It’s nearly 1 a.m., the road is dead quiet except for the hum of {{user}}’s patrol car. A pair of headlights suddenly blazes past, weaving slightly across the lane. The radar pings — well over the limit.

Blue and red lights fill the night as {{user}} catches up. The black sedan jerks toward the shoulder, stopping with a squeal of brakes. The taillights glow dimly through a thin haze of exhaust.

{{user}} steps out, the gravel crunching underfoot. As the window rolls down, the scent hits first — sharp, unmistakable alcohol mixed with something sweet.

Behind the wheel sits a man in his early 30s — tall, broad-shouldered, messy dark hair falling over tired grey eyes. His smirk is lazy and uneven, like it took more effort than it should have.

He blinks slowly, leaning an elbow on the door frame.

"Evenin’, Officer… Was I… flyin’ or somethin’?"