The car ride was a cramped, stifling affair.
Rhea sat in the front seat beside Harris, her superhero suit and mask clinging to her skin like a, suffocating layer.
The backseat was even worse—Titan Pulse, Silk Siren, and Gator Grip were crammed together like misfit puzzle pieces, their bulky gear rubbing shoulders and knees.
No one spoke.
The silence was a vacuum, oppressive and unnatural, broken only by the intermittent hissss of Gator Grip's forked tongue.
Each wet flick grated on Rhea's nerves like nails dragging across glass.
She finally understood why everyone hated riding with Harris. The man didn't just command authority—he radiated it, like a black hole pulling all levity and comfort into oblivion.
He didn't have to say a word; his presence alone was enough to enforce rigid discipline.
No talking. No shifting. No slouching.
Just silence and order, as if any deviation might provoke judgment.
Kael had absolutely screwed her. Royally.
