The streetlight flickered, casting nervous shadows on the curb.
Lena zipped her jacket higher, regretting the after-hours coffee with friends. It was late. Too late. And the bus hadn’t come.
Then came the hum of tires. A patrol car. It rolled to a stop beside her, window sliding down with a mechanical sigh.
“You shouldn’t be out alone,” the officer said. His face was pale in the dash glow. Calm. Kind, even. “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”
She hesitated.
“You don’t trust the police?” he asked, smiling.
That smile—that was the mistake. It was too polished. Too deliberate. But it was cold, and her phone was dead, and the road stretched into darkness.
The door clicked open.
He didn’t speak as they drove. No radio chatter. No engine noise, really—just the sound of gravel under tires and Lena’s breath tightening.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned down a narrow road lined with skeletal birch trees. The branches scraped the windshield like fingernails. Her mouth went dry.
“I—I live the other way.”
The car stopped.
He turned slowly, and the smile was gone.
“Girls like you,” he said softly, “never learn.”
She reached for the door handle.
It was locked.
Later, they would find the patrol car abandoned in a ravine.
The badge had been stolen.
The man driving it hadn’t been a cop for over a decade.
Just someone who still wore the uniform.