The needle danced with the hundred and twenty mark. Matheus pressed the accelerator to the floor and felt the answering pull in his gut. The car rode low over the pavement. Inside, smooth leather and chrome dominated the interior, buttons and levers turning the dashboard into a spaceship’s console, the deep rumble of the engine warming the air. Outside, the city blurred into streaks of light and shadow, the other vehicles nothing but statues littering the road. Matheus slid his fingers over the smooth wheel, the electric hum feeding into him, bonding him to the car, speed and adrenalin circling into an ouroboros. The engine growled out a call, and the answer rattled in Matheus’ bones.

“Truck, truck, truck.” Quin gripped the bar above the window with both hands, two seconds away from tearing it loose.

His panicked syllables sang like ambrosia to Matheus’ ears. He passed the truck with a casual twist of his wrist, whisking into a space in the next lane just wide enough for the Mercedes.