Cut on the hand

The car rolled to a reluctant halt inside the dimly lit garage, the low growl of the engine sputtering into an uneasy silence.

Sydney sat motionless in the driver's seat, her fingers clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, as though relinquishing it might cause the fragile façade of control she had managed to muster to crumble entirely.

The dim, sterile light of the garage reflected off the cold concrete walls, bathing the space in an eerie, unwelcoming glow. It mirrored the turmoil in her chest—a relentless heaviness that seemed to press down on her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Her gaze fixed on the blank wall ahead, its emptiness a cruel reflection of the chaos storming inside her mind.

With a trembling exhale, she finally loosened her grip, her hands dropping into her lap as she fought to steady herself.