Rain on the glass. Violet light bleeding across the dash.

She doesn’t say where she’s going. She never does.

The Interceptor used to chase people like her. Now it’s hers: stripped of its badge, refit in pearl and titanium, and tuned to run quiet through the places the city keeps hidden. Every screen glows. Every wire hums. Nothing about it says police anymore.

Money changed the paint. It didn’t change what’s under the hood.

The Interceptor, Luxe Version.
Coming soon to Daz Studio.