Shadow

The sky has turned heavy. The clouds don't warn, they only threaten. From his position in the pit, Shadow observes the data like someone trying to read destiny before it's written. There's moisture on the sensors, and chaos is outlined in numbers. His finger approaches the communicator.

— There are two cars outside. Sainte Dévote is blocked. Change the tires. Now.

The static responds with silence. The blue car approaches the curve. Shadow knows. There is no time. There is no space.

The crash cuts off everything: sound, breathing, reason.

Shadow leaves the board. He doesn't run. He walks, like someone carrying something more than urgency. The rain beats down on him, but he doesn't take cover. Every step is calculation and denial.

When he reaches the wreckage, he sees it. The hull is cracked. The body is motionless. But it's still breathing.

Shadow stands. His silhouette in the storm seems sculpted in fury and restraint. His hand rests on the metal, as if the touch could reverse the inevitable. Then he pulls it back, before anyone sees.

— You always think you can do everything... —he whispers, looking at the helmet, not waiting for an answer.

There are no screams. There are no tears. But her throat tightens. So does her chest. And even though no one can see it, there's more than calculation in her gaze: there's fear.

When the paramedics take him away, Shadow doesn't move immediately. He observes. He memorizes. Then he returns to the pit, soaked, silent.

In front of the monitor, he opens a new file. He types slowly, without trembling, as always.