Pain has a sound.
It’s the metallic crack of twisting steel, the hiss of leaking fuel, and the faint echo of her voice screaming my name through static.
When I open my eyes, everything’s smoke. My ribs feel like shattered glass. My left hand’s bleeding, and my comms are dead. The Corvette’s cockpit is half-melted, dashboard lights flickering like dying fireflies.
For a second, I forget who I am.
Rogue.
Adrian Cross.
Both feel like masks now.
The last thing I remember — her car spinning out of the blast zone, her terrified voice cutting through the radio, and me choosing — instinctively — to block the explosion.
I didn’t think.
I just moved.
And that scares me more than the fire ever could.
I drag myself out of the wreck. The night’s a blur of sirens, rain, and shouting. Spectato
