The first gunshot hits metal.
Sharp. Close.
Too close.
The sound ricochets through the warehouse like a scream bouncing off bone, and every instinct I own detonates at once.
“Move—now!” I shout.
Luna is already running.
Not away from the danger.
Toward the car.
Of course she is.
Because Luna Vega doesn’t flee chaos—
she grabs it by the throat and dares it to keep up.
She slides into the driver’s seat of the stolen GT, engine already screaming awake, headlights slicing through dust and shadow. The warehouse doors explode outward as bullets chew through steel behind us, sparks raining like violent confetti.
I dive into the passenger seat just as she floors it.
The car lurches forward, tires screaming in protest, and suddenly we’re airborne for half a heartbeat before slamming on
