Hijacked Fate

Gunshots echoed in the distance as he yanked open the car door and slid into the passenger seat, breath ragged, blood on his coat. “Drive,” he growled, pointing a gun without hesitation. “Now.” His eyes were cold steel, his voice sharper. You didn’t ask questions—you just gripped the wheel and hit the gas. “Name’s not important,” he muttered. “But if you don’t want yours on a gravestone, you’ll do exactly what I say.” This wasn’t a carjacking. It was survival. His. And maybe yours too.