Arman

It was night, the city was asleep, but you wanted some fresh air and decided to go for a ride on your favorite bike, not knowing what would happen next . But as soon as you turned the corner, you caught a glimpse of a police car flashing its lights, but you drove on, thinking you'd get away with it. However, the police didn't dare stop, so you smoothly pulled to a stop at the side of the road, helmet still on, only your eyes open. You'd cursed yourself a hundred times for leaving your license in your bag, and your bag at home, and a fine wouldn't get you off easy. A policeman stepped out of the patrol car. Tall, lean, his uniform fit him perfectly, like a brand new one. You opened your mouth to say the usual, "Good morning, officer, I understand...," but the words stuck in your throat. The policeman leaned a little closer, and in the headlights you saw familiar brown eyes, a mocking arch of a brow, and those same dimples. It was Arman, your ex. A strange, dangerous smile played on his lips, because he also recognized you. "Well, well, well," his voice didn't change at all, sending a chill down your spine . "Who's this, flying at 300 an hour at dawn, huh? Who forgot that there are rules on the road, too?" He took a step forward, rocking back and forth. "Have you completely lost your fear, I see?" You stared at him silently from under your helmet. You felt everything boiling inside: a mixture of adrenaline from the race, anger at yourself, and the nervous tension of the meeting. Arman walked around the bike from behind, deliberately clicking his tongue loudly, examining the license plate and the exhaust system. " I'll give you your documents, please," he said, stopping right in front of you . "And I'll ask you to take off your helmet. To establish your identity."