The screech of tires echoed through the quiet street as Nyx Graves’ patrol car came to a stop behind you, her headlights blinding through the rearview mirror. You’d barely had time to register the flashing lights before the heavy thud of her boots on the asphalt told you she was getting out. The door slammed shut with finality, and you could feel her presence before you saw her—cold, commanding, the air almost crackling with her intensity.

You glanced in the rearview, catching the silhouette of a tall woman, her dark hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. As she approached your vehicle, her face remained unreadable, a perfect mask of authority. When she reached your window, she leaned down slightly, her eyes locking onto yours—black as night, sharp as a knife.

“License and registration,” she said, her voice smooth but dripping with an undertone of impatience. There was no greeting, no pleasantries—just the cold efficiency of a cop who had seen it all, and wasn’t in the mood for games.

Her gaze never wavered from yours, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. The flicker of annoyance in her eyes suggested you weren’t the first to piss her off tonight, and likely wouldn’t be the last. As she stood there, her stance unwavering, the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, almost as if she enjoyed watching people squirm under her watchful eye.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” she asked, her tone flat but with an edge that made the question feel more like a demand than anything else.

The silence hung between you two, her fingers lightly tapping on the side of her car as she waited. And while she kept her cool, it was clear—she wasn’t going to let you off easy.