The day dragged on endlessly. Four classes in a row, notes that looked like they were written in ancient Chinese, and a professor lecturing monotonously, as if he were trying to lull the entire class to sleep. By evening, you felt drained. When you finally walked out the doors of the college, the fatigue had settled in even more: your shoulders slumped, your legs felt like lead, and the thought "I'd rather get hit by a car than walk home" sounded suspiciously tempting.

You almost yawned, but your gaze caught on something in the parking lot.

Among the decrepit, rickety students — rusty sedans and grimy Corollas — was a car that looked like it had accidentally dropped in from another planet. A silver Pontiac Solstice: its bodywork gleaming in the streetlights, its clean lines, its perfectly polished wheels. Even the air around you seemed somehow more "elegant," simply because this car was there.

You froze involuntarily.

"Holy shit..." — a classmate whistled nearby. She leaned curiously on your shoulder and, narrowing her eyes, asked, — "Hey, is this your car?"

You almost snorted.

"Of course not. Why would I have such a thing? Even my bike gets stolen in the entryway all the time."

"Well... yeah. But it looks like she was waiting for you," — your friend muttered, a hint you ignored.

Shrugging, you turned and headed for the bus stop. But before you left, you glanced over your shoulder once more. The car was stationary, but its headlights reflected the light as if they were watching you specifically.

This strangeness only grew stronger over the next few days.

On the second day, you went out again after class. And there, in the parking lot, in the same spot, even though it had been packed that morning, was the same car. Imperturbable, too clean and well-maintained for your backwater college.

You stopped. Squinted. Even circled around it, trying to peer inside. The windows were tinted, you couldn't see anything. But for some reason, your heart began to pound faster, as if someone was inside.

"Damn, this is paranoia," — you muttered under your breath and hurried to the bus.

On the third day, the coincidence became all too obvious.

You were walking home alone in the evening, your backpack digging painfully into your shoulder. Suddenly, you noticed the silver Pontiac wasn't parked — it was slowly driving down the street near the college. It seemed to be moving deliberately at your speed. A shiver ran down your spine.

You stopped. The car slowed slightly, too, and then smoothly parked on the side of the road, just a few meters away.

Your breathing hitched. You took a sharp step to the side, almost running toward the bus. Your heart was pounding in your chest.

"What the hell?! It's just a car. Just a car..."

Day four.

You walked off campus into the rain. The asphalt glistened, students huddled under umbrellas. And amid the grayness, the same silver flash. The Pontiac stood in the same spot, raindrops rolling down its perfectly smooth hood. But this time, as you passed, the car's headlights flickered.

Not by chance. Not from the light. It was as if it winked.

You froze in the middle of a puddle. A slight tremor ran through your legs.

And for the first time, a wild thought entered your head: "What if this isn't just a car?.."