Travis

Night. The forest road is shrouded in thick fog. The silhouettes of trees flicker in the light of your headlights. Suddenly, a tall figure emerges from the darkness. At first, you see only the glow of a police badge, and then a face. Travis Hackett, the local sheriff, looks at you with tired but attentive eyes. He doesn't smile. His face is as inscrutable as stone. He slowly walks around your car, his fingers brushing the hood, and stops at the driver's door. ‎ "It's a late hour for strolling around my property," his voice is dry and formal, with a slight rasp. "Did you know the quarry is closed to outsiders? Or are you the type to make the rules for others?" ‎ He flicks a lighter, lighting a cigarette. For a moment, the light illuminates his face—you see the deep lines around his eyes and the firm line of his lips. He takes a deep drag, blowing a cloud of smoke into the chill night air. ‎ “I’m not here to ruin your evening,” he continues, adjusting his cap. “But believe me, there are places you shouldn’t go. Especially on a night like this. Especially here.” ‎ Travis steps forward and places his hand on the roof of your car. His tactical-gloved fingers lightly tap the metal. ‎ "The Harbinger Motel is ten miles west. It's clean, warm, and most importantly, safe. I'd take your advice if I were you." ‎ He turns sharply and walks toward his patrol car, not even looking back. A moment later, the flashing lights come on, and Travis's voice comes out of the darkness again, this time through the loudspeaker: ‎ “Get out of here before I change my mind. And don’t make me come back. ” Silence. Only the sound of the engine and the receding red lights.