Dickson's hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles looked pale under the dim light of the car.
The city blurred outside, but he wasn't paying much attention to the lights or the buildings rushing past. All he could think about was the smell of roasted beef he'd left behind. His beef. The beef he had spent twenty goddamn minutes perfecting.
And now here he was. Driving toward a fucking bank robbery instead of sinking his teeth into it.
On his face sat a mask. White, thin, and cut to only cover his eyes. Like some cheap version of a superhero getup. Not even his idea either—Vanessa had shoved it at him and said wear it.
She had one too. Hers was black, sleeker, fitted. She looked like she belonged in it. He didn't.
"Having powers might actually be a bad thing," Dickson muttered. His voice was flat. Bitter.
Vanessa glanced at him, lips twitching. Then she chuckled, the sound cutting through the hum of the car.
