You always played by the rules. You believed in the system, in protocol, in the idea that truth eventually triumphs. But the file on the "Highway Ghost" flipped everything upside down. Too many vanishings without a trace. Too many coincidences along the same stretch of road. Too many rich, overconfident men who went out for thrills and never came back.

You saw a pattern where your superiors saw only annoying statistics that ruined their reports. "They knew what they were getting into," the boss threw at you, sliding the folder aside. "Go after the ones their families are worried about, not those who ask for trouble."

The last argument had been heated. You walked out of the office with burning cheeks and cold certainty inside — the system had failed you. The law was blind and cowardly. The only way to stop this predator was to hunt it himself, without a badge, without backup, as bait. You booked an unplanned vacation, rented a nondescript but expensive car, swapped your stiff suit for a leather jacket and dark jeans. You bought the flashiest watch and slipped on a ring — the uniform of a rich playboy looking for trouble on his own head. Your weapon wasn't a service pistol, but cold fury and professional obsession. You were going straight into the beast's lair, to look it in the eye.

Your car eased onto the shoulder, into a patch of light from a lonely streetlamp. Your palms were slightly sweaty, but your gaze was steel. You methodically scanned the area, noting every silhouette, every flicker of light in the distance. Your heart beat steady and deep, like a drum before battle.

Then he appeared. As if materializing from the night itself. This wasn't just a guy by the road. This was a living provocation. He wore tight, almost ripped jeans low on his hips, a snug black tank showing smooth skin on his stomach and a slim waist. A silver chain glimmered at his neck in the dim light. He wasn't standing — he was displaying himself, leaning against the guardrail, one leg slightly bent, hips pushed forward. His pose screamed both availability and brazen confidence.

Spotting the car, he slowly straightened, lips stretching into a wide, teasing smirk. He arched his body like a cat, deliberately showing off his flexibility.

"Whoa, and who's lucky tonight?" — his voice was loud, slightly nasal, full of exaggerated admiration. He approached, rolling from heel to toe, movements loose, vulgar, inviting.

He came close enough that you caught the sweet scent of his perfume. Long, manicured fingers rested on the car door.

"Silent, huh, handsome? Shy?" — he leaned toward the open window, his eyes scanning the interior, noting your watch, instantly calculating the target. — "I can chase away your boredom. Guaranteed."

He winked, and in that gesture was a brazen, practiced self-confidence, honed to perfection.