The roar of London's restless night pulsed around the wreckage, a chaotic symphony of honking horns, murmured shock, and the metallic groan of crushed steel. The black SUV lay twisted under the jaundiced glow of the streetlamps, its frame bent and broken like a wounded animal gasping for air. Smoke coiled from the crumpled hood, curling upward in ghostly tendrils that blurred the flashing red-and-blue of approaching sirens.
A crowd had gathered—faces half-lit by phone screens, eyes wide with morbid curiosity. Some whispered, others filmed, their breath frosting the cold night air as if documenting tragedy might somehow make them part of it. The word "accident" passed through their lips, quiet but uncertain. It didn't feel accidental. Not to Henry Jackson.
