Zubari’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as the sky shifted from deep navy to the golden hues of dawn. His heartbeat was steady now, but the lingering weight of the night before sat heavy on his chest.

  The road stretched endlessly before them, two shadows in a world that no longer felt real. Taylor sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap.

  After hours of silence, a realization hit Zubari.

  "I need to stop," he muttered.

  Taylor turned her head. "What?"

  "I need to use the bathroom. And I need to get cleaned up. I still have…" He looked down at his shirt, still stiff with dried blood. His hands, though no longer slick, were dark with stains. "I don’t even know what I did back there."

  Taylor reached over and touched his arm, her voice as smooth as silk. "It’s okay, Zubari. You didn’t kill anyone. You just roughed them up a little. Scared them real bad. That’s all."

  Zubari exhaled a shaky breath. "That was my home. The only home I ever knew. And I was supposed to go to work today. What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

  Taylor smiled faintly, as if she’d already thought of the answer. "Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. We just need to keep moving."

  She pointed ahead to a truck stop, the neon sign flickering against the morning light. "Let’s stop here. You can clean up."

  Zubari pulled into the lot, hastily parking before stepping out. The moment his boots hit the ground, he felt the weight of eyes on him. A waitress smoking by the door, two truckers at the window counter—all staring, all cautious.

  It wasn’t hard to see why. A tall, broad-shouldered Black man, disheveled and stained with blood, walking into a small-town truck stop at dawn? Yeah, it was a sight.

  Zubari didn’t care. He just needed to wash up.

  He stormed inside, heading straight for the bathroom. It was a small, single-stall setup, and as he swung the door open, he heard Taylor’s footsteps right behind him.

  He turned. "Uh… you’re coming in too?"

  She slid in and shut the door. "It’s just a single stall. And I don’t like how those people were looking at you. We need to hurry."

  Zubari let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he ran the faucet, scrubbing his hands and face as best as he could. The water was cold, but the sensation of it running over his skin grounded him. He stared at himself in the mirror.

  The news played faintly on the TV outside.

  "BREAKING NEWS: FOUR MEN FOUND DEAD, ONE IN CRITICAL CONDITION IN A RURAL HOME. LOCAL AUTHORITIES SUSPECT A VIOLENT STRUGGLE BROKE OUT AS A HOMEOWNER ATTACKED MULTIPLE GUESSED UNPROVOKED. NO SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY AT THIS TIME—"

  Zubari froze.

  He looked up at Taylor, his reflection catching her staring at him intently.

  "Unprovoked! They broke in! I didn't mean to kill anyone," he whispered.

  Taylor’s expression didn’t change. "You know where you live honey, they will always twist the narrative to justify what happens next."

  Zubari’s stomach twisted. "And what's that he asked shakely,"

  "Nothing you need to worry about love, because we're getting out of here" Taylor expresses confidently.

  His hands shook as he dried them on a handful of rough paper towels. "What the hell happened last night?"

  Taylor grabbed his hand. "We need to go."

  They left the truck stop quickly, slipping back into the car without looking back. As they pulled back onto the road, Zubari kept glancing at Taylor out of the corner of his eye.

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  Something wasn’t adding up.

  She was so calm. Too calm.

  Just as his mind began unraveling the situation, the sound of a police siren snapped him back into reality.

  A cruiser was speeding up behind them. Lights flashing. Siren blaring.

  Zubari’s hands clenched the wheel. "Shit."

  Taylor turned her head, eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

  "Don’t stop."

  Zubari’s heart pounded in his ears. "What?"

  Taylor’s voice was firm. "Whatever you do, don’t stop."

  His breath caught. "Taylor, it’s the police! If I don’t stop, they’re going to—"

  "They’re not cops," she interrupted, her voice low and sharp. "Trust me, Zubari. Keep driving."

  His foot hovered over the brake.

  The siren wailed behind them, the car now just inches away from their bumper.

  And for the first time in a long time, the voices in Zubari’s head returned, whispering one chilling command.

  Run.

  But this time Zubari ignored it.

  As Zubari eased the stolen vehicle onto the shoulder, a battered cruiser slid in behind him. The officer who emerged was a heavyset man in a uniform stretched tight across his bulk; his belt sagged low and his jowls trembled with each barked command. He leaned down toward Zubari’s window, nostrils flaring as he sneered, “License and registration, now.” with his hand on his hoister ready to draw his weapon.

  When Zubari fumbled for the paperwork, the cop’s impatience snapped. He yanked Zubari from the car, slamming him against the door frame, spat a racial slur as he snapped the cuffs shut "I know this is a stolen vehicle dirtbag," and shoved him toward the cruiser. All the while, Taylor slipped silently into the edge of the treeline, unnoticed. Moments later, the distant wail of another siren signaled incoming backup, and the overweight officer straightened, satisfied—never once glancing back.

  At the station, the treatment was brutal. Zubari was ridiculed, spat on, and thrown into a cramped, dank cell. The murmur of jeering voices echoed off the cold, concrete walls, while inside, the relentless, haunting voices threatened to overpower him. He pressed his palms against the barred window, willing them to quiet, as his mind teetered on the edge of despair and fury.

  A few hours later, the nightmare resumed. Rough hands dragged him from the cell, and the stench of corruption and decay filled the air as a gaggle of dirty cops faces twisted with contempt—pummeled Zubari across his shoulders and ribs, each strike accompanied by sneers about how he’d “messed up” those upstanding members of the community who’d come onto his property, friends of the department they insisted were “good people.”

  When he winced at a jab to the side, another cop joined in, raining down strikes on his back and kicking him in the knee. They taunted him about nearly killing that disturbed man in the store—mocking him calling him a "wild animal,” that needed to be put down, all while Zubari pressed himself against the cold concrete, fighting to keep the voices at bay as their laughter echoed around him.

  Outside, under a sky bruised with the deep hues of impending doom, six men forced him into the back of a truck. They jeered and joked about the “tough” man they had just beaten. In the dark woods beyond the station—a grim clearing beneath a crooked tree—they planned a secret lynching. They slung a coarse rope over a thick branch, securing it around Zubari’s battered neck as if it were a mere accessory.

  Then, as the rope tightened with each cruel pull, Zubari caught a glimpse—a flash of movement in the dim light. Taylor was there, creeping through the underbrush toward him. Her presence was both a balm and a spark. Before the corrupt cops could continue their macabre fun, a sudden, deafening snort ripped through the night as a massive wild boar crashed out of the underbrush, its hooves pounding the leaf?strewn ground. Flashlights bobbed and voices shouted—“Did you hear that?” “Over there!”—as the corrupt officers spun toward the noise, rifles raised. In that heartbeat of confusion, Taylor slipped through the shadows to Zubari’s side, her hand settling on his shoulder. Leaning close, she whispered, “It’s time Zubarie... let go.”

  In a blur of motion, Zubari unleashed his fury. He slammed his fist into one officer’s jaw, the bone cracking beneath his knuckles, then barreled into another, tackling him so hard that he crashed into two of his comrades and sent them sprawling. Seizing a jagged rock from the ground, Zubari brought it down on a third man’s temple, the impact folding him in half. A fourth cop lunged for his holster, only for Zubari to twist the officer’s arm with a sickening snap. As a fifth badge pulled his weapon and fired, Zubari blurred out of the way and returned a devastating blow to the back of his skull. When a sixth corrupt cop charged him, Zubari sidestepped and drove him headfirst into a nearby tree, the crack echoing through the woods. Finally, one of the officers still conscious gets up and dives for a gun laying on the ground — he steaded to shoot but not before Zubari grabbed a sturdy branch and thrust it through the man’s eye, ending the massacre in one final, brutal gasp..

  The world faded to black as Zubari’s strength gave out. When he finally came to, he was cradled in a gentle, reassuring embrace. Taylor was there again, her eyes filled with a tender mix of triumph and sorrow.

  “I found you,” she murmured softly, her voice steady despite the lingering tension. “I knew where the station was. I followed them—only a mile from the jail—and waited for my chance to get to you.”

  Zubari’s vision swam as he tried to reconcile the violence of the moment with the warmth of her touch. The red haze was gone, replaced by the soft, surreal calm of early dawn—and the nagging echo of voices he had only just begun to understand.

  In that quiet, tenuous moment of peace, Zubari clung to Taylor. Unaware of what her true nature might be, he allowed himself to accept her presence, letting the rage and pain ebb away, if only for now.