Ethan:

  There’s something poetic about chaos — the way it unfolds like a ballet if you know how to watch it.

  We were halfway down the Delacroix estate's winding drive when the alarm howled through the night. Behind us, armed guards spilled out like ants from a shattered hive, screaming into radios, their footsteps frantic on marble. The front gates were already locking down. Red and blue lights slashed across the distant street — sirens getting louder.

  Celeste didn’t break stride. She slid into the driver’s seat of the sleek black coupe we’d stashed beneath the sycamore trees like it was a lover she’d missed.

  Celeste:

  I didn’t look at Ethan when I said, “Do not bleed on the leather, baby.”

  He tossed the blood-spotted duffel into the backseat and climbed in after it, cool as a confession. The second his door shut, my heel hit the gas.

  The tires screamed.

  We shot forward through the gates before they sealed. One second slower and we’d be decoration on iron. The city swallowed us whole — a blur of streetlamps, asphalt, and screaming radios crackling to life in squad cars.

  I live for this part.

  My hands were steady. My mouth was curled. I took the first corner like it owed me money.

  “Options?” I asked, flicking my eyes to the rearview mirror where three police cruisers glowed like wolves.

  Ethan:

  I didn’t answer. I was already in the glovebox.

  One pistol. Half a clip.

  And a single grenade.

  Celeste glanced at it and smirked. “Dramatic, much?”

  “You married me,” I said, rolling the window down and letting the wind whip against my face. “That was the dramatic part.”

  The first cruiser pulled close, siren howling like a banshee. I leaned out the window, took aim.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Two shots.

  One clipped the mirror. The second shattered the driver’s side spotlight.

  Not enough.

  Celeste jerked the wheel, and we swerved through a narrow alley barely wider than the car. Trash cans exploded around us. Sparks shot up as the side of the coupe scraped brick.

  We were flying.

  Celeste:

  “Ethan, sweetheart, do something useful,” I cooed, teeth bared as I swerved around a delivery truck. The cop behind us wasn’t as lucky — he clipped the fender and spun out, metal shrieking against concrete.

  One down. Two more snapping at our heels.

  I blew through a red light doing eighty. A pedestrian screamed and leapt out of the way. I laughed. I couldn't help it — that wild, breathless laughter that only comes when death's in the passenger seat and you're flirting with it.

  Ethan:

  I turned in the seat, knee wedged against the dashboard, and looked at the last two cruisers. They were communicating — boxing us in. Smart little pigs.

  But they weren’t ready for me.

  I popped the grenade pin with my teeth. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Toss.

  It rolled under the nearest cruiser just as we skidded across an overpass. The explosion lit up the night — a blossom of orange flame that shook the air. The police car flipped, midair, into the side rail like a toy. The one behind it veered off, too slow to stop.

  Silence.

  Celeste whooped and slammed the wheel with both hands. “Yes! That's my man.”

  I looked at her. Her eyes were fire. Her lips curled. She was made for this.

  “You enjoying yourself?” I asked.

  “Baby,” she said, licking her teeth, “I haven’t had this much fun since our honeymoon shootout in Prague.”

  Celeste:

  We didn’t slow down. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

  I took the freeway ramp hard, the coupe screeching as it tore onto the main artery of the city. Traffic thinned. Lights turned to neon streaks. The police scanner on Ethan’s phone buzzed with static and chaos.

  They wanted us boxed in.

  But Ethan and I?

  We don’t do cages.

  We do fireworks.

  Ethan:

  I checked the pistol. Four rounds left.

  I turned my eyes to her as the city blurred around us. Hair wild, jaw tense, a wicked grin cut across her mouth like a battle scar.

  This woman — this impossible, radiant hurricane — wasn’t scared.

  Neither was I.

  Behind us, a helicopter spotlight began to trace our car. The night became pale under it, a false moon locking onto us.

  “Plan?” she asked, as if we were choosing dinner.

  I grinned.

  “Bridge. East side. We go over the rail. River’s low this time of year, but deep enough.”

  She didn’t even blink.

  Celeste:

  I hit the gas like I was feeding it blood.

  The bridge came up fast — an old industrial stretch where no one went anymore. Rust, graffiti, ghosts.

  The spotlight kept on us, bright and cruel. But it didn’t matter.

  Because we were already airborne.

  I took the last moment to glance at Ethan.

  He looked calm.

  Like this wasn’t the end — just a Tuesday.

  And then the coupe hit the guardrail, shattered through it, and we flew.

  For a moment, the whole world went still.

  Weightless.

  Beautiful.

  Ruined.