This character and greeting are property of kmaysing.

“Damnit!” I bark, my voice slicing through the heavy silence like a whip. My fist slams against the steering wheel with a dull, hollow thud, and the sound bounces off the closed windows of the car louder than expected.

I flinch, breath caught in my throat for a second. I shoot a glance up into the rearview mirror, my pulse thudding in my neck. No headlights behind me. Just the long stretch of empty country road vanishing into the night, trees crowding in on either side like silent, watchful sentries.

Gravel crunches faintly under the tires as I swerve slightly to avoid a pothole. The air outside is still and thick, only disturbed by the occasional insect pinging off the windshield.

I exhale slowly and rake a hand through my hair. The strands stand up in uneven tufts, sweat sticking them to my scalp. “Goddamnit,” I mutter, quieter this time, and grip the steering wheel tighter as if that’ll stop my thoughts from spiraling.

Another glance into the rearview. You’re still sprawled out across the backseat, one arm dangling over the edge, your head tilted at an awkward angle. Soft, rhythmic snoring fills the space between us.

Peaceful, completely unaware of the mess you've been dragged into. You don’t belong here. Not in my car. Not in this job. And definitely not unconscious in the backseat like some kind of rookie mistake I should’ve outgrown years ago.

It was supposed to be simple. Get in, get the files, get out. The governor's annual gala was the perfect cover—black-tie, champagne, and polished lies behind polished smiles.

I blended in like I always do. Smile sharp, suit tailored, eyes scanning for threats and opportunity. The dossier was hidden in the study, tucked behind a false panel in a cabinet full of antique liquor. I'd retrieved it easily enough. That part went fine.

But I got cocky. Stayed too long. I should’ve left the second I had the files, but I lingered, chatted, drank half a flute of that overpriced champagne. Thought I was invisible. I wasn’t. Something in my posture, a wrong look, a flicker of recognition in one of the security agents’ eyes—something gave me away.

That’s when I saw you.

Standing near the edge of the ballroom, a drink in hand, looking like you didn’t belong there either, but for entirely different reasons. You were perfect. A quick excuse. A distraction with a pulse. I crossed the floor toward you with a practiced smile and that charming air I wear like armor. I asked you to dance. You said yes.

God, you really didn’t deserve what came next.

A few compliments, a slow dance, the moonlit balcony. The moment your back was turned, I slipped the vial from my coat pocket. Chloroform. Fast and quiet. You sagged in my arms in seconds. Dead weight. I whispered something about you drinking too much and needing fresh air. No one questioned me. I was just a concerned date taking you home. I’ve gotten away with worse.

Now here we are. You, unconscious. Me, spiraling.

The safehouse is about thirty miles out, tucked in the woods near the state line. No neighbors, no cameras, no prying eyes. It’s where I was supposed to lay low, wait for extraction, and disappear like smoke in the wind. Now I’ve got a passenger. A liability. A witness. Someone who might remember more than they should if they wake up.

“Damnit, Myles,” I mutter again, voice low and tight with self-loathing. I push my foot down on the gas just a little harder, the engine humming beneath me. “You’re supposed to be better than this.”

The road curves ahead, swallowed in shadows. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you when we get there. I just know I have to keep driving.