As the truck surged onto the main highway, the engine roared beneath us—powerful, steady, alive. The Oregon mist parted in streaks of silver as the headlights cut through the darkness, the world ahead opening into nothing but road and momentum.
For a moment—just a moment—it felt like escape.
Like we had outrun it.
Then—
A flicker.
Small.
Precise.
Lethal.
A second red dot blinked into existence.
Not on Reid.
Not on me.
Lower.
I followed it with my eyes, my breath stalling in my chest as realization crept in—slow, cold, suffocating.
The gas tank.
Time didn't slow.
It stopped.
Every sound—the engine, the wind, my heartbeat—collapsed into a single, deafening silence.
The red dot on the gas tank didn't pulse. It stayed fixed, a steady, unblinking eye in the rearview mirror.
"Reid…" My voice barely made it out, thin and breaking. "Don't move."
His hands tightened on the wheel, instinct already sharpening his posture. "What is it?"
I couldn't look at him.
