Thunder rolled overhead, a low, growling rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the building. The air was thick with the smell of rain and ozone, and something else—something sharp and electric. Anger.

He didn't look back at you.

<Narrator> The key was in his hand, his fingers white-knuckled around it. His bike keys. The ones to the sleek, black machine that was his pride, his joy, his escape.