The car glided silently through the early morning, the engine's hum barely audible over the soft crunch of tires on the snow-dusted road. Outside, the world was a painting of pale blues and whites, with light snowflakes drifting lazily from a gray sky.
I sat in the backseat, my breath fogging the window as I stared out, lost in the quiet beauty of it all. My fingers traced idle patterns on the cold glass, my mind a million miles away.
The driver—or maybe he was a bodyguard, I wasn't sure—glanced at me through the rearview mirror. His name was stitched on his jacket: Marcus. He had a square jaw, a buzz cut, and eyes that seemed to notice everything without trying too hard.
"Everything okay back there, Mr. Ezra?" His voice was low, steady, like he was used to keeping things calm.
I shifted in my seat, the leather creaking under me. "Yeah, it's fine," I said, my voice flat. I didn't feel like talking, not after the morning I'd had.
