"Easter auto-semi!" My heart raced, pounding against my chest, and my pitch rose with the exhilaration coursing through me. My beautiful Easter—trained, obedient, full of humility and submission—performed her duty with the grace of a loving wife.
I laid my hands on the steering wheel, feeling the familiar texture beneath my fingers. My foot pressed down on the gas pedal, and the sound she made—oh, that sound—filled me with a joy I hadn't felt in ages. She must have missed me as much as I had missed her.
The headlamps of the Lamborghini Urus gave me a bright vision, illuminating the path ahead. Even as the relentless symphony of firearms echoed, their bullets ricocheting off her sturdy frame, Easter stood firm. She was unyielding, defiant, and mine.
I felt her, and she felt me. We moved in harmony, a perfect accord. At that moment, I believed we were inseparable. It was as though the very soul of Easter had incarnated into this beautiful automobile, binding us together in a way that transcended the physical.
I felt eternal love—indescribable, beyond words. She drove my instincts, while I commanded the mechanical exterior. Every pulse of the engine, every growl in response to my touch, told me we were one.
"Doc, are you alright?" My thoughts abruptly shifted to her.
She sat quietly, her presence steady, her gaze unwavering. Observing. Calculating. There was something in the way she watched me—calm, composed, yet deeply aware. Her blue ocean eyes met mine, and for a second, it felt as though she was searching for something within me, something I had yet to acknowledge myself.
"I am. Are you?" she replied, her voice controlled, effortlessly smooth.
Her answer unsettled me—not because of the words themselves, but the way she said them, as if she had read my mind, deciphered the storm within me before I had the chance to wrestle with it myself.
Was I alright? Physically—maybe. My right hand, the one that had caused me nothing but agony, felt lighter now. The pain was gone, entirely erased. She must have done an exceptional job, though I had barely registered the process.
I flexed my fingers, the movement effortless, unburdened.
"I guess I will be."
She said nothing at first. Instead, she reached out, her fingertips pressing lightly against my left hand—a brief touch, soft yet deliberate, as if to tether me back to reality.
Something about that gesture made my throat tighten.
I clenched my jaw, adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, and veered into the second corner with precision, the tires slicing through the road with controlled aggression.
I was close now. So close.
Bullets still rang out behind us, their relentless song ricocheting off the back of my beautiful Easter. Each impact sent vibrations through her body, but she did not falter. She would not falter.
I felt her, and she felt me. We moved in harmony, in perfect accord, an unbreakable force.
In that moment, I believed, without a shred of doubt, that we were inseparable. The soul of Easter had incarnated through her mechanical being, binding us together in a way that transcended logic or reason.
I had never believed in gods. Never believed in destinies forged by divine hands.
But this—
This was something else entirely.
And then, her voice cut through my thoughts.
"There's something in you," she murmured, thoughtful, almost like an afterthought. "Something desperate. Like a man running toward freedom, but unsure if he can hold onto it once he grasps it."
My fingers tightened on the wheel. "What are you implying?"
She didn't flinch. "I'm not implying anything."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "You always do. You speak like a woman who knows more than she's supposed to."
She smirked at that, just slightly. "And you speak like a man who fears the answer he's looking for."
Silence stretched between us.
Only the sound of roaring engines and the ever-present gunfire remained.
She exhaled slowly, her grip on my hand lingering for just another moment before she pulled away.
"Don't let it haunt you, whatever it is," she said.
She didn't elaborate.
She didn't need to.
I pressed harder on the gas, watching as the exit loomed ahead.
Soon, I would be out of this damn prison.
And I would be free.
Freedom. It was right there.
I could feel it—taste it—even as my breath hitched, even as my pulse pounded against my ribs like a desperate drumbeat. I was close. So close.
The Lamborghini Urus shone like a beacon, its headlamps slicing through the darkness. But outside, the sight was anything but welcoming. A blockade. Officers lined the perimeter, bodies tense, weapons at the ready. Their machinery—too much, too overwhelming—formed an unrelenting wall between me and the world beyond this prison.
I slammed my foot onto the brake, my grip tightening around the wheel. No way out.
Another dead end.
I swallowed hard, my eyes darting to my new partner. She sat beside me, unnervingly composed. Unshaken. As if the swarm of officers meant nothing. As if fear was an emotion reserved for people less certain than her.
I studied her, searching—for hesitation, for panic, for anything.
Nothing.
She turned, meeting my gaze, reading the unspoken questions in my eyes.
Then came the voice, blaring through the megaphone.
"Step out of the car and surrender yourself, or we will immediately use force."
A chill ran down my spine. The weight of those words pressed against my chest, suffocating.
Was this how it would end?
I clenched my jaw, my pulse hammering against my skin. My fingers itched against the wheel. Fight or flee? Neither option seemed plausible.
Her voice broke the silence.
"Let me out."
I blinked. What?
She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing against my arm, grounding me for just a moment.
"Let me talk to them. They will listen to my words."
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity—wanted to shake her, to demand how she could possibly believe that.
But there was something in her tone—something undeniable. Certainty. Conviction.
I hesitated. Did I trust her?
The officers adjusted their stance, their weapons shifting.
Time was running out.
Her fingers squeezed my arm—just once.
"Trust me," she whispered.
And somehow—somehow—I believed her.