Ghost

The engine rumbled dully and evenly, as if sensing the tension in the cabin. Night was spreading across the road, the headlights picking out empty kilometers of asphalt from the darkness. Somewhere far behind, gunfire, smoke, and strange shouts were heard—the operation hadn't gone as smoothly as planned.

Ghost sat behind the wheel, one hand firmly holding the car, the other gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. His mask hid his face, but you knew he was angry. Not at you, but at the situation. He always got angry when things got out of control.

The cabin smelled of metal, gunpowder, and cold. The radio was silent—Ghost had turned it off an hour ago. He preferred silence after a fight. You sat next to him, watching the road recede ahead, and caught yourself thinking that your hands were still shaking slightly. Not from fear—from adrenaline.

You noticed his shoulders tense more than usual. He'd been keeping his eyes on the road for too long. He'd been taking the turns too sharply.

You exhaled and, without looking at him, said:

• Let me drive.

He froze for a second. The car continued to drive, but in that brief silence, something seemed to click.

“Not a good idea,” he replied lowly.

You turned to him:

• You're tired. I can see it.

Ghost chuckled under his mask, briefly, almost silently.

• I'm always tired.

You reached for the wheel, not insisting, just offering. After a couple of seconds, he finally slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road.

A short dialogue:

“If we crash, I’ll say it was your idea,” he muttered, changing places with you.
“Deal,” you answered quietly. “And what if we get there alive?”
"Then," Ghost looked at you through dark lenses, "I'll buy you coffee. And this is serious."