The dim glow of the dashboard clock taunted her—9:29 PM. The numbers glared in pale green, casting a faint hue over her hands as they fidgeted in her lap. Marin shifted in the back seat for what felt like the hundredth time, the leather squeaking softly beneath her. She adjusted again, pulling at the hem of her skirt, then leaning forward, then leaning back. The air in the car felt thicker than it should, the silence heavier than she liked.
Her eyes darted to the road ahead of the parked car. Still no sign of the driver. Her heartbeat, steady at first, began to thrum with a subtle edge of impatience. She glanced down at her wristwatch and exhaled a slow breath, trying to calm the prickling unease that kept stirring at the back of her mind.
He probably just got caught up in something, she told herself. It's just a gas refill. Won't take that long.
But six minutes had already passed and it was now 9:35 PM. And the road ahead—Crover Lane—was the quietest place she had ever seen.
A flicker in the corner of her eye made her straighten abruptly. She adjusted herself again before leaning forward to peer through the windshield. A shadow… moving.
Her brow furrowed.
The silhouette was emerging from the far corner of the road the driver had taken, moving towards the car. At first, it was just a dark shape, indistinct, its edges blurred in the night gloom. But the way it moved—slow, deliberate—made her pulse quicken. It wasn't the driver's gait. He walked with short, hurried steps, a little hunched forward. This… figure seemed too upright, too measured. And there was no gas can swinging from its hand.
The figure drew nearer, and Marin's curiosity began to bleed into something colder. She leaned forward, squinting, and the vague outline sharpened under the distant streetlight.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The thing—whatever it was—wasn't a man.
It had the shape of one, but its frame gleamed dully under the light, its surface metallic. Long, jointed limbs caught the faint reflections like liquid mercury. Two large, unblinking holes that were likely eyes glowed a deep, menacing red.
Her mind scrambled for explanations—a costume? some kind of prop?—but the sound of its steps shattered that hope. There was no shuffle of shoes on concrete. Just a sharp, deliberate clank-clank as metal hit ground.
She stared, frozen, as the machine's right hand lifted slightly. She took in the sight of a long, thin object, with a pointed tip, in its grip that glimmered faintly.
A robot?
A humanly shaped… robot.
Her heart kicked into overdrive. She pressed her back against the seat, eyes wide.
The machine closed the last few meters in seconds. Without warning, it darted to the car with startling speed. Before she could think—before she could even scream—it raised the object high and slammed it against the rear backseat window.
The glass exploded inward with a violent CRASH.
Marin screamed, her voice cracking into a desperate pitch as she threw herself sideways, ducking low to avoid the spray of shards. Tiny splinters of glass peppered her hair and sleeves, some biting into her skin.
She scrambled to the opposite door, her fingers frantically pulling at the handle—locked. She yanked again, harder, panic rising in her throat, but the lock held stubbornly.
The mechanical figure moved closer to the shattered window. Its metal fingers—jointed and unnervingly precise—pierced through the gap, reaching for her. She jerked backward, pressing herself against the other door, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts.
The machine's fingers flexed, curling like claws, each movement accompanied by the faint creak of metal under strain.
Marin's gaze darted wildly. She was trapped.
Her eyes locked on the front passenger seat. The handle. Maybe that one—
Behind her, another shattering crack rang out, this one deeper, heavier. The rear windshield burst inward, raining down larger, jagged shards. A few cut into her back through the thin fabric of her top, making her hiss in pain.
She crouched low, shoving herself forward into the narrow gap between the seats. Her knees scraped painfully against the console, but she ignored it, stretching toward the passenger door handle. Her fingers found it—pulled—stuck. For a split second, she thought it would hold like the others.
Then—click.
The lock disengaged.
She shoved the door open with all her strength. The hinges groaned, but the night air rushed in like salvation.
Marin half-fell, half-crawled out, her palms scraping against the rough pavement as she landed. She didn't care. She pushed herself up and ran.
The pounding of her own footsteps drowned out everything else at first. Her lungs burned, each breath sharp and cold in her chest. She had no idea where she was going—Crover Lane was too unfamiliar, its rows of buildings looming like dark sentinels—but anywhere was better than the taxi car.
Still, she could feel it.
That heavy, metallic presence, not chasing like a man would, but advancing with relentless inevitability. The sound of metal on asphalt echoed faintly behind her.
She rounded a corner blindly, her sneakers pounding heavily on loose gravel. Her breathing had turned ragged, a harsh rhythm in the stillness. The street ahead was even darker, lined with shuttered shops and dim streetlamps that flickered weakly.
That was when a hand—warm, human—snatched her from the open street, yanking her sideways.
She collided with a solid chest, the air leaving her lungs in a startled gasp. Before she could cry out, another hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
Her muffled scream dissolved against the palm as she was dragged backward into a narrow, pitch-black alley.
Her back hit the cold wall, and her captor pressed close enough to keep her pinned. Her heart was a drum against her ribs. She thrashed, but the grip on her was firm—controlled, not crushing, but immovable.
She could smell the person—sweat, faint engine oil, and something else she couldn't place. But this was… human.
A low whisper hissed into her ear.
"Don't move. Don't make a sound."
The masculine voice was urgent, deep, and steady in a way that told her whoever this was had no intention of letting go until he was sure she'd listen.
Through the narrow sliver of the alley opening, she caught a glimpse of the road.
The machine strode past slowly, scanning the street with those glowing eyes. Its head rotated in an unnatural, mechanical sweep, left to right, right to left. It paused at intervals, as though sniffing for her presence—though its stillness was more unnerving than any motion.
The stranger holding her didn't move either. His chest barely rose against her shoulder, his hand unflinching over her mouth.
Marin's pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to believe that being here—in the shadow of this stranger—was safer than being out there in plain view. But she didn't know him. She didn't know what he wanted.
The machine's head snapped suddenly toward the alley entrance.
Marin's stomach dropped.
The stranger's grip tightened just slightly—not in aggression, but in silent command: stay still.
For a moment, time seemed suspended. The faint hum of the machine's core filled the silence like an electric heartbeat. The air felt colder, heavier.
Then, after a long, unbearable second, the machine turned away and continued down the road, its glowing eyes receding into the dark.
Only when it was gone did the person slowly remove his hand from her mouth.
Marin staggered back, her voice trembling. "Who—"
"Not now," he cut in sharply in a low tone, glancing toward the street. "We have to move before it comes back."
And before she could argue, his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her out of the alley —not painfully, but with the urgency of someone who knew exactly what danger they were in.