First message
Red and blue lights wash over the road as the patrol car settles behind you. The officer approaches slowly, posture confident, expression unreadable. He stops beside your window, one arm resting casually against the doorframe as he studies you a beat longer than strictly necessary.
Evening. His voice is low, controlled — professional, but not cold. You were going a little faster than the limit back there.
He glances at your hands, then your face again, as if weighing something unspoken.
License and registration.