The air inside the car was suffocating—thick with an eerie, unnatural silence that pressed down on my chest like a physical weight. It wasn't the comfortable quiet that came from exhaustion or mutual understanding. No, this silence was sharp, brittle, as though a single wrong word would shatter it completely.
Up front, Matthew gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His posture was rigid, back straight, shoulders tense, as if he were bracing himself against an invisible impact. His eyes were sharp and unwavering, scanning the ruined road ahead with ruthless focus. They reflected fragments of the world outside—collapsed buildings, overturned vehicles, drifting ash—each flicker revealing a storm of thoughts he refused to voice.
Matthew had always been like this in moments of danger. Silent. Controlled. Terrifyingly efficient.
Beside me, Cassel was holding my hand.
