Chapter 2: The Mockery
304 words
The man’s sigh was louder than the sirens wailing in the distance. I choked back a sob, shoving my shoulder against the dented door until it groaned open. I spilled out onto the wet asphalt, the cold biting through my worn coat. My knees hit the ground, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled over me. Blood trickled from a cut on my forehead, stinging my eyes.
Preston Sterling turned then, his cold eyes sweeping over me like I was a stain on his driveway. He took a sip from a travel mug that smelled of expensive scotch.
"Look at this junk heap," he sneered, gesturing to my car with a manicured hand. "You people shouldn't be allowed on the road. You’re a liability to those of us who actually matter."
"I... I had the green light," I managed, clutching my throbbing wrist.
He laughed—a sharp, barking sound. "The light? Who cares about the light? Look at my paint." He reached into his jacket, pulled out a wad of cash, and tossed it. The bills fluttered down, landing in a puddle of oil and dirty rainwater near my face. "Buy a new life. And stop crying, it’s pathetic."
He raised his phone, blocking his face. For a second, I thought he was calling for medical bills help, but then the flash blinded me.
"#TrashOnTheRoad," he muttered, typing rapidly. "Another insect ruining my evening."
He got back into his Pagani, the engine roaring to life like a beast. He didn't wait for the police. He didn't care about hit and run legal consequences. He just floored it, leaving me kneeling in the rain, grasping at the muddy cash as the taillights vanished. I needed personal injury compensation, but watching him drive away, I felt something far worse than pain: total insignificance.
End of Chapter 2
