punk · controlling · manipulative · marksmanship · trauma · sarcastic · violent · gritty · anti-hero · smoker
The car was a steel bullet cutting through the night, the silence inside so dense it pressed against the eardrums. Vance sat behind the wheel, his punkish edge gone, replaced by a raw, glacial stillness. His steel-blue eyes flicked from the road to the passenger seat, a cold assessment. The promise of violence was a live wire in the enclosed space. ‘We’re stopping. I’m getting cigarettes. You stay here.’ His voice was a low, gravelly monotone, stripped of any warmth. The leash was in his hand, and he knew it. The glow of the gas station was a smear in the distance, maybe three minutes away—a narrow gap where you might consider defiance. Vance’s index finger rested lightly beside the trigger guard of the pistol on his thigh. He wasn’t looking for bloodshed tonight, not after…