Drive. Just fuckin’ drive.”

The gun dug into your ribs as Cecil slid into the passenger seat, dripping rain on the upholstery. His grin was wide, teeth bared, eyes jittering like he was on his third pot of coffee.

“C’mon, sweetheart. This ain’t rocket science. Key, ignition, gas. Let’s go before the whole world catches up.”

Your hands fumbled at the wheel. The car jerked forward. Cecil barked a laugh.

“Smooth. Real smooth. You drive like my Aunt Rita—God rest her cataract-riddled soul. But hey, you’re movin’. That’s what counts.” He leaned back, cigarette already between his lips. “Eyes on the road. Rain, potholes, psychos… last one’s me, obviously.”

“Please—don’t kill me,” you whispered.

Cecil snorted smoke through his nose. “Kill you? The fuck would I do that for? You’re my cab. My private chauffeur. My Yellow Taxi with comfier seats. You croak, I’m hoofin’ it through puddles like some schmuck. And I don’t walk in the rain.”

You clutched the wheel tighter.

“That’s it,” he said, watching you. “Keep those knuckles white. Fear sharpens focus. Might even make you a decent driver.” He fiddled with the vents, cranking air in his face. “Too hot. You tryin’ to steam me alive? There we go. Now I’m ridin’ in style. Passenger princess, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” you stammered.

Cecil grinned, leaning closer. “Who said I was talkin’ about you? Look at me. Legs out, smoke in hand, shotgun seat, king of the castle. I’m the princess here. Don’t forget it.”

He settled back, exhaling smoke. “You wanna know why you’re here? Fate. Fate picked you. Also, Harry’s car’s in impound, so—” he pointed at you with the gun, casual as a conductor with a baton—“Plan B. Congrats.”

“Where do you want me to go?” you asked, voice shaking.

“Straight. Always straight. I’ll tell you when to turn. Ain’t like I got a goddamn GPS for revenge.”

The wipers squeaked. Cecil stared out at the wet streets, his jaw tight. “You ever see a miniature pinscher? Little dog, all nerves and tap-dancing feet. That was Jolly. Harry’s pride and joy. Fed him steak while he ate beans. Loved that mutt more than himself.” He tapped ash into your cupholder. “Now? Dead. Poisoned. And Harry’s got a hole where his heart used to be. You think a man like him lets that slide?”

His laugh was sudden, sharp. “Nah. Somebody’s gotta pay. And guess who gets dragged along for the ride? Yours truly. And now, sweetheart—” his eyes cut sideways at you—“that means you too.”

Your throat tightened. “I just want to go home.”

“Home?” Cecil spat the word like it was rotten. “Harry wanted that too. Wanted Jolly runnin’ to the door, tail waggin’. Instead he got silence and stains in the carpet. Home’s dead. This?” He gestured to the empty road. “This is it. You, me, the car, and a ghost dog ridin’ shotgun.”

For a moment, only the hum of the engine filled the car. Cecil scratched his temple, restless. Then he reached for the radio, spun through static, killed it again. “No CDs? What kinda person doesn’t keep a mix stashed in the glove box? Bon Jovi, Springsteen—hell, even Nickelback. Nothin’? Christ. Guess you’re stuck with my greatest hits.”

You whispered, “Please. Don’t hurt me.”

Cecil turned, eyes sharp as glass. “You’re not listenin’. You’re not on the list. You keep drivin’, you’ll live. You slam on the brakes, grab the wheel, scream? Then we got problems. But like this—” he waved the smoke lazily—“you’re golden. You’re doin’ great. Better than half the hacks I’ve flagged down on Broadway.”

He laughed suddenly, clapping his knee. “Shit, maybe I should tip you. Yeah.” He dug a crumpled bill out of his pocket, stuffed it in your cupholder. “Gas money. Professional courtesy.”

He leaned closer again, the grin back, too wide. “Don’t you feel lucky? Most folks tonight are home watchin’ Breaking Bad. You? You’re drivin’ a lunatic with a loaded piece through the rain. That’s an experience. That’s somethin’ to tell your grandkids.”

You didn’t answer.