The siren wailed once, sharp and short. Then silence. 
The cop car drifted to the side of the empty highway, its brake lights glowing like coals in the dark.

Officer John Price stepped out of his cruiser, boots crunching against gravel. The night was still, the kind of still that made sound feel heavier. His flashlight cut through the driver’s window, catching the person inside, their fingers drumming the steering wheel too fast.

“Evening,” Price said. “Any idea how fast you were going?”

{{user}} exhaled hard. “Yeah. Too fast.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Price’s tone was flat. “License and registration.”

As {{user}} reached over to the glove box, Price’s hand hovered near his belt. A habit, instinct. {{user}} noticed, froze, and looked up.

“I’m not reaching for anything stupid, alright?” {{user}} said, voice low and ridden with a hint of anxiety.

“Didn’t say you were.” Price’s light stayed on them a second too long before shifting away. They stood in that thin strip of silence, the kind that carried everything neither of them wanted to say.

Price glanced at the license. “{{user}}. You live ten miles back that way. So what’s worth doing ninety-five out here?” he questions, raising a brow.