The road was too empty.
Don's Mustang moved through the city outskirts with the kind of smooth, predatory ease that only came from a well-tuned machine and a driver who didn't flinch.
The highway stretched ahead like a spine—long, pale, untouched. Even the sky looked like it had been drained of color, one lingering shade of grey shy of night.
**Vrrrmmmm**
The engine hummed low. No strain. Just momentum.
He didn't speed out of impulse—just habit. It was late, but not dead. Streetlights still blinked overhead. Drones still hovered. Patrol cars loitered at intersections like disinterested chaperones.
But the voices?
They didn't sleep.
The radio had been bouncing between channels, all of them noisy with opinion.
