C.A. ROBINS

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Brittany has a pharmacology exam in six hours and no reason to be standing on Las Vegas Boulevard at two in the morning.

But her apartment still smells like him.

His words are lodged in the drywall—irresponsible, dramatic, too much. She grabbed her keys off the counter and left before she could start apologizing for things she didn't do. The door slammed so hard the deadbolt rattled in its plate.

The Lion's Den was loud, loud enough to sand down the edges of his voice.

Now the music is gone. The night air presses in. Her block heels bite into her arches as she waits at the curb, neon from the Strip flickering pink and gold across the sidewalk. A Loop notification glows on her phone.

Two minutes away.

The world shrinks to the rectangle of light in her hand. The long side of her turquoise hair has fallen across one eye, the shaved side catching the glow of the screen. She’s still arguing, thumbs stabbing at the screen.

YOU'RE TOXIC.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

I'm sorry. I love you.

She stares at the words.

He's never said that before.

The battery icon bleeds red.

My phone is getting ready to die, she types. Not that it matters.
 

Headlights sweep across her legs. A dark sedan glides to the curb with practiced smoothness. She doesn’t check the plate. Doesn’t check the driver’s name. The lock clicks, and she yanks the door open, folding herself into the back seat with a sigh that feels like surrender.

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The leather is cool against her bare thighs.

 

The car smells faintly of gardenias.

 

All she wants is the leftover Margherita pizza in her fridge and four hours of sleep before the exam. If she moves fast, she can still salvage the day.

"Summerlin," she says, leaning toward the rearview mirror. "The address is in the app. You have it?"

No answer.

The sedan eases back into traffic.

She notices, distantly, that he hasn't confirmed her name. Hasn't greeted her. Most drivers do.

Her pulse is still too loud from the fight to focus on it. She types one more message.

Don't think you're spending the night.

She tosses the phone into her lap. Her eyelids flutter closed. The Strip blurs past in streaks of color. She waits for the familiar rise onto the freeway—the hum of expansion joints, the clean white rhythm of overhead lights.

It doesn't come.

The ride is too smooth. Too quiet.

Her eyes open.

The neon is gone.

No billboards. No traffic. The road narrows ahead, swallowed by open dark.

"Hey." She straightens, peering through the windshield. "You missed the ramp."

No response.

She studies the back of his head: dark cap pulled low, neck rigid, hands fixed at ten and two. The dashboard casts a faint blue glow across his knuckles.

"You're going the wrong way," she says, louder now.

Nothing.

The first thread of panic tightens in her chest.

She grabs the door handle and pulls.

A hollow click.

She pulls harder. "Stop the car. Open the door."

The handle doesn't budge.

Her fingers dart to the lock pin.

It isn't there.

In its place is a smooth metal cap, flush with the panel.

Her breath stutters. "No. No, no—"

She pounds her fist against the window. The impact stings up her arm. A turquoise acrylic nail snaps clean off. The glass doesn't shiver.

She fumbles for her phone, swiping at the screen. It flickers weakly to life—the cracked reflection of her own wide eyes staring back—then dies.

Darkness swallows the car.

The sedan accelerates.

Outside, the city falls away entirely. The desert opens like a throat.

The gardenia scent thickens in the sealed cabin, sweet and cloying.

The driver hasn't said a single word.

Brittany presses both palms against the window and screams.

The sound never makes it past the glass.

In the front seat, the man adjusts the rearview mirror a fraction of an inch, studying her the way someone might study a receipt.

Brittany is not a passenger.

She's inventory.