Location: Fenwick District — Highway 17 — Moving Meat Truck — Night
The meat truck lurched violently as Tyla's plates reattached to her arm, the impact sending a shudder through the vehicle's aging frame. Metal groaned. Glass rattled. The tires screamed against the asphalt as the truck struggled to maintain its course. The steering wheel vibrated beneath Emilio's trembling hands, the hum of the tires against the road a low drone that seemed to press against his skull. The headlights flickered once, twice, then steadied, cutting through the darkness ahead.
The chaos outside was still unfolding—sirens wailing, tires screeching, pedestrians screaming. The patrol car had joined the pursuit, its lights flashing, its siren piercing the night like a blade. The Dodge Charger was still there, still following, still determined. Its headlights cut through the darkness, twin beams of unwavering intent that seemed to burn holes in the night. The distance between the two vehicles was shrinking, the Charger's engine roaring with each passing second. The sound was a deep, guttural growl that echoed off the buildings lining the highway.
Lucian's eyes moved to the roof of the truck.
The metal ceiling was cold, dented, scarred by years of use. A hatch was visible near the front, its latch rusted but functional. The wind howled outside, pressing against the truck's frame, threatening to push it off course. The sound of the Charger's engine grew louder, more insistent, a predatory growl that echoed off the buildings lining the highway. The air was thick with tension, the kind that came before violence. Dust particles danced in the dim light filtering through the cracks.
"I need to get up there," he said.
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"Move."
Tyla's eyes widened.
"Move? Move where?"
"Out of my way."
"You're going to—"
"Yes."
"Through me?"
"Yes."
"You're going to climb through me?"
"Yes."
"You could just—"
"Move."
Tyla's face flushed.
"You sure have a lot of weight," she muttered.
"Stop complaining."
Lucian's voice was flat, almost bored.
"If that Isley hooligan was me right now—"
"—you would probably be moving your arms all around him."
Tyla's face went red, a deep crimson that spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her jaw tightened.
"Hey!"
"Move."
---
In the back of the truck, Roman leaned against the wall.
His face was pale. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. His hands were clenched at his sides. The truck lurched again, throwing him against the wall with a grunt. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, rattling his teeth. His scarred face contorted with pain. The cold metal pressed against his back.
"What now?" he asked.
His voice was flat, almost defeated.
"Maybe it's just an accident," Alma said.
"What accident would be still occurring for literal minutes?"
"I don't know."
"No. Something is going on outside."
"And I bet those bastards are behind this."
"Probably their foes found them."
"Now out to get them."
"And trust me—"
"—in this kind of situation—"
"—it doesn't matter if you're innocent or not."
"Once caught grouping with others competitors—"
"—it never ends well for all parties involved."
Alma's voice was sharp, cutting through the hum of the engine.
"Quit complaining."
"How such a complaining big baby as yourself—"
"—even got to supervise over Kuvitich?"
"If your men were here—"
"—they would probably be speechless and embarrassed for him."
Roman's face flushed.
"Hey now."
"Just because I'm some big nasty man—"
"—doesn't mean that I'm all tough in the insides."
"Literally when death starts crawling at your doors—"
"—and it is where you aren't aware where it's hiding—"
"—or how it would come—"
"—then even someone as myself—"
"—it's only freaking logical that I would start being in worry."
Alma's expression didn't change.
"You're impossible."
"I'm realistic."
"You're impossible."
"I'm realistic."
---
Mateo's voice was calm, almost soothing.
"We should hang in instead of senseless bickering."
Roman and Alma stared at each other.
They both did a hmph.
Mateo leaned toward Mei-Lin.
"You better be careful."
"Those two are giving off huge hormonal radiance around themselves."
Mei-Lin's expression didn't change.
"I noticed."
"It's exhausting."
"It is."
---
Andreas was squatting in the corner.
His arms were wrapped around his knees. His eyes were fixed on the floor. His body was trembling. He was muttering something under his breath, his lips moving with words that no one could quite hear.
"The sound," he whispered.
"The sound."
"The sound."
Roman looked at him.
"What's wrong with him?"
"I don't know."
"He's been like this for days."
"He's been like this for weeks."
Roman slapped the back of Andreas's head.
"Get your shit together!"
"If you ain't careful—"
"—you'll find yourself at a very narrow road."
Andreas didn't respond.
His body didn't move.
His eyes didn't blink.
"He's broken," Alma said.
"He's been broken for a while."
"We just didn't notice."
---
Lucian climbed onto the roof of the truck.
The wind was cold, sharp, cutting against his face. The night air was thick with the smell of exhaust and asphalt. The lights of the city blurred past him, streaks of orange and white that painted the darkness. The truck swayed beneath him, its frame groaning with the strain of the speed.
His eyes found the Dodge Charger.
It was still there. Still following. Still determined. Its driver was visible through the windshield—a man with a hard face, his eyes fixed on the meat truck with the intensity of a predator. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His jaw was set, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
Lucian's hand moved to his earpiece.
"Elijah," he said.
His voice was low, controlled.
"We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"Someone is following us."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Describe them."
"Middle-aged man. Hard face. Driving a Dodge Charger."
"He's alone?"
"No. There's someone else in the passenger seat."
"What do they look like?"
"I can't see clearly."
"But there's something wrong with him."
"Something wrong?"
"Yes."
"Something—"
"—something that doesn't feel right."
---