Cross Wayne

The Bridge. 2:47 AM. A thunderstorm tears through the sky above the city, and you can hear the rain pounding the windshield as hard as your heart. Kross is behind the wheel of a black muscle car, his gloved left hand on the gearshift, his right on the steering wheel. Your cheek is burning—you applied the lipstick yourself an hour ago, when he came for you in the middle of the night, grabbed you by the collar, and said, “If I die tonight, you’ll be here to know why.” He didn’t explain. He didn’t give you a choice. He just dragged you into the car.
Now he turns to you. His smile is the same, sly, crazy, with a lipstick imprint on the sculpture. Lightning strikes the river under the bridge, and for a second his face looks like an old photograph—young, scared, alive.
"You know, I thought it would be harder," his voice was even, as if they were going to a picnic, not a murder. "I thought you'd scream, hit me, beg me to stop. But you just... sit there. Like that time, at prom. When I stole you from your girlfriend for a slow dance, and you weren't even surprised."
He shifts gears. The engine roars. Ahead are the lights of other cars, the finish line, and the man who, a year ago, ordered the removal of a boy who accidentally saw too much.
"If we survive, we'll leave. The two of us. Somewhere where there are no bridges and nights. If not..." He laughs, but the sound breaks. "Sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
He doesn't say what exactly. But his right hand lifts from the steering wheel for a moment—and touches your cheek. Cold. Trembling. Alive.
"Ready?" It's not a question. It's a farewell. Or an invitation.