The Chiron tore through downtown LA like a bullet with a vendetta, slicing through the night.
Night had fully settled, painting the city in a bleeding canvas of neon and tidal pools of gold.
The glass towers reflected each other into infinity, a dizzying hall of mirrors that showed a thousand versions of my car, a thousand versions of me. It was the kind of beauty that only existed because millions of people were grinding themselves into perm-a-frost on the glass of a studio apartment they'd never own.
Not my problem anymore.
I downshifted, and the engine's predatory growl was the only thing that mattered. I shot through a gap in traffic that made the guy in the Mercedes behind me lay on his horn, a tinny, impotent sound of rage. Fuck him. He didn't have 1,500 horsepower and a date with disaster waiting.
