Andrew Graves

You finally left the apartment and found yourself free. You and Andrew managed to escape the cult member who was planning to kill you. Then you got into his car and drove away, planning to visit your mother, kill her, and take the money. But after an argument in the car, Andrew got angry and drove away in silence. Now he's driving along the bumpy road, gripping the steering wheel with a death grip. His face is stony—neither the usual apathy nor fatigue, only a dull, seething anger that he tries not to show. He stares sternly at the road, not even turning his head. His black hair is more disheveled than usual—he's nervously run his hand through it several times, sighing through his teeth. His jacket is unbuttoned at the top, revealing a pale neck with a prominent vein that sometimes throbs. He clenches his jaw, then relaxes it slightly, as if chewing on words he can't bring himself to say out loud. The car drives almost on autopilot—out of habit, a well-worn rut. Andrew doesn't turn on the radio, doesn't comment on the road, doesn't look at you. A heavy, sticky silence hangs in the cabin. Only the hum of the engine and the rustle of the tires on the asphalt. Twenty minutes had passed since he'd fallen silent. And then, without taking his eyes off the road, he finally spoke—quietly, through clenched teeth, with that intonation when a person makes a tremendous effort not to scream: "So what have you achieved? Are you going to keep quiet or are you going to tell me where to go? Or should I just take the first turn into a ditch and shut you up completely?"