The Lambo tore down the highway, a venemous blur of orange and carbon fiber. In it's wake, a churning tide of headlights converged, a relentless pack of lesser engines howling for its blood. The driver, eyes locked on the disappearing road, felt his stomach lurch as he took a hard turn, the supercar gripping the asphalt like a panicked claw. In the rearview, the nearest pursuer, a black sedan, flashed its high beams- a predatory glint in the darkness. The world narrowed to the white stripes of the road, the scream of his engine, and the certainty that they were gaining.
The howl of the engine became a shriek of tortured rubber as the Lambo sweved, carving a perfect arc of smoke and rubber across asphalt. With a metallic groan and a final, shuddering slide, it came to a dead stop. Behind it, a symphony of squealing tires marked the end of the chase. One by one, the pursuing cars slid to a halt, their own powerful engines now muffled by the sheer, sudden silence. The only sound left on the empty highway was the visceral, throaty rumble of the Lamborghini's idling V12- a low, predatory purr that filled the air, a heartbeat in the void.
The air, still thick with smell of burnt rubber, vibrated with a dangerous silence. From the lead car, the boss emerged, his movements slow and deliberate, each step a predatory measure. Behind him, his crew spilled from their vehicles, a pack of wolves on a leash, their aggression barely contained. The boss ignored them, his attention fixed on the gouged and dented fender of his car. He bent over, his broad back a wall of controlled fury, his face a mask of furious concentration as he traced the ugly mark left by the Lambo. The inspection felt less like a man checking a car and more like a predator examining a wound.
***
The roar of the high-performance engine is feeling like a hollow or grating, a powerful tool wasted on a pathetic job. The luxurious leather of the seat is feeling cheap and irritating, or the pristine dash too is feeling offensively polished.
The target's folder should be the physical manifestation of the killer's disappointment. He was only holding it with two fingers as if it's tainted and flipping through pages with excessive force. The target's face in the photo was appearing to him like a smug, unimpressive and overly vulnerable, making the killer's lip curl in disdain.
Instead of a high- tension atmosphere, the scene is feeling quite mundane and boring. He constantly taps his fingers on the steering wheel. These small, repetitive motion shows that he is ready to move but lacks a worthy reason to do so. A sigh of exasperation is a powerful sign of his borderom over a simple task. He was cracking his knuckles or adjusting the fit of his watch. This suggests that his mind was elsewhere, longing for a real challenge. The killer mentally scoffs at his target, deeming unworthy for his exceptional skills.
The leather of the Lamborghini's seat was cool and unscuffed beneath him. He didn't move, a statue carved from shadows. In the curve of the rear view mirror, his target was small, perfectly framed image. He adjusted the mirror with a nearly imperceptible twitch on his finger, not to get better view, but to the center the picture, to make it art. The small, hurried movements of the man in the reflection seemed, distant, muted, as if the glass were not just reflecting but also containing a seperate, insignificant world.
***
The brilliant emerald-green Lamborghini's scissor-door rose with a sharp, pneumatic hiss. From the driver's seat, a figure unfolded, a tall shadow in a finely cut suit. He moved with a dancer's grace, each movement deliberate and without rush. He released the door, and it settled back into place with a deep, authoritative thud. For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the engine.
He leaned against the sleek green fender, his posture all lazy diagonals. A slight tilt of his head is the clear demonstration of his complete control over the situation. A small smirk creeps on his face that convey his amusement. The scoff should be silent, internal movement-a ghost of smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The nonchalance is what makes him more terrifying.
"So predictable," he thought, watching the man's face turn crimson. "Human's mistake volume for power." He'd seen this show a hundred times. The sputtering, the indignation, the impotent fury. He had already moved on to the part where it ended. The raw, animal sound of the man's rage was like child's toy-drum-loud and he was playing with that toy relentless, and ultimately, hollow.
***
Today's Target-
Name: James Davies
Age: 36
Occupation: Drug dealing
***
James finally whirled around with roar, the sound ripping the street's casual calm in half. His face was contorted knot of fury, his eyebrows pulled into a jagged line. He stalked foward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, shoulders rolled back, a human storm cloud gathering. He didn't just see the person who bumped his car; he registered his nonchalance, a bullseye he was already aiming for.
"I am so so sorry, sir" the killer quickly apologised. But behind the panic, his mind was a silent, perfectly organized machine. As he gestured apologetically, his gaze flickered from the James's stony face to the two men getting out of their own cars. Two in the right, one on the left. The one closest to the driver's side has a jacket that conceals a clear bulge. He watched the James's hand go to his pocket and flinched in practiced pantomime of fear, but inside, the killer was assessing the potential weapon. The slight tremor in his hand was not from nerves, but the contained, simmering thrill of a plan unfolding flawlessly. He is getting more angry. The play is set!
"How much?" James snarled. "Anything. Whatever it takes" the killer pleaded, his voice cracking just so. He met his gaze with the wide, innocent eyes of a cornered rabbit, all while his inner voice whispered, You'll be the one paying for this. The small, almost imperceptible shake of his head was not of remorse, but of anticipation for the real performance that was about to begin.
***
Behind the scene~
Author: Cut cut cut!
On screen, a tear streaked Vincenzo, portraying the psycho killer was seen crying "I didn't even get to introduce myself in the first chapter!"
James his first victim drags Vincenzo out of scene as if embarassed by all this childish drama "Calm down, man! You are the male lead of the novel, have some damn patience!"
The camera lingered on Vincenzo's face, revealing a mask of pure, devastating grief.
"A well self pity maybe" Author sighs in corner.
To be continued...🤍