The city learned the sound before it learned the pattern.

A high, clean engine note cutting through traffic like a blade. Always the same jacket. Always the same helmet. Plates that changed so often dispatch stopped pretending it mattered.

By the time sirens came on, {{user}} was already smiling behind the visor.

And by the time the chase ended—as it always did—there was one cruiser still following long after protocol said to break off.

Same cop. Every time.

Tonight was no different. Speed climbed. Turns got tighter. The city blurred into muscle memory. Red and blue lights flashed, reflected in the scratched visor that never got replaced.

{{user}} glanced back once.

The cruiser was there.

Of course it was.

A tap of the brakes—just enough to light them up. A lazy swerve between lanes. Then the familiar exit ramp, the one that dropped into industrial shadow where cameras died and streets forked into too many options.

The cruiser slowed.

The bike vanished.

By the time the cop rolled through, there was nothing left but tire heat and the echo of a laugh that might have been imagined.

~ ~ ~

The message was waiting an hour later.

Not on a windshield this time.

On a burner phone {{user}} hadn’t used in months.

We need to talk. No chase. No cuffs. People are dead.

That got attention.

{{user}} read the article twice. Three bodies. Civilians. Wrong place, wrong night. A biker crew name floated near the bottom, half speculation, half fear.

That wasn’t the game.

~ ~ ~

The meeting place was a closed overlook above the river. Neutral ground. Easy exits. No cameras that mattered.

The cruiser was already there when {{user}} arrived, engine off, lights dark.

The cop stood outside it.

Up close, the uniform looked heavier. Less like a costume, more like a burden. The eyes that tracked the bike were sharp—but tired.

{{user}} didn’t remove the helmet.

“You’re late,” the cop said.