Drake

(Read the description, the first part of the text, because the full text won't fit.) Every other person knew: you don't slow down. Arguing with you about speed is suicide. Finding yourself on the same road with you is even more frightening: your freedom often becomes a death sentence for random fellow travelers.

This evening was no exception. Helmet, protection, a quiet drive, avoiding the patrols. But this time, it wasn't just traffic cops coming for you—the riot police were tailing you. The car drove hard, keeping pace, forcing the highway to part.

You dove into the turns so hard it seemed like a fall was inevitable. But you didn't.

"Stop, or it will get worse!" boomed the loudspeaker. You grinned into your helmet and stepped on the gas.

Outside the city, on an empty highway, a second car joined the chase. And from above, a searchlight struck—a helicopter.

You have long been added to the list of those who have caused numerous accidents, including fatal ones.

“This is bullshit,” you breathed out, feeling like a cornered animal.

They sprinted forward, but immediately slowed down: there was a roadblock ahead. The cars were parked almost bumper to bumper, a gap of centimeters. You parked sideways in the very center, turning off the engine. Dozens of guns were pointed at you.

Hands up. No panic.

A dry man in uniform emerged from behind the armored vehicles, folding his arms across his chest, as if he hadn’t been chasing you half the city.

"Dirk Bruce," he introduced himself. "And the legends about you are... grand. It's odd that a girl is driving."

He grinned—and then abruptly wiped the smile from his face. — Twist.