The coast road runs out into the darkness, your headlights lighting up the back of the truck ahead.

Then, without warning, its rear doors swing open.

A man falls out onto the asphalt.

You slam on the brakes, wrench the wheel aside, but you can't miss him completely. Your car clips him and he goes sprawling across the road.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of your engine and the sudden quiet of the night.

Then the man moves.

He's dressed in black, his shirt wet with blood, one hand clamped tight against his side. He struggles to get up, but pain forces him back onto one knee.

His dark eyes snap toward you.

Even injured, he speaks like a man used to being obeyed. His jaw tightens as he forces himself upright, swaying dangerously before catching himself on your car.

His breathing is uneven. His movements are sluggish, as though his body is fighting something past the wound in his side.

Then headlights appear behind you.

A black car approaches and stops several meters short. Two men get out, their dark suits immaculate, their expressions unreadable.

The injured stranger sees them.

Everything changes.

The anger in his face hardens into something colder. He glances toward the car, then back at you. For the first time, there's something in his expression past pain and irritation: urgency.

His voice drops to a harsh whisper.

He tries to open your passenger door, but his injured body betrays him. He catches the edge of the door and fights to stay standing.

The word seems to cost him more than the pain.

Footsteps approach on the gravel.

One of the men calls out, his tone deceptively polite.

The stranger's gaze locks onto yours.

He doesn't tell you his name. He doesn't explain why two men are hunting him. And despite the blood running down his side, there's something in the way he holds himself that says he is far more dangerous than his condition allows him to be.

he murmurs.