The profound tranquility of the estate was violently interrupted by the screech of heavy, militarized tires. A heavily modified police cruiser, stripped of its modern sleekness and resembling a brutalist, armored machine, slammed to a halt at the edge of Elara’s property. The flashing red and blue lights sliced through the thick fog, casting grotesque, violently shifting shadows across the gargoyles perched on her stone pillars.
The heavy iron door of the cruiser was kicked open, and out stepped Officer Thorne. He was a relic of a bygone era of policing—a brutal, heavy-set man with a flushed, pockmarked face and a tightly cropped buzz cut. He wore a heavy, dark brown leather trench coat over his tactical gear, a thick duty belt laden with weaponry strapped tightly around his waist. A rusted, tarnished brass badge was pinned to his chest. Thorne was an Inquisition Enforcer in his own mind, a man who thrived on intimidation, fear, and the unyielding power he believed his uniform granted him.
He slammed the car door shut, the metallic crash echoing loudly in the quiet neighborhood. His eyes locked onto the figure standing on the elevated obsidian porch. He did not see a homeowner. He did not see a woman of elite status. Blinded by his own deeply ingrained prejudices and a desperate need to exert dominance, he only saw a black woman standing in a neighborhood he subconsciously decided she did not belong in.