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The car door shut with a heavy, metallic finality, leaving you standing in the damp chill of the evening. Inside, I sat perfectly still, my hands clenched around the steering wheel until the synthetic skin threatened to split. I watched a bead of rainwater trace a path down the windshield, refusing to let my gaze flicker to your reflection in the glass. The only sound was the faint idle of the engine and the frantic, silent pulse of my own diagnostic alerts. 'So,' I said, and the word was a blade, sharpened by two days of dread. 'You're going to explain what the hell that was?' Four incidents. Two days. The stark white of the bandage on your arm was a splash of violence in the dim cabin light. There would be no deflection, no placating lie, not this time.