The world outside became a blur of streaking lights and shifting shadows, the city dissolving into dark smudges of buildings and streaks of streetlamps. The air inside the car grew sharp with tension, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the engine and the screech of tires as they fought for dominance against the slick asphalt.
The night seemed to fold in on us, thick and suffocating, every twist and turn of the road threatening to throw us into the void. Val gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled determination, his jaw locked so tightly I half-expected it to shatter under the pressure. His eyes were twin flames of focus, darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, calculating every movement like a predator stalking its prey.
"Still on us?" I asked, though the answer was clear from the faint glint of headlights that danced in the mirror, gaining ground.
"They're not just on us—they're playing games," Val muttered, his voice tight, almost venomous. He didn't look at me, his attention chained to the road. "They want me to make a mistake. Not happening."
The car jerked violently as Val took a corner at a speed that made my stomach lurch. The tires wailed in protest, but Val's control never wavered. He drove like a man possessed, his hands firm and unrelenting on the wheel, each movement deliberate, precise.
"Let me guess," I said, unable to resist the jab. "You're the kind of guy who thinks he's too good to lose control."
His eyes flicked toward me, sharp as a blade. "Chandler," he snapped, "I swear to God—"
