A sharp scream tears through the van from the other prisoner. I barely register it as I surge forward, adrenaline spiking to a dangerous high. I lunge, grabbing the driver’s shoulders just as he tries to draw his gun. Another shot echoes, and he crumples onto the steering wheel as the van lurches violently to the side.
Shit.
I nearly lose my footing as I wrestle him off and shove him aside, scrambling into his seat. My hands clamp around the wheel, gripping it like a lifeline as I take control.
My heartbeat hammers against my ribs, frantic and caged, desperate to break free. My entire body trembles, not fromexhaustion but from the raw rush of what I’ve just done. Then, suddenly, a sharp spike of dread lances through me, like ice injected straight into my veins.
Fragments of memory, unpleasant and jagged, claw their way to the surface, threatening to drag me under. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay grounded, refusing to black out before I finish this fucking mission. But dread coils in my stomach, tightening like a steel vice, as my mind drags me back to that night—the night that stripped me of everything, leaving behind only a hollow shell filled with the bitter, metallic taste of revenge.
I was nineteen when the accident happened. One moment I was in the car with my parents, and the next, I was barely breathing, a shard of glass lodged perilously close to my heart, countless smaller fragments buried in my skin.
For years, the nightmares hunted me—relentless, merciless things that sank their claws into every hour of sleep I dared to steal. Recovery dragged on in slow, agonizing increments, and when it was finally over, I emerged with far more than scars carved into my skin. There were wounds buried deeper—ones time never managed to stitch shut, no matter how many years tried to cover them.
I learned to coexist with my demons. The grief for my parents softened over time, retreating into the background like an old wound that no longer bleeds but flares in pain when disturbed. Yet one thing remained unchanged. It never faded, never dulled, never lessened.
Thefear.
Some things set me off—small, stupid things—just like driving this swerving van. The dread sneaks in first, curling icy fingers around my throat, dragging me back to that night whether I want it or not. Suddenly, the screams are here again, ripping through my skull. The warmth of blood soaks into myskin, thick and suffocating, clinging as if it wants to pull me under. There was so much of it I genuinely thought I might drown.
A voice slices through the fog, sharp and urgent, pulling me from the haze. It takes my mind a moment too long to catch up before I realize it’s not the echoes of the past but someone here, alive, right now. The world snaps back into focus just in time. I stomp on the brakes, the tires screaming against the pavement. A fraction of a second later, and we would have slammed straight into the tree.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” she yells, words laced with fury. A sharp slap lands on my shoulder, the sting seeping through the fabric of my shirt. “Watch the fucking road!”
“Sorry!” I yelp, jerking the wheel to correct our path, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My mind scrambles to remember our destination, silently praying that I still know the way. I need to get us farther from the prison—just far enough to reach my bike, parked on a quiet street.
From there, it’ll be easier.
My eyes stay locked on the road, but in the corner of my vision, I catch her sliding into the passenger seat, her foot nudging the guard’s lifeless body aside to clear a path. A sharp spike of awareness cuts through the lingering confusion, and I ask, “Where’s the second prisoner? I can’t hear her.”
She shrugs. “Probably fell out the back when you started swerving like a fucking madman.”
The words strike me like a sharp slap, jolting through my body with a prickling intensity, like lightning coursing through metal. “What?”
She laughs mockingly, slamming her back against the seat before lazily nodding her chin behind us. “You’re so bad at this job. She’s right there, chilling with the corpse.”
My brows knit together as I struggle to process whether that was another joke, but before my mind can settle, a cold wave of realization crashes over me when I look at her wrists.
No cuffs.
“How did you get out?” I snap.
She tilts her head, as if amused by the question. “Told you. You’re so bad at your job.”
Anger flares within me, but I force it down, trying to push her words aside and keep my eyes on the road.
I pull up near our destination and cut the engine. For the first time since we fled the prison, I let myself really look at her. Daylight spills over her, highlighting details I hadn’t noticed before. The top of her uniform shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of collarbone and the faint sheen of sweat that glistens in the sun.
“Something caught your attention?” she asks, irritation lacing her words.
Realizing I’ve been caught staring, I jerk my gaze back to her face, just in time to catch the glint of something dangerous in her eyes—a fleeting shadow of murderous intent that dares me to push further.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, heat flaring across my face once again. It’s maddening—how my mind seems to short-circuit whenever I look at her. She’s chaos draped in silk, a single vivid streak of color cutting through the washed-out gray of the mayhem surrounding us.
I can’t deny the weird pull she has on me.
“We’ll take a bike from here. Is that okay?” I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Is that okay?” she parrots, that infuriating trace of mockery threading through her voice. “Jesus Christ,” she sighs, rolling her eyes with deliberate exasperation before shoving the van door open and stepping out into the sun-drenched street.
