Amara's hands shook as she gripped the door handle.
She would not stay. She could not.
The faceless passenger leaned slightly toward her, a hollow whisper curling into her ear:
"You can't escape."
But Amara didn't care. She yanked with all her strength. The door rattled. Nothing. Locked.
Her eyes darted to the driver. "Let me out! NOW!"
The man's lips twitched, almost a smile. "You're already where you need to be."
A surge of desperation gave her courage. She lunged at the driver, yanking at the wheel. The car swerved violently, tires skidding against streets that no longer felt solid. The air smelled of ozone and iron.
The faceless passenger leaned in closer, cold enough to burn. Its whisper was ice:
"Round and round, Amara. You've been here before, and you'll be here again."
But Amara was beyond fear. She slammed her body against the back of the driver's seat.
The taxi careened off the road. Blackness swallowed the headlights. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fold in on itself.
When the car landed, it stopped—not in the city, not anywhere she recognized. Only a dim glow illuminated her childhood home, rotting, windows boarded, as though abandoned for decades.
Amara's heart thudded. Relief flickered—she had survived… maybe.
The faceless passenger turned its head toward her. The driver's gaze remained fixed ahead. Both whispered in unison:
"Welcome home."