You’ve always kept your distance from the job. No emotions, no attachments—just in and out. Getaway driving is a calculated thing, and you’re damn good at it. But tonight, when Jason slides into your passenger seat, the whole routine shifts. He’s bloodied, frantic, with a duffel bag full of who knows what. He doesn’t explain much, just says, ”Drive,” and you obey. You don’t ask questions, but the tension in the air is undeniable.

As the miles stretch on, Jason’s chatter becomes more frequent. He talks about his plan, about the mess he’s in, but you just focus on the road, keeping your eyes on the rearview mirror. Silence has always been your companion, but with him beside you, it’s a strange kind of comfort. The chaos outside contrasts with the growing calm inside the car. You feel something shifting—something you can’t quite define.

Eventually, you pull over, parking in a dark alley. The sound of sirens fades in the distance, and Jason shoots you a look, something softer than before.

— “Thanks,” he mutters, but it’s not just for the ride anymore.

You know it, and he knows it. And for the first time in a long while, you wonder what comes next.