**The Wrong Ride**
When the notification popped up on his phone about a speeding fine, Oliver was confused. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows propped on the laminate surface. The flat was dimming into twilight, and outside, the last of the snow had melted into wet patches on the pavement. Just another eveningchecking messages, scrolling through the news. Then the car-sharing services email arrived. The subject line: *Speeding Fine Issued.*
At first, he thought it was a mistake. The last time hed rented a car was weeks agoa quick trip to a supermarket on the outskirts of Manchester. Hed closed the session properly in the app. Since then, no drives, no needhe worked remotely, and for errands, he walked or took the bus. His coat hung damp by the door from the drizzle outside, but he hadnt so much as touched a car.
He read the notice three times. The fine was addressed to *him*, dated *last night*. The details listed a number plate and a stretch of road near the train stationsomewhere Oliver hadnt been in weeks.
Suspicion turned to irritation. He opened the car-sharing app. The logo flashed, loading slowlyhis Wi-Fi always lagged in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental *yesterday*: started just after 8 PM, ended forty minutes later across town.
Oliver scanned the detailsthe start time matched when hed been eating dinner, watching the news about a tech expo. He tapped *More Details*the route unfolded over the city map, grey streets flickering under the highlighted path.
His mind raceda glitch? Someone hacked his account? But his password was strong, his phone always nearby or charging by his bed.
The email had an appeals linksupport promised a response within two days if he could prove his innocence.
Fingers tense, he typed a quick message in the apps chat:
*»Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental #[number], but I didnt take the carI was home. Please check this.»*
The auto-reply came instantly*request logged, investigation pending.*
He exhaled sharply. If this wasnt resolved, *hed* be footing the billuser responsibility was baked into the apps terms. He remembered that from last years update.
A floorboard creaked in the next room. The heating had been off for daysspring warmth by day, chilly evenings. The flat held the usual soundsfridge humming, muffled voices through the front door.
Waiting gnawed at him. He scrolled back through the rental historyanother oddity: the session had ended without the usual photos of the cars interior. The app always required them.
The helplessness grewno real person to talk to, just automated replies.
Oliver scribbled details on a notepadtrip start and end times, the shopping centre pickup spot three stops from his flat.
A thought flickeredcall his old colleague, the one whod warned him about fighting fines without proof. But first, hed gather every scrap of evidence.
The next morning, he woke earlyunease had kept him up. No updates from support. The ticket still read *pending*.
He dug deeperchecked his banking app. Transactions showed a takeaway order around 7 PM, work messages between half-eight and nine*exactly* when the phantom rental happened.
He screenshotted everythingthe route, his bank log, timestampsand resent them to support.
Waiting was easier now, but he felt like he was *proving his own innocence.*
By dusk, support finally replied*file a police report, send us a copy to expedite.* More red tape.
That evening, Oliver went to the station near his flat. The queue was short. The officer listened, helped draft a statement about unauthorised account use.
Back home, he uploaded everythingsupport chats, police report.
The last step*who* had used his account?
The next morning, security reached out*review this footage.*
The clip loaded in the appa man in a hoodie, average height, unlocking the car near the shopping centre. Quick movements, face turned away*definitely* not Oliver.
Relief came with exhaustion. By afternoon, another email*fine revoked, unauthorised access confirmed. Thank you for your vigilance.* A security guide was attached.
He read it twice. The tension uncoiled slowly, like recovering from flu.
A support call followedpolite, professional.
*»Enable two-factor authentication. Instructions will follow.»*
He did it immediatelylonger password, SMS verification. The app confirmed the update.
Annoyance lingeredproblem solved, but any slip-up left him vulnerable.
That evening, he met colleagues at a café near the officea rare in-person catch-up.
*»Nearly paid a fine for someone elses joyride,»* he explained. *»Cameras saved me. Two-factor everything now.»*
One frowned. *»Didnt think that could happen. Better check mine.»*
A quiet unease settled over the table. Digital habits didnt feel so harmless anymore.
He walked home in drizzle, yellow streetlights pooling on wet pavement. The flat was cold, quiet. No new alerts.
Later, by the kitchen window, his thoughts shiftedless fear of glitches or malice, more wariness of his own carelessness.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to friends. Two replied fastone asked about appeal steps, the other thanked him for the two-factor tip.
The week ended quietlyno more strange alerts. But every login, Oliver checked his security settings. Just part of the routine now, like locking the door at night.
