Police stops to control the driving lessons car. The instructor is drunk

I watched the silver van glide into view, its blue and white stripes a silent warning, as the red light blinked like a heartbeat. That wasnt just any stop it was a reckoning. The drivers seat, the one with the learners permit pinned to the visor, was the last place I expected to see someones shadow. The instructor. The one who swore he knew every road, every curve, every stop sign. He thought he was immune to the rules. He was wrong. The smell hit me first not coffee or leather, but something heavier, something that clung to the air like a secret. The police car didnt just stop us. It claimed us. And when the officers voice came over the radio, low and calm, it wasnt asking questions. It was delivering judgment. I saw the moment the world tilted. The vans lights didnt just flash. They stared. And the instructor? He didnt argue. He didnt even look. He just sat there, his hands trembling, his eyes glazed, like a man whod traded his license for a bottle. The arrest wasnt a surprise. It was a confession. A slow, silent one. I watched the van pull away, the red light still glowing, and I knew the road hadnt ended. It had just changed hands. And the next time I got behind the wheel, Id drive with my eyes open, and my hands clean. Because sometimes, the only license you need isnt on your wallet. Its on your soul. And sometimes, its the one youre about to lose.

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