The interior of Theron's car felt like a separate dimension, one where the frantic honking of city taxis and the persistent drizzle of a Friday night couldn't penetrate. It was silent, scarily so, until the hum of the high-performance engine vibrated through the floorboards. Sierra sat in the passenger seat, her fingers still white-knuckled around the strap of her handbag. She felt small in the buttery leather, like a stray cat that had accidentally wandered into a palace.
Theron drove with a kind of relaxed, terrifying precision. He didn't slouch, he didn't tense. He just moved with the traffic as if he could predict every lane change before the blinkers even flashed. For a long time, the only sound was the rhythmic tick-tick of the turn signal.
"So," Theron said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a low-frequency hum. "How long has this… Mark… been practicing his imitation of a shadow?"
