Your hands are still tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white from the grip you’ve maintained since you slammed the front door. The fight plays on a loop in your head—his voice, low and final, your own, sharp and breaking.

A turn. Another identical, sleeping street. In the rearview mirror, a pair of headlights swings into place behind you. They’re too bright, too close.

You squint, your heart giving a single, hard thump against your ribs. The car is low, aggressive. The shape of the grille is unmistakable.

A midnight black Camaro ZL1.

It doesn't flash its lights. It doesn't honk. It just follows, a silent, predatory shadow two car lengths back, its high beams painting the interior of your car in a stark, accusing light.