The walk from the kitchen to the garage felt like moving through a dream where the air had turned to wet concrete. Sam's movements were jerky, purely mechanical. He didn't grab his coat. He didn't look back at the empty house. His world had narrowed down to a single, terrifying timeline.
As he stepped into the garage, the motion-sensor lights flared to life with a sterile, white glare. His SUV sat there a silver, late model machine that he'd bought for its "top tier safety ratings". Now it looked like a cage.
The moment Sam pulled the door handle, the vehicle's exterior lights flashed three times. It wasn't the standard greeting pulse. It was rhythmic, almost urgent.
He slid into the driver's seat. Before he could even reach for the ignition button, the dashboard electronics surged to life. The massive 15-inch infotainment screen, usually reserved for navigation and podcasts, was a flat, bruised purple.
CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.
The words sat in the center of the screen in a stark, white font. Then, the car's internal speakers hissed a low frequency static that made the hair on Sam's arms stand up.
"Buckle up, Sam," the distorted voice returned, sounding even more intimate through the car's surround sound system. "Safety first."
Sam's hands fumbled with the seatbelt, the metal tongue clicking into the buckle with a sound like a guillotine dropping. He pressed the start button. The engine roared to life, but he noticed immediately that the instrument cluster was different. The speedometer and fuel gauge had been pushed to the periphery. In their place was a countdown timer, glowing in a harsh, digital amber.
54:12
54:11
"I'm moving," Sam gasped, shifting the car into reverse. "I'm going. Just,just don't hurt them."
"The route is already programmed," the voice replied.
The screen shifted to a map of the city. A thick, blood-red line traced the path from his suburban driveway to the glass and steel heart of the tech district where NexaShield stood.
As Sam backed out of his driveway, he instinctively glanced at his neighbor's house. Old Mr. Henderson was out on his lawn, retrieving a stray trash can. Sam's thumb hovered over the high-beam flash, a desperate thought of signaling for help crossing his mind.
The car's horn suddenly let out a short, deafening blast, startling Mr. Henderson and causing Sam to jump.
"Don't look at the neighbors, Sam," the speakers growled. "Focus on the red line. We've tunneled into the car's CAN bus. We control the locks, the lights, and if necessary, the brakes. You are a passenger tonight. Just keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road."
Sam turned onto the main road, his knuckles white against the leather steering wheel. He felt a vibration in his pocket. It was his work phone. He went to reach for it, but the car's central locking system engaged with a series of rapid, aggressive clacks.
"Leave the phone in your pocket, Sam. We've redirected your signal through a proxy. Any outgoing call will be intercepted by us. If you want to talk to someone, talk to me."
"Who are you?" Sam asked, his voice cracking. "Is it Miller? Is this some kind of sick security audit?"
"Miller is a salesman, Sam. He sells the lock. I'm the person who reminds the world that locks are an illusion. Now, drive. You're dropping below the speed limit. We'd hate for you to be late for your own funeral."
Sam pressed the accelerator. The red line on the map pulsed like a heartbeat, and the timer in the dash ticked down, second by agonizing second.
51:04
51:03
He was driving toward the office he'd worked in for a decade, but for the first time in his life, Sam Miller realized he wasn't going to work. He was going to war.