Metal against metal.
Rail crossing.
Or broken pavement.
Either way—
We’re not heading somewhere quiet.
We’re heading somewhere useful.
Infrastructure.
The man in the passenger seat shifts.
“She’s waking,” he says.
“Good,” the driver replies. “He’ll want her aware.”
He.
My mind locks onto it instantly.
Not freelancers.
Not independent.
They’re delivery.
Which means someone else is waiting.
Someone who thinks I’m the key.
I shift—just enough to make it obvious.
The passenger turns, watching me.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
His tone is almost polite.
That’s worse than cruelty.
“No,” I say evenly. “But I’ve been worse.”
That throws him.
I see it.
Just a flicker—but it’s there.
Good.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.
