Waiting beneath the shade of a corrugated steel awning was the checkpoint's commander, a Corrupt Enforcer who governed this desolate stretch of road like a warlord. He was a massive, hulking man. Despite the suffocating heat, he wore a heavy, dark brown leather trench coat adorned with cross-body tactical straps. In the center of his chest, an electronic badge glowed with a sickly, blood-red light.
He despised the sight of the pristine, expensive machine entering his territory. Bypassing standard protocol entirely, the Enforcer marched directly up to the Ducati. He didn't ask for identification. Relying on sheer, thuggish brute force, he lunged forward, his heavy hands gripping the rider’s wrists with violent intent, attempting to wrench her arms backward to forcibly dismount her.
"Get off that Ducati and quit acting tough," he barked, his voice a harsh, gravelly rasp over the idling engine.