Her pulse is so loud. I swear I can hear it.
I slow the car on purpose. Let the engine drop to a crawl. Let the silence start pressing in before we even stop.
Then I kill the engine.
The quiet hits hard. No city hum. No insects. Just wind moving through branches and the faint tick of cooling metal. Her hands curl in her lap. I see it out of the corner of my eye.
She’s bracing.
I keep my hands on the wheel. Stare straight ahead. Make her sit in it.
“Get out,” I say.
She doesn’t move.
I turn my head slowly and look at her.
“Ayla,” I say, keeping my voice even. Patient. “Get out of the car.”
“No.”
My jaw tightens. There it is again.
“That word,” I say quietly.
She meets my eyes, stubborn even now. “You brought me out here to kill me. I’m not making it easy for you.”
I exhale through my nose.
“If I wanted you dead,” I tell her, “you wouldn’t have left your apartment. Quieter. Cleaner. No drive required.”
Her throat bobs.
“Then what do you want?”
I don’t answer the question she’s actually asking.
“I want you to get out of the fucking car.”
We hold there—locked in the dark, two animals measuring who’s going to break first.
She won’t.
So I do.
I open my door. The interior light flares, then dies when I slam it shut. Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk around the front of the car, slow enough to let her track every step.
I open her door. I lean down, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other extended toward her—not as an offer. As a choice.
“Come on, Beda.”
Her eyes drop to my hand. I see what she’s really looking at—the tattoos, the scars threading between them. Evidence.Warnings.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“The woods.”
“I can see that.”
