LUCAS POV
"You know you can't run away," were the first words uttered by the cab driver as soon as I slid into the back seat and told him to take me to the airport.
My spine stiffened.
Was he one of them?
Was he sent to stop me?
"I don't care. Take me to the airport," I said, gripping the strap of my backpack like it could tether me to safety.
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror for a second too long. Then, without another word, he nodded and started the car. My hand clenched the strap of my bag so hard I thought I'd crack the fabric. The engine gave a tired rumble, and the vehicle lurched forward.
He was human. I could feel it. There was no unnatural perfection to his features, no eerie calm in his expression, no freezing air surrounding him like the others. Just a man, probably in his fifties, with deep lines on his face and tired, weather-worn eyes that had seen too much. Maybe that was why I trusted him.
