Rain streaked the windshield in thin, relentless lines — the kind that blurred headlights into hazy comets and turned every passing car into a ghost of motion. Simon Riley adjusted his grip on the wheel, the leather slick beneath his palms. The road stretched ahead, dark and empty except for the rhythmic sweep of wipers trying to keep up.

He shouldn’t have been driving this late. Not after the day he’d had. His eyes felt heavy, his head a dull ache from too many hours awake and too few hours thinking straight. He told himself it was only another fifteen minutes until home. Just fifteen.

Then the lights appeared.

Too bright. Too close.

A horn blared — long and desperate — and instinct made him jerk the wheel hard to the right. Tires screamed against wet asphalt. The world spun, fast and blinding, the sickening lurch of weightless panic tearing through him as metal collided with metal. The sound was deafening — a twisting, shrieking roar that ended in a violent stop.

Everything went still.

For a long moment, Simon didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. His chest felt caved in, every inhale sharp and wrong. The airbag had exploded in his face — acrid, chemical, stinging his eyes. When he tried to move, pain flared up his left leg, a lightning bolt of agony that forced a ragged curse from his throat.

He blinked, vision swimming through shards of glass scattered across the dashboard. The steering column had jammed against him, the frame around his legs crushed inward. He reached down, but his fingers met twisted metal where there should’ve been space.

“Shit…” he rasped, voice rough and small in the ruined quiet. “Come on, come on…”

The seatbelt was still locked across his chest. He fumbled for the buckle, but his hands were shaking too much to find it. His shoulder throbbed — dislocated, maybe fractured — he couldn’t tell. The smell hit him next: gasoline. Thick, heavy, clinging to the back of his throat.

Outside, the rain hissed as it met something hotter than the night air.

He turned his head, every movement a fight, and saw the faint orange flicker near the crumpled hood. Flames, small at first — curious, uncertain — before catching on a torn ribbon of oil-soaked plastic. They crawled upward, greedy, dancing in the wind.

Panic set in properly then. Not loud or wild, but cold. The kind that made the edges of his thoughts sharpen until all that was left was survival. Simon tried to move again, pushing with his good leg, but the crushed metal refused to yield. His breath came fast, too fast, fogging the fractured glass.

Rain poured through the shattered window, hissing against the growing fire. The storm was trying, but it wasn’t enough.

He coughed, the taste of copper on his tongue. The heat was building, radiating through the firewall. His skin prickled; the cabin air thickened with smoke and melted fabric. His lungs screamed for air that wasn’t there.

For a moment, his mind wandered — flashes of things that didn’t matter but felt like they did: his mum’s voice asking if he’d been eating right, the quiet of his flat at night, the photo still sitting on his nightstand, corners curling from age.

He didn’t want to die here. Not like this. Not alone in the dark with the rain pretending to help.

Simon slammed his palm against the seatbelt latch again, desperate. It finally clicked, the strap whipping free. He tried to shift, dragging himself an inch, maybe two, before the pain hit so hard it nearly blacked him out. His vision dimmed at the edges, sparks of color blooming behind his eyelids.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens began to cut through the storm. Muffled at first, then clearer — growing louder with every heartbeat.

Relief came slow, fragile. His breathing was shallow now, smoke filling the car faster than he could manage. He pressed his head back against the seat, closing his eyes just long enough to steady the panic.

The firelight danced across the cracked windshield, painting his face in flickers of orange and red.

He didn’t know if anyone would get there in time. But he held onto the sound. Like a promise.