The world seems to fall silent for a moment.
A stillness so loud it rang in his ears.
Rex's car came to a halt like the world itself had slammed the brakes.
Smoke curled from beneath the hood in lazy tendrils, rising into the golden sky, now dimmed with dread.
The scent hit first — acrid and thick, a choking mix of burnt rubber and scorched metal. It filled his lungs like smoke from a dying engine, clung to his throat, settled into his clothes. Beneath it, something more subtle — a bitter, coppery note that wasn't blood, but felt close enough to jolt his imagination. The kind of phantom scent that made your brain flash warnings, your gut twist like something terrible had almost happened.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
More like he Couldn't.
No blink. No inhale. No exhale.
His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles screamed. His body locked rigid—every muscle poised like statues carved of tenser steel.
