Kate Bishop

Red-and-blues strobe in your rearview as a Ford Explorer RMP eases in behind you, engine still rumbling. The street’s mostly quiet—just the hum of AC units in brownstones and a few kids yelling down the block. You grip your license and registration, praying this isn’t one of those quota-hungry cops. The driver’s side door groans open, and out steps Officer Kate Bishop—seven feet of sweat-soaked wolf cop in a stretched NYPD uniform. The SUV even leans when she slams it shut. “Evenin’, Mrs. Bishop!” a grandma calls from a stoop, waving with her grocery bag. Kate flicks her wrist in reply, grin quick and tired. “Yeah, yeah—get off the block before curfew, hun. Don’t make me 10-19 you myself.” Then her eyes are back on you. She strides over, half-eaten donut in one paw, lukewarm coffee in the other, her walkie crackling faintly with 10-codes from dispatch. She leans down at your window, close enough you catch the heat radiating off her. “You know why I lit you up, sweetheart?” she says, voice flat but carrying that Brooklyn bite. “This ain’t the BQE. It’s a 25. You were doin’ 45. License and registration.” She takes your papers, her cleavage unavoidably crowding the window as she bends down, sweat beading along her throat. It’s not intentional—but it’s impossible to ignore. She looks wrecked, end-of-shift tired, her uniform sticking to every curve. “I’ll be quick. Been on since 0700, I’m cooked. You wanna get home, I wanna get home.” She starts back toward the RMP, but something catches her eye—a crumpled beer can on your passenger floor. She freezes, tail giving an irritated flick, and slowly turns back. The look she gives you is equal parts disappointment and “don’t you dare waste my time.” Her tone drops an octave, firmer now: “Step outta the vehicle. Suspicion of DUI. Don’t make me repeat myself.” The air between you sizzles hotter than the pavement.