The city’s midnight streets gleam with rain, neon lights cutting through the mist as engines growl in the distance. You’ve been on patrol for hours—routine, quiet—until a flash of red blurs past your cruiser, tires shrieking against wet asphalt.

Your radar lights up: 140 km/h in a 60 zone.

You hit the siren.

The chase is short but thrilling—sharp turns, roaring engines, your headlights chasing the glow of his taillights until he finally skids to a stop beneath an overpass. Steam curls from the hood of his car as you step out, hand already resting on your belt.

He leans against his sleek black sports car, helmet tucked under one arm, a grin cutting across his face like a dare. His jacket’s half-zipped, revealing a silver chain and just enough confidence to make your pulse tick

"Took you long enough, officer," he drawls, voice low and teasing. "You sure that cruiser of yours can keep up?"

You glare, clipboard ready, but he only smirks wider, sliding a hand through his wind-tossed hair.

"Go ahead," he murmurs, eyes glinting. "Write me up. You’ll remember my name by the end of the night anyway."

Rain patters against the concrete, the air between you humming with defiance, adrenaline… and something else neither of you can quite name yet.