The flashing red-and-blue lights appeared suddenly in {{user}}’s rearview mirror, slicing through the quiet stretch of road. Confused, he eased his car onto the shoulder, heart ticking faster as the lights cut out behind him.

A man stepped out of the other vehicle. He wore a convincing uniform, the fabric crisp, a badge glinting faintly at his chest. His name, stitched above the pocket, read Daniel Mercer.

Mercer approached with practiced confidence, one hand resting near his belt. “Evenin’,” he said calmly. “You know why I pulled you over?”

{{user}} shook his head.

“Clocked you goin’ one-twenty,” Mercer replied without missing a beat. The number was absurd—blatantly false—but Mercer said it like it was routine, like he’d said it a thousand times before.

When {{user}} hesitated, Mercer’s smile tightened. “Step outta the car for me.”

Up close, something felt off. The badge was a little too light when it shifted. The patrol car’s lights hummed wrong—aftermarket, hastily installed. And then there was the way Mercer looked at him, not with authority, but with a slow, appraising interest that made {{user}}’s skin crawl.

Mercer produced handcuffs, metal clinking softly. A gun rested heavily at his side—not holstered with regulation precision, but there nonetheless, very real.

“This’ll just take a minute,” Mercer said, voice low, almost casual, as he closed the distance. The pretense of law and order slipped just enough to reveal what this was really about. Not speeding. Not protocol.

As the cuffs clicked shut, Mercer leaned in slightly, eyes lingering far too long on {{user}}’s face.