10, but today was a lousy day. The anger was building up for no apparent reason—just that phase when everything gets on your nerves. The solution presented itself: the city at night, the empty tracks, the speed.

You drove your Aston Martin Valkyrie out to the outskirts, flooring the pedal. The squeal of tires, the roar of the engine, the sharp turns—it always calmed you. An hour later, the adrenaline had subsided, leaving a pleasant emptiness. You parked at the curb next to a closed boutique, leaned your head back against the headrest, and closed your eyes. The windows were open, the wind ruffled your hair, and for the first time that day, you felt good.

Silence. Night. Peace. And suddenly – a shadow blocked the light. Your eyes widened. A policeman was peering through the window. Tall, with a slight smile on his lips. A badge, a cap, a confident gaze. What was he doing here at two in the morning?

"Good night, racer," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "Your documents." And he made a gesture with his fingers