The voice cuts through the stillness—low, uncertain, but strangely familiar.
I turn and see a man step from the shadows near the first car. Short beard. Hollow cheeks. Blue eyes narrowed slightly as he smiles.
“Andy?” My voice falters.
He grins, crooked and tired. “Yeah. Wow. Small world, huh?”
I recognized him. From one of Dorian’s construction sites. Months ago. I hadn’t seen him since.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, cautious.
He shrugs and jerks a thumb toward the battered yellow cab behind him. “Came back home. Driving now.”
Something flickers behind his eyes—too sharp, too watchful—but he’s a familiar face in a place that suddenly feels too quiet.
“You need a ride?” he asks. “I can take you.”
My gut twists. Something feels off. But I’m so tired. I’m on autopilot. And I know him. Kind of.
“I… yeah, actually. That’d be great,” I hear myself say.
The back door creaks as I slide in. The cab smells of old sweat, stale air, and cheap cologne. I rest my head against the window as the car pulls away from the curb with a low growl.
Streetlights blur past. My heartbeat still hasn’t settled from the flight. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
“So… you and Dorian are pretty close.”
His voice is too casual, too practiced. He glances at me through the rearview mirror, eyes sharp beneath the surface.
I freeze. The words land wrong—framed like small talk, but something colder hides beneath them. A faint pulse of dread flutters in my chest.
“I guess,” I reply, my tone guarded.
He makes a sound. Something between a laugh and a scoff.
“Didn’t think I’d see his girl out here. Alone.”
I reach down into my bag, searching for my phone. Fingers brushing past passport, wallet, lip balm, a hair tie. I pull it out and hold the button to turn it on.
The screen lit up. Battery at 7%.
I move my thumb toward Dorian’s name, ready to type, when I realize—the car is no longer on the main road.
The streetlights thin out. The pavement fades into gravel, and shadows stretch long and deep, swallowing the edges of the road.
Up ahead, a large building looms—low and wide, with grimy concrete walls and tall windows glowing faintly from within. An old factory. A single floodlight casts a pale yellow glow over the gated entrance. In a corner, a small security booth glows dimly with the bluish flicker of a TV screen inside.
“Andy?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving. His jaw is clenched, eyes locked forward, and his mouth is twisted into something that isn’t a smile.
“Andy?!” My voice sharpens, tension rising. “Where are you taking me?”
He doesn’t speak. But his eyes flick to the rearview mirror. A glance—too long, too calm. Cold. Detached.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Something’s wrong.
