The car rattled forward into silence so thick it pressed against Amara's skull.
She dug her nails into her arms to stop her hands from shaking, forcing herself to breathe evenly. If she lost control, if she panicked, she would drown in this nightmare.
Her gaze flicked to the window.
The burned school vanished behind them, swallowed by shadows, and another stretch of road stretched out—a long, empty lane lined with streetlamps.
She clung to relief for a moment. A normal street. Something real.
But then her chest seized.
It was the same street they had driven down minutes ago. She recognized the crooked lamppost halfway down, the cracked pavement, the faint graffiti sprayed across a wall that read "Wake Up."
Her pulse raced. She pressed her face closer to the glass, staring hard, counting the lights as they passed.
One, two, three, four—
Then the crooked lamppost again.
Her voice cracked. "No. No, no, no—this isn't possible!"
The driver's lips moved. His voice was flat, almost bored. "Round and round. That's the way."
The faceless passenger turned slightly toward her, its head twitching as though it was listening to something only it could hear. Then, in a low, rattling voice, it whispered:
"You can't leave."
Amara's stomach lurched. She yanked at the handle again, slammed her fist against the door, but the lock wouldn't give. Her throat burned as she shouted, "Let me out! I said LET ME OUT!"
Her phone buzzed weakly on the floor. She froze, heart hammering.
The screen flickered back to life.
One new message.
The sender was just a single symbol—one of those same jagged shapes from the road signs.
The message read:
"Look behind you."
Amara's blood turned to ice.
Slowly, with dread building in her chest, she twisted in her seat.
At first, there was nothing. Just the back window and the faint red glow of the taillights cutting into the dark.
Then something moved.
A shape crouched in the trunk space, crammed into the shadows behind the seats. Limbs too long for a human, joints bent at impossible angles. Its head lolled forward, hair spilling like wet ropes across its face.
She hadn't seen it get in. She hadn't heard it. But it was there now, breathing slow and heavy, as if waiting for her to notice.
Her scream stuck in her throat.
The driver didn't react. The faceless passenger didn't move.
Only the thing in the trunk stirred.
And then it smiled.
Amara's body went rigid. She couldn't see teeth—only the tearing of skin stretching too far, too wide.
"No… no…" she whispered, pressing herself against the locked door.
The taxi took another slow turn.
The same crooked lamppost passed by again.
And again.
And again.