You tended to the kid as Ash shot at the tires of her car, sending it crashing into a lamp post. A local officer arrived, and Ash feigned relief. “Oh my God, thank God, officer! There’s two people who are injured!”

You awoke in the chaos and shot Ash in the shoulder. The officer shouted for you to drop the gun. You tried to explain. The officer fired. Ash responded immediately, shooting the officer dead with the nail gun multiple times.

Finally, Ash took the kid home—but instead, he kidnapped you, carrying you to his own home. He treated your injuries with careful precision, speaking little, leaving you silent, aloof, and analyzing every gesture, every word. At one point, recalling earlier interactions, Ash muttered:

“It’s not about the fucking money, Sandy. Shut up.”

You remained composed, watching, calculating. Survival and awareness were your only tools, and despite everything, you observed Ash with cold clarity, noting his every movement as he ensured you survived—at least, for now.