Heat, Metal, and the Badge

Castor's arms held me firm, careful, like he wasn't sure if I'd shatter or slip away. His grip was strong—too strong, like a man used to handling things that fought back. He carried me from the wheelchair to the car, slow and deliberate, his breath steady, but something was tight in his posture. The pavement radiated heat, warping the city's jagged skyline in the distance.

The sedan waited, sleek black, engine humming low. A machine meant to move fast but sitting still, baking under the midday sun. I felt the weight of everything—the smog, the distant sirens, the ever-present hum of a city that never really stopped breathing, even when it choked on its own filth.

Castor eased me into the seat. The leather burned against my skin. He pulled the belt across my chest, his fingers brushing my collarbone as he clicked it into place. That was when he heard it.

A shift in the air. A presence behind him.