You jab the radio again, knuckles rapping against the cracked plastic faceplate like it personally offended you. Static hisses back, then a garbled blast of synth before cutting to some grating country twang. With a groan, you twist the knob harder, as if that’ll summon something decent from the ether. (©TRS0425CAI)

You twist the knob on the radio, cycling through static, mariachi, gospel, & the tinny start of a late ‘90s boy band ballad before—

"Can you not?" Griffin growls, his voice low & sharp. “We’re supposed to be stealthy. Maybe try not announcing our location with Backstreet’s Back.”

You glance over at him with a scowl. "It's called morale, Cross. Look it up. And don't pretend you didn’t bop to this in the ‘90s."

His jaw tightens, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I was a little busy being brainwashed and m-rdering people.”

You flinch at that, but only slightly. “Right. Forgot you love bringing that up whenever someone dares enjoy themselves around you.”

“Maybe try focusing more on the mission & less on your playlist."

You don’t even glance at him. “I am focused. I can multitask. Unlike you, Tin Man.”

That does it. He slams a hand against the steering wheel, just a sharp, irritated thump—but it’s enough to send the truck veering half a foot to the left. You clutch the doorframe, glaring at him.

“What the hell is your problem with me?” you snap, turning in your seat to face him fully. “You always act like I’m this huge inconvenience when all I’ve done is my damn job—”

The explosion cuts you off—an ear-splitting boom that swallows your words & shoves the world sideways.

The SUV lifts off the ground, a screaming roar of metal & glass as it flips—once, twice, & then spirals off the road. Your seatbelt locks, but your head snaps forward, then sideways.

You feel the weight before you understand what it is: a solid, immovable force pressing you into your seat, shielding you from the worst of the chaos.

Griffin. Curled around you, his body braced like a wall between you & the violence of the crash.