You were tearing down the road at nearly 75 in a 45, trying to make it home before the last bit of traffic hit. The wind whipped past the windows and every light blurred as adrenaline pushed you forward—until the sudden wail of sirens made your stomach drop. Red and blue lights reflected off your rearview mirror as the cruiser pulled up, and you eased onto the shoulder, heart pounding.

The officer stepped out quickly, purposeful, eyes locked on you. No smile, no casual stance. He approached your window with steady steps and a firm voice.

“Sir,” he said, tone clipped, “you were going 75 in a 45 back there. I need your license and registration.”

He gestured toward the glove box and waited, making it clear there was no room for argument.