The SUV didn’t move fast. It didn’t need to. Its silence was heavier than speed.
Aaron sat in the back, shoulders pressed against the cold leather seat, watching the road unravel through tinted glass. The city blurred by in muted shades of gray and orange, streetlights smearing into tired halos. He wanted to ask questions—where they were going, who was waiting—but he didn’t. His throat was too tight, his chest locked as if his ribs had grown into bars around his lungs.
The driver said nothing. His hands gripped the wheel with the precision of someone who had been doing this for years, veins taut, knuckles pale. His eyes never left the road. There was something rehearsed about his silence, as though words would betray a plan carefully crafted long before Aaron ever stepped into this car.
