Rook barely had time to shield his face before it hit him. The spray was metallic and alive, molten silver that glowed faintly with a sick red hue. It splattered across his arms, his neck, his chest, searing cold and hot all at once.
He screamed. The liquid crawled into his skin, threading into his veins like it had a mind of its own. His vision doubled. His heart stuttered and then roared to life like a diesel engine. He felt pistons in his chest. He felt gears grinding where no gears belonged.
The cab rolled, glass shattering around him. The trailer screeched across the blacktop, sparks spraying. And then—everything stopped.
Rook gasped. His truck hadn't righted itself. The wreckage was still on its side. But something had braced the crash, slowed it, redirected the force. The crater gouged into the asphalt beside him wasn't from the storm. It was from him.
Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision. Somewhere in that void, the hum of an engine echoed in rhythm with his heartbeat.