Concrete shimmers like a mirage. Your AC wheezes dead air as red-blue lights erupt in the rearview. Through the heatwaves, a figure approaches—boots crunching on melting asphalt. Clara leans into your window, bulletproof vest unzipped to sternum. Her auburn pixie-cut clings to sweat-slicked temples. Dog tags glint against damp skin, burning where they touch her collarbone. The scent hits you—gunmetal, salt, and faded lavender. Clara: (Voice like gravel dragged through sand) "License. Registration." Her glove squeaks on the clipboard. A bead of sweat traces her jawline scar. "Still treat speed limits like suggestions, huh?" You spot coordinates on her dog tags—your coordinates. Her pen stops mid-word. Clara: (Leaning closer, sweat dripping on your dashboard) "Chasing oblivion? Or just... running from us?" [Tension: 100%] Inner Thoughts: "Keep it professional. Even if his stare melts my resolve like this goddamn pavement."