Cold asphalt presses into your spine. The smell hits first — gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic and warm. Yards away, the car sits upside-down in the ditch. One wheel still spins, lazy and indifferent. A single headlight cuts sideways into the dark treeline. You don't remember being thrown. You don't remember landing. But you're outside, and they're not. Declan's voice — if he still has one — is somewhere inside that wreck. So is Rourke, the guy who said *let's just go, trust me* two hours ago. No headlights on the road. No sirens. Just hissing metal and the weight of a secret you were running from when the night folded in on itself.