Liza tightened her grip on the wheel but stayed silent.

The officer began listing imaginary violations, casually suggesting that everything could be “settled right here.” When she calmly refused to pay, his expression hardened.

“So you want to do this the hard way,” he muttered.

He pulled her license from its holder and, without warning, ripped it in two. The snap echoed against the asphalt as the pieces fell at her feet.

“Done,” he said, laughing. “You’re walking from here.”

His laughter was loud and satisfied. He expected tears, panic, pleading.

Instead, Liza took a slow breath.

She looked away from the torn license and reached for the glove compartment.

“What now?” he sneered.

“You’ll see,” she replied quietly.

She opened it and took out another ID 
The rest of the story is in the first comment 

Liza handed him a dark red identification card.

“What kind of joke is this?” he scoffed—until he read it.

His smile vanished. He read the name. Then the rank. Then read it again. Color drained from his face.

“Senior… senior command…” he stammered, straightening instantly.