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Lucas's Perspective

Cars had never really meant anything to me before. They were tools—functional, reliable, necessary, but never something I felt any kind of emotional attachment to. Four wheels, a steering wheel, and enough horsepower to get me from where I was to where I needed to be—that had always been enough. I didn't care about sleek lines, roaring engines, or the way a car handled on a tight curve. That kind of thing was for gearheads who waxed poetic about torque and suspension.

But that changed the second I guided the Porsche 911 Carrera down the Lockwood driveway.

The car moved like it was alive—responsive, fluid, completely in sync with my every motion. The engine didn't just hum—it purred, a low, rich sound that felt more like a living thing than a machine. Every press of the throttle came with a silky surge of power, and the steering... sharp, intuitive. Like the car knew what I wanted before I even moved. Gear shifts didn't clunk or lag—they whispered into place with the kind of seamless precision that spoke of millions of dollars and decades of engineering. I finally understood the obsession.

Jenny sat in the passenger seat, her face practically glowing. She had a grin stretched so wide across her cheeks it looked like her whole face might split in half. She didn't say anything right away, just kept glancing around the interior, touching the dashboard like it might disappear.

Her excitement was electric, contagious even.

I checked the time. We still had about twenty minutes before first period. More than enough.

I looked over at her. "Hold on."

Immediately, her eyes lit up like someone had flipped a switch. "Wait—are we seriously—"

"Yep." I didn't even let her finish.

I took us through the winding streets of Beacon Hills, letting the car stretch its legs. At first, I kept it tame. No need to go full throttle immediately. I eased into the acceleration, feeling out how the car handled, learning its rhythm. The engine responded like it was waiting for this moment—like it had been built for it.

Then, I pressed harder.

The growl beneath the hood deepened, throaty and aggressive, and the world around us began to blur. The trees became streaks of green, houses flickering past like set pieces in a movie. Despite the speed, I didn't feel out of control. In fact, it was the opposite. Every part of was locked in, my hands one with the wheel, my foot one with the pedal. It wasn't like driving. It was like flying—except I had wings made of steel and leather, and every inch of me knew exactly how to use them.

Jenny let out a sharp, delighted laugh, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest before you even know it's coming. She threw her hands into the air like we were on a roller coaster, her hair flying back, eyes wild with adrenaline.

I took the corners smooth and tight, braking just enough to keep the turns clean without losing momentum. My senses were wide open, reading every car on the road, every shadow in the periphery. It was effortless. For her, I could tell, it was pure magic.

Eventually, I started to slow down, easing the car toward the edge of town. I pulled over beside a quiet overlook that gave us a wide view of the hills beyond. The Porsche settled into a low, satisfied purr, as if even it knew it had performed beautifully.

Jenny turned toward me, her face flushed, still catching her breath. "That," she said, her voice half-laugh, half-whisper, "was awesome."

Before I could reply, she leaned across the center console and hugged me. It was quick, impulsive, and full of energy—one of those hugs that said everything without needing words. She let go a second later, settling back in her seat like nothing had happened, but the warmth of it lingered.

The final stretch to school was slower. More responsible.

I pulled the Porsche into the school lot like I'd done it a hundred times before, easing it neatly into an open spot that I knew would draw a lot of eyes today. Heads would turn. People would talk. But I didn't care much about that.

Jenny practically bounced out of the car before I'd even cut the engine, spotting her friends across the lot and waving them down with both arms like she hadn't seen them in weeks. She jogged over without looking back.

As I climbed out of the car, I spotted Isaac leaning against a fence at the back of the lot, half in the shadow of the trees. I wasn't surprised to see him. Not surprising that the hospital let him go—physically, there was nothing wrong with him now.

"Nice ride," he said, eyeing the Porsche with a casual nod.

I didn't waste time. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, matte black business card, the gold lettering glinting in the morning sun. I handed it to him without ceremony.

"Lockwood's lawyers," I said. "Call them—they'll handle the legal stuff, all of it."

He stared at the card for a second, then looked up at me. His expression shifted, softened. The gratitude in his eyes was impossible to miss.

"I told you," I said quietly, "you're part of my pack now."

He gave a small nod and slipped the card into his pocket like it was made of glass.

"But understand this," I added, my tone steady. "You're in a dangerous world now."

He met my gaze without flinching. "You know, I used to think about running away from my father all the time. I just never thought I'd make it. I know this isn't going to be easy… but if you ask me?"

He let out a small breath and offered me a crooked, honest smile. "Things are looking up."

And you know what?

I believed him.