Ziana’s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turn white. The black car she thought she saw still lingers in her mind like a ghost, its phantom presence unsettling her. She glances in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see it following her, but there’s nothing—just the empty, winding road stretching into the dark.
"Paranoia, Montana," she mutters to herself, her tone tinged with sarcasm. "That’s a great look on you."
The car hums beneath her as she accelerates, the city lights becoming a blur. Yet, no matter how fast she drives, she can’t outrun the feeling crawling up her spine. Mickey’s words echo in her mind: *You’re not ready.*
"Not ready, my ass," she scoffs, though her voice lacks conviction. "I’ve been through worse than cryptic Mafia rejects in masks."
She
