DARKEST DESIRES

7

♡DARREN◇♧

The drive home is silent, as usual, but tonight, I’m driving slower than usual. The quiet rhythm of *"No Words"* by Dave featuring MoStack fills the car, my fingers tapping lightly to the beat as the music is swallowed by my thoughts. Even with the melody, my mind remains heavy, consumed by what went down earlier.

As I round a bend, the headlights catch on a white Toyota Hilux parked across the road in an awkward, horizontal position. I hit the horn, expecting whoever’s inside to get out and move, but the only sound that follows is the endless night air. I press the horn again, my patience wearing thin.

Still no response. I step out, irritated and curious. There’s always a chance that something’s wrong, and tonight feels like the kind of night that could prove it. I’ve seen enough in my time to know that a car parked like that usually means trouble. A dead body wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been responsible for a few myself.

With a sense of urgency, I approach the Hilux, expecting the worst. But as I peek inside, I realize it’s empty. Nothing’s right, though. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and before I can turn away, a voice cuts through the air.

"Hello, Mr. Martinez."

The voice chills me, sharp and haunting—like a thousand tortured souls woven together into a single, unnerving sound. A cold, heavy sensation presses at the back of my neck. I know what's coming.

Before I can react, the cold steel of a gun digs into the skin just below my hairline. "I wouldn’t do that if I were you," the voice warns, dripping with malice.

I freeze. Whoever this is, they've got the advantage. The smart move is to play it cool, wait for a window to turn the tables. No heroics—just survival.

I grit my teeth, irritated by the audacity of having a gun pressed to my neck. "What the fuck..." I mutter, trying to sneak a glance at my captor. He’s exactly what I expected—a street thug, not fit to tie his own shoes, let alone be in charge of a job like this. He’s just a pawn, someone else’s tool.

He keeps talking, boasting about his skills and how no one can escape him. I roll my eyes. *The ones who talk too much never deliver.* But I’m not listening. My focus is on the knife tucked in my waistband, itching to be used. It’s uncomfortable, but tonight, it’s my lifeline.

As he continues to yap, I move my fingers, finding the grip of the blade. "You're still talking?" I sneer, losing my patience.

"I’m in control here, boy," he retorts, his voice dripping with arrogance.

"Control?" I echo, my voice low and dangerous. "You’re just a puppet sent to kill me."

His expression flickers—fear, maybe, but he quickly masks it, tightening his grip on the gun. "Don’t move," he warns.

I laugh, the sound cold and mocking. "You think you can take me down?" I taunt, already calculating my next move.

"Shut up!" he spits, the heat of his breath on my face.

In one fluid motion, I twist his arm, and the gun discharges with a deafening crack. The shock of it is quick, but I’m faster. I spin him around, snapping his arm at an unnatural angle, and bury the knife deep into his throat. His eyes widen in disbelief, then terror, before his body goes limp, blood spraying across the pavement.

"I said shut the fuck up," I mutter, teeth clenched, my heart pounding.

I let his body drop to the ground, the weight of it pulling against me. For a second, I just stand there, breath heavy, eyes locked on the lifeless form. His blood stains the earth, and I can’t seem to shake the cold satisfaction from my bones.