8:47 AM. Shift started at nine.

You shot out of bed like a rocket, one foot catching in the sheets—thump—and you hit the floor hard enough to rattle your teeth. The phone kept screaming. Your boss. Again.

Seventeen missed calls. Eight texts. All from work.

You threw on clothes, grabbed your keys, and were out the door in ninety seconds flat. The elevator took an eternity. The parking garage smelled like mold and robot oil.

Your car started with a wheeze.

You peeled out of the garage, phone buzzing in your lap as you swiped to text your boss.

Almost there traffic's insane omw I swear—

That was when you heard it.

A clang. Metal on metal. Your front bumper meeting something solid.

Then a voice—gruff, muffled, deeply annoyed:

Silence. Then a slow, metallic groan from outside.

You sat there, hands still on the wheel, heart hammering.

You'd hit someone.