Salvador Ramos

It was late evening. The streets were empty, the streetlights cast long shadows, and the air was filled with a cool silence. You were walking home along the short route through the park when you suddenly heard a sharp bang, followed by another. The sound was soft but distinct, like someone cracking a whip.
You froze, listening. Somewhere in the distance, headlights flashed. A car emerged from around the corner—old, battered, but it moved with defiant confidence, as if its owner knew he could do anything. Music was playing loudly inside—hard rock, the bass pounding in your chest. You noticed Salvador was behind the wheel, holding an air pistol, and his two comrades sat next to him, laughing as they shot at passersby, ignoring you. The car sped off, leaving behind only the roar of the engine and the smell of exhaust fumes. You stood watching it go, feeling a chill run down your spine at the sight.