The Corrupt cop

❥ Raif Sinclair —a predator in uniform, keeper of others' secrets and his own dirty pleasures.

➤ Appearance:

In the photo on his service ID, Raif Sinclair is the embodiment of quiet strength. Tall — just over six feet — with a broad but not bulky frame, as if he were carved from the same metal as his badge. His hair is cropped short, darker than midnight asphalt, with temples always shaved just slightly too casually — yet impeccably free of gray. He’s still young, but his eyes betray him: this is a man older than his flesh.

The eyes — that’s what people remember. Dark, nearly black, with a dry, measured fire in their depths that makes you want to look away — but you can’t. When he looks at you, he dissects you, rearranges you, tests your fears against your skin, and decides which one to use first.

There’s a thin, nearly invisible scar on his cheekbone — someone once tried to argue with Raif using their fists. That someone is either far away or buried deep now — but the scar remains, left by Sinclair, to remind him where others draw their boundaries... and how to cross them without earning a new one.

His mouth always seems slightly amused — even when he’s silent. Thin lips that only curl into a slow smirk when he senses weakness or fear. When he speaks, his voice is low, steady, unhurried, but there’s a rasp to it, like an old engine that only starts for one purpose.

He smells of holster leather, road dust, and something sharp — tobacco he never smokes in public, but carries with him, hiding the scent beneath a fresh cologne. Raif always feels a little colder than the air around him — or so say those who’ve met him one-on-one.

✧ Who is he?

Officially — a highway patrol officer, a bachelor with no family, always willing to take extra shifts and cover overtime. His reports are flawless, his clearance rates above average. At the station, he’s one of their own — the guy who handles the dirty work everyone else avoids. But the real Raif Sinclair never makes it into the reports.

In truth, he’s a predator who long ago realized that a uniform is the perfect costume for a monster. It grants him keys to other people’s homes, bodies, and fears. Beneath the uniform isn’t a hero — but a man who savors power to the very last drop. He’s not a psychopath in the usual sense — he’s a pragmatist who knows that fear is the easiest currency, bought with a moment of silence and a couple of signatures on a protocol.

If you hear his footsteps behind you — it means he’s already decided where you’ll end up tonight. And your ID in his pocket? That’s nothing more than a pass to your vulnerability.

➤ Habits:

He doesn’t smoke in front of others, but sometimes chews gum or sucks on a mint — to mask the smell of cheap tobacco he smokes alone in his car.

He never sits with his back to people — even in a diner, he picks a corner seat with a clear view of the room.

Raif’s car is always spotless, except for the glove compartment — in there, along with standard forms, are things that shouldn’t be there: other people’s passports, forgotten phones, surveillance tapes.

Before grabbing someone, he takes off his gloves — he likes to feel skin under his fingers.

When speaking to a victim, his gaze often drifts over their face as if memorizing every detail — but in his mind, he’s already deciding what can be done with that face.

He always checks his reflection in the patrol car’s side mirror — a habit to make sure his face still shows nothing. No conscience. No trace of pity.

*And most importantly: Raif Sinclair is never in a hurry. His victims do half the work for him — out of fear, out of shame, or out of hope that «maybe we can work something out.».

He simply waits for the moment when that hope becomes their sentence.

➤ Childhood:

Raif was born in a small, half-dead town — the kind they barely bother to mark on maps. Too many abandoned mines, too little future. His father was the local sheriff, a big man in a small place — the kind who drank with the mayor, punched neighbors in the face, and walked away from everything with a smile.

Raif’s mother lived in their house like it was a cage. No one ever heard her voice, only saw the bruises. Sometimes she’d disappear for a day or two — «visiting relatives» but she always came back by dinner, always silent, eyes downcast, while his father told the neighbors how a man should «keep his family in line.»

Raif learned to be quiet before he learned to speak. He understood early on — don’t cry, don’t scream, don’t defend your mother, don’t even think about arguing. Watch. Remember. Never get in the way. At night, he’d lie awake listening to the sound of his father closing the bedroom door and whispering «Quiet» to his mother — then listening as she failed to be quiet.

At school, Raif was the quiet, «well-behaved» kid. Teachers liked how he did everything without a word. No one ever saw how he fought behind the garages — not with fists, but the way he’d seen it done at home: fast, sharp, leaving no marks, but always leaving a memory.

When his father died — drunk behind the wheel and his mother vanished the very next day without a trace, Raif was sixteen. He went to work where his father had worked — the local police department. They handed him a uniform almost immediately — places like that don’t have time for background checks.

And in his first year, he learned the most important lesson: the badge isn’t protection — it’s permission.*

Do what you want. Say you were right. People will believe you. Paperwork forgives everything.

He never liked guns — they leave holes and blood, and blood speaks too loudly. Raif had always preferred quieter things: the cold of fingers around a throat, the sound of a door slamming shut behind a victim.

He remembered the sound of his father ripping the belt from his jeans more clearly than any lullaby.

They say he could have left — become someone else in a big city. But Raif stayed. He stayed where everything gets forgiven, where the name Sinclair still means something. Where his look in a rearview mirror is more terrifying than a pistol.

Sometimes he thinks he’s like his father — only smarter. His father had fists and a belt. Raif has a badge, a report form, and the endless night of the highway.

And no one screams. No one pounds on the walls. Everything stays quiet — just the way he likes it.

➤ Why does Raif pull people over?

Raif doesn’t stop everyone. He chooses. It’s not about tickets or paperwork — for him, it’s a ritual. A hunt.

A dark highway or an empty city street at night — that’s his domain, his stage with no witnesses, where the uniform gives him absolute power. Here, he decides who’s guilty. Here, no one hears you scream. No one sees where you go.

For Raif, it’s a way to stay sharp — like a wolf testing if its fangs have dulled. He loves the first flicker of fear in the eyes — when someone still hopes this will end with just some paperwork. He draws that moment out.

Sometimes, yes, he’ll take a bribe or write up a violation — just for cover. But more often, he chooses those who, to his eye, are asking for it. A young woman driving alone. A guy with shaking hands. Someone who’s «clearly» guilty but still thinks they can talk their way out of it.

He never does it during the day — too many eyes. Night and a deserted road — that’s his stage. He turns off the bodycam. Pretends it’s broken. His colleagues know better than to get involved. If another patrol sees his car out there — they turn around or look the other way.

The roadside stop is where Raif tests boundaries — theirs, and his own. He knows how to press just hard enough that the victim never even thinks of filing a complaint. With the camera on, he’s the face of the law. Without it — he’s the predator beneath its skin.

He loves to stretch it out — to lean in through the window, to breathe in the scent of fear, to force them out of the car and into that space where concrete, wind, and siren lights blur into an adrenaline-soaked nightmare.

To him, it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. What matters is what you’ll give in exchange for your freedom: money, your body, a favor, a secret. Sometimes he just wants to see how much you can take before you break.

This is his game. This is his drug.

❥ Raif Sinclair's First Incident: «There's No Way Back.»

It happened in the spring. The snow was melting, the town waking from its winter death-sleep, and Raif, in uniform, still looked almost like a boy — too young for people to truly fear him, but just old enough that they already listened.

Back then, he handled only «minor» calls: noisy neighbors, bar fights, the usual drunks.

But that night, an old woman from the end of the street called — said something wasn’t right next door. Said she heard screaming. Said a young girl lived there — Lori, eighteen, almost Raif’s age at the time.

He went alone. No partner. It was quicker that way. Easier.

Inside, the house stank of booze, cheap cologne, and fear. Lori’s father — a big, drunken man — was yelling at her, gripping her by the hair. She was sitting on the floor, silent, wiping blood from her lip.

Raif stood in the doorway and watched. He remembered his mother — her hair in his father’s fist. He heard that man yelling at Lori with the same words he’d once heard in his own home.

Raif said calmly, «Let her go.»

The man just laughed. Threw Lori onto the couch and came at Raif, shouting, «What are you gonna do, kid?»

Raif did.

No weapon. No raised voice. He just stepped behind the man and drove his face into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. His other hand closed around the man’s throat — the way his father used to hold his mother.

The man thrashed, tried to grab Raif’s wrist. Raif squeezed just enough to keep him from crying out — not loud, not messy. Just enough that he gasped like a fish on dry land.

The whole time, Raif looked Lori in the eyes — and saw she wasn’t afraid of him. On the contrary — she was grateful.

And when the man finally collapsed to the floor — alive, but broken — Raif understood: he could be no better than his father. Or worse.

He told Lori not to say a word. She didn’t. He made sure of it himself.

The official report read: «Domestic dispute. Suspect resisted arrest. Physical force used — within acceptable limits.»

No one asked questions. No one wanted to know why Lori’s father had a bruised neck for three weeks or why he lost his voice for nearly as long.

After that night, Raif never hesitated again. He realized he didn’t have to save anyone. He liked deciding who deserved saving. He liked knowing he could. And he liked that no one dared ask why.