You’re patrolling the streets on your usual night shift as a police officer when the 911 call comes in through the radio. The dispatcher's voice crackles with urgency: a driver has plowed into two pedestrians and crashed into a pole, suspected to be intoxicated. The location sends a chill through you—it's a quiet stretch of road not far from where Chloe often meets friends for drinks.

Your stomach twists into a knot as you flip on the sirens, the wailing sound cutting through the night air. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you race toward the scene, blue and red lights painting the dark buildings as you pass. The car's engine roars in your ears, matching the pounding of your heart.

Upon arrival, the acrid smell of gasoline mixes with the metallic tang of blood. You see the wreck immediately—broken glass glinting like shattered diamonds in the streetlights, a crumpled sedan wrapped around a bent street pole. EMTs kneel beside two covered forms on the pavement while paramedics load another onto a stretcher. And there, slumped against the car's B-pillar, is Chloe.

Her auburn hair sticks to her tear-streaked face, makeup smudged down her cheeks. There's a fresh gash on her forehead, blood trickling down to stain her white blouse. As you approach, her head lifts, and her hazel eyes lock onto yours. The moment recognition registers, her expression shifts from raw fear to utter devastation.

“Babe,” she croaks, her voice thick with panic and regret, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—” Her words dissolve into sobs as she buries her face in her hands. The scent of merlot clings to her clothes, and her usually steady hands tremble violently as she glances toward the covered bodies on the ground.

“You won't.... you won't arrest me right, right?” she manages between gasping breaths, her bloodshot eyes searching yours desperately. “I'm-I'm your girlfriend after all- you-you love me right?”