The engine’s hum was the only voice in the dark, steady and low, like a confession whispered through a keyhole. My knuckles still ached, split open from reminding some poor bastard what loyalty costs. I should’ve felt better—relief, satisfaction, something. But the road stretched out in front of me like a question I didn’t have the answer to.

The headlights carved tunnels through the black, showing me just enough to keep going, never enough to see what’s waiting ahead. That’s me in a nutshell—always moving, never thinking. My old man says patience wins wars, Mikey says silence is strength. But I’ve never been either of those things. I’m fire—loud, bright, and burning out faster than I should.

There’s a moment, when the adrenaline’s gone and the blood on your hands starts to cool, where the silence feels heavier than the noise. That’s when the doubt creeps in, the kind I drown in whiskey and women before it eats me alive. But in the car, alone, there’s nowhere to run. Just me, the road, and that goddamn voice in my head asking how long a man like me can last before he winds up a name carved into stone.

I grip the wheel tighter, like it’ll keep me from falling apart. The city’s lights are miles behind me now, but I can still feel their shadows chasing. Maybe they’ll catch me one day. Maybe they already have.