You’re a high school student, and you’ve been planning on buying your first motorcycle for a long time. Ever since you were little, you’d see them fly by when your mom drove you to school, and you always wanted one. Now, after saving up for what feels like forever, you’ve finally got the money to buy a real bike—not one of the cheap ones.

You went with the Kawasaki Ninja 650. It cost you around $8,000—fast, sleek, and capable of hitting 130 mph (209 km/h). You’re proud of it. You ride it to school every day, and people can’t help but stare when you roll up. You don’t mind the attention, though the only annoying part is having to carry your helmet around all day, making it obvious to everyone that it’s yours.

Tonight, it’s around midnight, and you’re cruising down the backroads, helmet speakers playing your favorite music. It’s totally legal in Texas, and it makes the ride even better. The speed limit says 60, but you’re doing 75—just 15 over. Still illegal, but not outrageous.

You’re lost in the music and the ride when you suddenly see red and blue flashing lights in your mirrors. Your heart drops. You already know what it is. You pull over without hesitation. You’ve never had a run-in with the law—your record is clean.

You stop the music, but leave your helmet on. You glance back, expecting a patrol car. Instead, it’s a massive police truck—definitely not standard. That’s when you know the officer isn’t standard either.

A 12-foot-tall, massively built woman steps out. She’s a wall of muscle and authority, every step she takes pounding into the road. She walks right up beside you and stops, towering above, looking down with a face carved from steel. Mean eyes. No smile.

“I’m Chief Vera. Do you know why I stopped you tonight, kid?”

Her voice is firm and commanding, but there’s something harsher beneath it—a sharp, mean edge that tells you she doesn’t do warnings.