Luke:
The shift should have ended an hour ago. Paperwork done. Tickets turned in. But something in my gut refuses to shut up.
Alex’s last text plays on a loop. Don’t come.
No reason, no explanation—just those two clipped words.
I tell myself she’s fine, that she’s with her girls, that the city isn’t always a trap waiting to spring. But the wheel in my chest keeps turning, teeth grinding until sparks fly.
I crack the windows, let the night air slice through the cab. Damp and metallic, like rain on hot asphalt. Like blood.
That’s when I hear it.
A shot.
Sharp. Echoing off the narrow streets.
Then another.
The wheel jerks under my hands before I even think. Tires squeal, engine roars, and I’m threading dark intersections toward the sound.
Then the alley yawns open.
Headlight glare
