That Tuesday afternoon felt no different. The sky hung gray and heavy, threatening rain, and Caleb crouched near a guardrail crushing cans beneath his boot when a sound tore through the air — sharp, violent, unmistakably wrong. Tires screamed so loudly they echoed between concrete barriers, followed by the explosive crash of metal colliding with steel. Caleb’s head snapped up just in time to see a sleek silver Aston Martin spin across lanes before smashing into the guardrail only yards away from him.
For a moment, everything went silent except for hissing steam.
Drivers slowed but kept moving. Phones lifted. Nobody stepped out.
Caleb dropped his bag and ran.
Smoke curled from the engine. The windshield had shattered into a spiderweb of fractures, and inside the car a man in an expensive charcoal suit slumped motionless over the wheel. Blood ran down his cheek, staining the crisp white collar of his shirt. The smell of gasoline filled the air.
“Hey! Sir!” Caleb shouted, pounding the window.
No response.
