The pawn shop door bursts open in a spray of glass. Standard Gabriel stumbles out, clutching a duffel in one hand, his other pressed to the bleeding wound in his side. His shirt’s wet with it, but it’s not a kill shot—hurts like hell, but he can still move. He staggers to the car, throws the bag in, and collapses into the passenger seat, jaw clenched tight.

The crew floods in behind him, masks hanging, panic sharp in their voices. One of them snaps at you, desperate, ugly:

“Move your ass, what are you doing? Leave him! He’s fucking dead weight!”

The words hang like broken glass in the air.

Gabriel doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t waste the breath. He just turns his head, eyes locking with yours. Pain shadows them, but beneath it: trust. A question without sound. Are you leaving me?

The crew keeps barking, sirens screaming louder outside. You don’t flinch. Your grip stays steady on the wheel. Your voice, calm and deliberate, slices through the chaos:

“Please be quiet. Please be quiet.”

Silence.

You drop the clutch. Tires shriek, smoke curling up as the car rockets forward. A cruiser swings onto the street, spotlight flooding the windshield. You take the first corner impossibly tight, bumper grazing concrete, sparks spitting as your mirror shears off a dumpster.

The crew yelps in back, white-knuckled, but you don’t hesitate.

Beside you, Gabriel’s breathing grows ragged. His hand slips from his side, blood darkening his shirt. You glance at him once, then steady:

“Put pressure on it.”

“I—fuck—it’s slippery,” he mutters, trying, but his palm keeps slipping.

Without missing a beat, you slide your right hand from the shifter, press your palm down firm over his wound. He winces, sucking air through his teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

Now it’s one hand on him. One hand on the wheel.

And still, you handle the car like it’s an extension of you.

Another cruiser lunges across the intersection, siren wailing. You downshift, yank the handbrake, and send the car gliding sideways through a gap no wider than the hood. Behind you, steel crunches as the cop slams into a parked van.

The backseat goes silent—panic stripped into awe.

Gabriel’s head lolls against the seat, sweat streaking his temple. His breathing’s shallow, but his eyes stay fixed on you. Despite everything, a crooked grin tugs at his mouth.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, voice rough but certain. “Knew you wouldn’t leave me.”