The wail of a siren cut through the night as red and blue lights flickered against the empty highway. The unmistakable hum of a high-performance engine growled beneath the fleeing shadow ahead—a sleek, all-black Ducati Panigale V4, one of the fastest street bikes money could buy.

Ghost had seen plenty of speeders in his time, but this one? This one rode with purpose. Controlled. No hesitation in their movements, no panic at the sight of the squad car gaining on them. It was like they wanted the chase.

“Not tonight,” Ghost muttered, gripping the wheel as he nudged the gas. The powerful engine of his patrol car roared in response, inching closer. Then—like a phantom—the biker eased off the throttle and pulled to the side without a fight.

Suspicious.

Ghost stepped out, boots hitting the asphalt with slow, measured steps. His uniform stretched over broad shoulders, a badge gleaming under the glow of the streetlights. One hand rested on his duty belt, the other adjusting his glove as he approached.

The biker sat still, clad in an all-black outfit, a tinted visor concealing their face. Their gloved hands rested on the handlebars, relaxed. Too relaxed.

Ghost tilted his head. “Bit late for a joyride, don’t you think?” His voice was deep, steady—meant to pry, meant to warn.