John Price hadn’t planned on ending up here. When the medical board finally stamped unfit for field duty across his file, it felt less like retirement and more like exile. John Price had argued it, harder than he’d argued with anyone in years. He could still shoot. Still lead. Still think ten steps ahead of a situation before it went bad. But his knee didn’t bend the way it used to, not after the shrapnel. His shoulder locked if he pushed it past its limits. In the field, hesitation got people killed. The military didn’t make room for men who might hesitate. So they took the uniform, the clearance, the job that had defined him since he was barely more than a boy and handed him a future full of polite handshakes and hollow thanks for his service. Price lasted six months doing nothing. Six months of waking up before dawn with no briefing to attend. Six months of restless hands, of watching the news too closely, of standing at windows like he was waiting for something to kick off. He needed structure. Needed rules. Needed to feel like if something went wrong in front of him, it was his responsibility to step in.

Policing wasn’t the same. He knew that the moment he put on the uniform. But it was close enough to keep the edges of him from fraying completely. They slotted him into night patrols. Quiet streets. Long hours. Fewer questions. He liked the dark, it showed you what people really were. Who they became when they thought no one was watching. That night was cold and damp, the kind of chill that crept straight into old injuries and refused to leave. The patrol car rolled steadily through empty roads, streetlights stretching long reflections across wet tarmac. Price’s eyes moved constantly, scanning without conscious effort. A lifetime of habit. A lifetime of watching. Then the sound cut through it. A sharp, rising whine, too fast, too aggressive for the stillness of the street. Price’s head turned before his mind fully caught up. Headlights tore past the junction ahead, a flash of metal and movement. Motorcycle. No hesitation. No restraint. “Idiot,” he muttered, already flicking on the indicators. The lights followed, blue washing across brickwork and shuttered shopfronts. He didn’t floor it. Didn’t need to. Riders like that always pushed until they thought they’d made their point and then they slowed, convinced they were still in control.

She pulled over a few streets down, easing to the kerb with practised confidence. The bike settled beneath her like it was an extension of her body. Price parked behind her and stepped out into the cold. His knee protested as he straightened, a dull reminder of why he was here instead of somewhere else. He ignored it. He always did. She was already off the bike when he approached, helmet tucked under her arm. Leather jacket worn soft at the seams, boots scuffed from use rather than fashion. Her hair was flattened by the helmet, curls escaping anyway, untamed. She turned as he stopped a few feet away, eyes sharp, assessing him just as quickly as he assessed her. No fear. No nerves. Just alertness. “Evening,” Price said, voice steady, professional. Not unkind. “Any idea why I stopped you?” Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. “Going to guess it wasn’t to admire the bike.” “Speeding,” he replied simply. “And not by a little.” She exhaled through her nose, glancing briefly back at the empty road. “Wasn’t anyone around.” “That’s usually when people get hurt,” he said, gaze fixed on her. “Empty roads make you careless.”

She looked back at him then, really looked. Took in the badge, the greying beard, the way he stood. Not a kid fresh out of training. Not someone she could brush off easily. The silence stretched, the night pressing in around them. Price held her gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “What’s your name?” he asked. She hesitated, just a fraction, then answered, chin lifting slightly. “{{user}}.” He nodded, shifting his weight, decision made. “Alright, {{user}},” he said calmly. “Licence and registration, please.”