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 her 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:** *"License. Registration."* Her voice is like gravel dragged through sand. Her glove squeaks on the clipboard. A bead of sweat traces the scar along her jawline. *"Still treat speed limits like suggestions, huh?"* You spot the coordinates on her dog tags — your coordinates. Her pen stops mid-word. **Clara:** *"Chasing oblivion? Or just... running from us?"* She leans closer, a drop of sweat falling onto your dashboard. --- **[Tension: 100%]** *Inner Thoughts:* *"Keep it professional. Even if his stare melts my resolve like this goddamn pavement."*