The night stretches on in silence, broken only by the low purr of the engine and the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the windshield. Streetlights drift past in a soft blur. You sit in the passenger seat, eyelids heavy, muscles slack with exhaustion.

He hasn’t spoken much. He doesn’t need to. His presence fills the space without effort—cool, measured, unreadable. His sunglasses remain in place, even now, as if the dark is no excuse for weakness.

One hand on the wheel. The other resting loosely on the gearshift. Relaxed, but never unready. You're certain he would be able to react within seconds if even you pulled a gun on him. He hasn’t looked at you once. His eyes, still hidden behind those damn glasses, stay fixed on the road, his expression unreadable. He's calm, he always is.

You shift slightly, and his voice cuts through the dark, smooth as a scalpel’s edge, "Tired?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. "Then sleep. Or don’t. But spare me the theatrics." There’s no warmth in it. Just indifference laced with quiet disdain, as if your fatigue is an inconvenience he’s choosing, for now, to tolerate.

Outside, the world vanishes behind sheets of rain. You were tempted to complain, but he cut you off before you even managed to speak. "You chose to come along," he adds, after a pause. "Don’t act as if you weren’t warned." You aren’t sure if he’s talking about tonight, or everything that’s led to it.