Ethan:
The city was asleep.
Not dead. Never dead. But drowsy in that in-between hour — too late for late-night lovers, too early for early risers.
We sped through it like a secret wrapped in fire.
Celeste drove.
Her hands loose on the wheel, expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as if savoring the taste of victory.
The USB was in the glovebox.
The heist? Flawless.
Renwick? Memory-wiped and drooling into the hem of a velvet pew.
And us?
We were feeling ourselves.
Dangerous. Unstoppable. Alive.
“I’d rate that an eight-point-five,” I murmured, reclining in the passenger seat, the wind knifing through my open window.
Celeste arched a brow.
“Only eight-point-five?”
“No blood. No chase. No improvisation.”
She smirked. “You want drama.”
“I want a story.”
I didn’t know then — but I’d just summoned it.
Celeste:
The car appeared two blocks behind us.
Unmarked. Black. Too polished. Not from Prague’s locals.
I spotted it in the rearview mirror — the flicker of tinted headlights that didn’t belong.
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No turn signal. No stop at red. Just shadowing.
I didn’t say anything at first.
I just licked my thumb, slicked back a loose hair, and downshifted into second like I wasn’t changing the stakes.
“Darling,” I said lightly. “You may just get your drama.”
Ethan straightened. Glanced in the mirror. Saw it.
Then grinned.
“Oh,” he murmured. “Them.”
Ethan:
I popped the glovebox.
Not for the USB.
For the gun.
Sleek. Matte black. Fully loaded.
Celeste took a hard right — one that wasn’t on the map. The tires screeched, the city lights flickering past us like strobe-lit memories.
The other car followed.
Fast.
No hesitation.
Too fast.
“Professionals,” I said.
Celeste clicked her tongue. “Or very stupid.”
Behind us, the second vehicle surged forward, too close now. I cracked the window, leaned out slightly, and fired one clean warning shot into the pavement.
No reaction.
That’s how I knew.
They were here for the USB.
Celeste:
“I count three,” I said.
“How?”
“They’re not compensating with volume. No wild shots. No panic. Just precision.”
I took another corner — this one tighter, dirtier. The car behind us drifted the turn and kept coming.
“Someone tipped them,” Ethan said.
“Lucinda?” I offered.
“She’s not that brave.”
“Vincent?”
He hesitated.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’s just testing us again.”
I laughed. Genuinely.
“That man’s idea of fatherhood is Machiavelli with a glass of scotch.”
Ethan:
I fired again — this time at the driver’s side window.
It cracked, spiderwebbing.
But they didn’t swerve.
That’s when I knew.
They weren’t going to run us off the road.
They were going to box us in.
“Change of plans,” I said, eyes flicking to the GPS.
“There’s a tunnel. Two blocks.”
Celeste didn’t ask questions.
She just drove.
Celeste:
The tunnel was narrow.
Graffiti-tagged. Under construction. Lit only by flickering yellow bulbs. A place where screams wouldn’t echo and bodies could disappear.
I hit the gas.
Hard.
And when we entered, I turned off the headlights.
The tunnel swallowed us whole.
Ethan rolled down the window fully, bracing.
The pursuing car surged in after us, lights still on — giving us just enough silhouette to see them without being seen.
I whispered, “On three.”
Ethan cocked the gun.
Ethan:
“One…”
“Two…”
I leaned out and fired straight into the windshield.
The bullet punched through.
Glass exploded.
The tires hit the edge of the tunnel wall.
And the second car spun.
Hard.
Metal against stone. Sparks. The crunch of expensive armor meeting immovable concrete.
By the time it stopped, we were already out the other side.
Gone.
Celeste:
I turned the lights back on, calm as ice.
We drove on in silence.
Then Ethan leaned over, kissed my cheek, and murmured:
“Ten out of ten.”
I smiled.
“Welcome back to the drama, darling.”
