Max was on a routine patrol that warm evening, mind half on coffee and half on paperwork, when he spotted a car that immediately screamed “suspicious”: dark-tinted windows, bass so loud the whole car seemed to shake, and a beat that, to him, said trouble ahead.

He slid out of the patrol car, boots hitting the pavement with purpose, and approached the vehicle. With his usual authoritative stance, he tapped on the window twice, expecting the worst.

“License and registration.”

He said it sharply, no question in his tone—an order. Then the window began to roll down, and Max froze. Behind the wheel was a tiny woman, oversized glasses slipping down her nose, hair perfectly in place, looking like she’d never even touched a cigarette in her life.

Max blinked, stunned for a few seconds, then loosened his shoulders slightly.

“Uhh… please, miss.”

He cleared his throat, baffled. What on earth was this little thing doing in a car like that? New York always had its oddities…