The car's engine hummed softly, an almost irritatingly placid sound that did little to soothe the tension. Zethret, the young driver, navigated the narrow two-way road. For the past hour, the landscape had been a monotonous stretch of isolated country. We'd passed maybe three people and fewer buildings.
"What business do you have in Bernys, anyway? You have family there?" Zethret asked, his voice casual but carrying a definite curiosity.
"Something like that," I replied, keeping my gaze fixed on the passing foliage.
"So… What should I call you?"
"Just call me Daniel."
Zethret chuckled, a short, dry sound. "Really getting into the role, aren't you?"
Yeah, because I'm stuck in his body... The internal frustration was a bitter taste in my mouth, but I kept my tone level.
"I'm really passionate about cosplaying," I lied smoothly. "If it's bothering you, just call me Dan."
A strained silence settled, the only sound the gentle whoosh of the air conditioning. It didn't last.
"The death of the hero really affected the country," Zethret commented, his voice dropping slightly. "Worldwide, even. He was such an asset."
I didn't acknowledge him. My mind had latched onto a different mission. I was intently focused on the side of the road, counting.
Red roof... red roof... red roof... I chanted silently, the mantra overriding everything else.
Zethret glanced my way, noting the deep silence and the unnatural stiffness of my posture.
"Stop!"
My sudden command was a shockwave. Zethret's foot slammed onto the brake, causing the car to lurch violently and skid to a halt in the middle of the road.
"What, what is it?!" he yelled, whipping his head around, searching for a sudden obstacle.
Compared to my frantic shout, my reply came out blunt, calm, and entirely anti-climactic.
"This is my stop."
He stared at me, his face a mixture of adrenaline and confusion, then blinked. He finally nodded, his jaw tight, and unlocked the doors.
As I opened the passenger door, Zethret scanned the immediate area—a dusty shoulder, overgrown bushes, and a single, derelict structure set back from the road. He looked back at me, his weird expression returning.
"That house," he said slowly, pointing at the crumbling, two-story wreck. "It's literally about to fall apart."
"I know. Don't worry about it."
Your store is too, by the way, I muttered under my breath.
He kept his eyes glued to me, his look of hesitation deepening into outright suspicion.
"Are you… a witch?"
"What?" The question was so out of left field, it made me pause on the threshold.
"You live in a house that's literally diminishing," Zethret reasoned, his eyes wide. "Then you copied the identity of the hero who died—which, I should say, is a bit too accurate…"
He leaned back slowly, a look of horror and sudden, terrifying realization flashing across his face.
"You are a witch…"
"That's not my—"
Before I could finish the sentence, Zethret stretched across the console, yanked the door I was still holding shut, and slammed the accelerator. The tires spat gravel, and the car sped away, disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust.
I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the empty space where the car had been. It had all happened too fast.