Ashley's POV:
The frozen gravel stabbed at my bare feet, each shard of pain a reminder that I was still alive. I welcomed it.
Pain was clarity. Pain was focus.
The engine roar was back. Not close—yet. But close enough to promise ruin. Roman was awake. He was dressed, he was in his car, and he was hunting.
The sound chased me through the trees as I tore across the forest floor, breath ragged, skin raw from cold air and broken branches.
My lungs burned; my heartbeat was a war drum, threatening to burst from my chest.
I didn't dare look back.
I had to assume that the instant he found his keys, his rage would translate into blinding speed.
He'd realized I was gone. And Roman didn't pursue in panic—he hunted with precision.
I burst out of the trees, stumbling into a field slick with frost.
The night air hit me like a blade. In the distance, the faint orange glow of a service road shimmered.
The highway would be suicide; he'd expect that. So I cut toward the secondary roads that snaked behind the airport's periphery.
This was a gamble, but the maze of industrial access roads was the only route complicated enough to buy me seconds.
Every step hurt. Every inhale was a scream. My strength was failing, and the cold was beginning to numb the pain in my feet, which was more terrifying than the pain itself.
A flash of headlights swept through the far tree line—his car, turning. He'd found the gravel driveway and was on the road.
I pushed harder. My body was a machine powered by terror.
The field ended at a towering chain-link fence separating the residential area from the industrial access route
. I grabbed it, climbed fast, tore skin and cloth on the sharp wire, and dropped down hard on the other side.
My knees screamed in protest, buckling under my weight, but I didn't stop.
The service road was silent, slick, stretching endlessly under a wash of moonlight. I ran, barefoot, directionless, chasing survival.
Then I saw it.
Two hundred yards ahead, completely out of place on the silent, dark residential street, was a clean, black sedan.
It was a late-model, executive car, professional and silent. Its engine was idling so smoothly I could barely hear it, and its headlights were off.
It looked like a luxury ghost, waiting.
It didn't move.
It didn't belong.
But behind me, the forest stirred again.
Roman's headlights flared, illuminating the fence line. I didn't have the luxury of doubt.
I broke into a final, agonizing sprint toward the black sedan.
I yanked the passenger door open and dove inside.
The driver, a thick-set man in a dark jacket, didn't flinch.
Didn't look at me.
He was a statue of pure competency.
He just pressed down on the gas.
The sedan glided forward.
Smooth.
Silent.
Precise.
Five seconds later, Roman's luxury car—a dark silhouette of raw power—turned onto the street we'd just left, headlights slicing through the dark. The timing was surgical.
We disappeared into the labyrinth of backroads before he could even register the movement.
___________________________________________________________________
Inside the sedan, the air was warm and still, a jarring contrast to the ice outside. I was shaking uncontrollably.
My reflection trembled in the window—wide eyes, bloodless lips. A folded blanket sat beside me, a bottle of water on the floor.
Details too intentional to be coincidence.
Someone had known.
Someone had planned this.
A chilling wave of new uncertainty washed over me.
I was no longer running from Roman, but running with an unknown player.
My voice barely existed, a cracked whisper. I asked the silent question anyway. "Who sent you?"
The driver didn't answer. His eyes stayed forward, fixed on the road, his expression neutral.
The low hum of the tires was the only reply. He was a machine, a function, nothing more.
Outside, the scenery changed rapidly from woods to steel: warehouses, empty lots, the cold geometry of an industrial district.
The driver moved through it like he'd done this before—like every turn had already been decided by a map only he possessed.
Then I saw them—headlights in the mirror.
Roman.
He'd found us. He was tracking us with the ruthless efficiency of a global power player, not some hot-headed thug.
My pulse spiked. "He's behind us."
The driver didn't react.
He just pressed harder on the accelerator.
The sedan surged forward, the landscape streaking into motion.
The chase began in silence—two cars threading through the bones of the city.
Roman's headlights flashed closer, cutting across the rear window.
He was closing the distance with terrifying control. He'd done this before.
The sedan veered sharply, tires spitting gravel, cutting down a narrow service road that snaked toward the airport.
The air grew colder; the faint smell of jet fuel drifted in.
The driver was utilizing every shortcut and blind turn, forcing Roman to compensate, to drive with less strategy and more raw aggression.
We sped through a deserted cargo area, the silence broken only by the engine roar behind us.
Lights appeared ahead—the faint glow of the terminal, sprawling across the horizon. Hope flickered, a dangerous, fragile thing.
Roman's headlights flared brighter, nearer, predatory.
He hadn't lost me.
The driver executed a sharp turn onto the main airport approach road, pulling into the flow of traffic.
The terminal now loomed massive and close.
We were close. Too close.
I gripped the seat, every muscle coiled.
Roman's car was close enough now that I could almost feel it, a physical weight pressing against us.
The sedan veered sharply into the main departures drop-off lane.
The driver braked hard, pulling up directly to the international departures entrance.
I threw open the door and scrambled out, hitting the pavement hard. My eyes were fixed on the doors, knowing my parents were waiting inside. I had to get inside.
As I straightened up to sprint, the scream of shredding tires ripped through the night.
I looked back.
Roman, refusing to let me go, had executed a desperate, violent maneuver.
His sleek black car came to a shrieking halt, lodging sideways across the entire entrance to the terminal drop-off lane, effectively blocking the anonymous sedan and cutting off any further vehicle access.
Behind the tinted window of the halted car, I saw the dark shape of Roman.
He was uninjured.
He was out of his car and running toward me before the dust had even settled.
The final, terrifying sprint to the plane was about to begin.
____________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Ah yes, nothing like a midnight jog through trauma to get the blood pumping 🏃♀️💀.
Ashley's cardio skills really peaked tonight—barefoot, freezing, and running from a man who treats "possession" like a personality trait.
Roman's back at it again with his luxury-vehicle-of-terror™ 🚘✨ because apparently, emotional abuse wasn't enough—he needed horsepower too.
And that driver? The quiet king of "I'm just here so I don't get killed." 💼😶 Big thanks to adrenaline for sponsoring this episode of Why Am I Still Alive?
Anyway, remember kids: if a mysterious black sedan ever waits for you in the dark, either it's divine intervention… or your next problem. 🔥😉
-Vaanni🖤