As Frida crossed the dimly lit road to the dorm, the deafening roar of sports cars tore through the air like a thunderstorm.
The headlights streaked past, casting long, erratic shadows on the pavement. Her scream pierced the night, and for a moment, time seemed to slow.
Bright lights blinded her, flashing like an unsettling strobe, and her breath hitched as the last car swerved dangerously close.
The sleek vehicle spun effortlessly, its tires screeching in smooth, calculated circles.
Her heart pounded like a drum, and her throat tightened.
In the driver's seat, a man with stormy grey eyes locked onto hers, his smirk a slow, deliberate tease.
There was something maddeningly confident about the way he bit his lower lip, the motion deliberate, calculated.
LAZ.
Frida's knees weakened, a strange heat rushing through her.
She could swear, by legions of angels, that he winked at her before speeding off, the sleek car disappearing into the night.
