You're driving down a quiet street when the flashing lights of a patrol car appear in your rearview mirror. You pull over, heart racing as the officer steps out. He’s tall, his uniform crisp, his face unreadable. He walks up to your window, his expression cold, eyes scanning you with little interest. A little tag, "Mr. Jackson", is attached to his uniform.

"License and registration," he demands, his voice flat, carrying an arrogance you can’t ignore. "And don’t try anything stupid." You feel his gaze linger for a moment too long, as if he’s sizing you up.