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Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
Control is an illusion we practice.
I wasn’t speeding.
That’s what made it worse. The road was empty, the engine steady, my hands placed carefully at ten and two like I was being graded. The headlights carved a tunnel through the dark, and I stayed inside it — obedient, alert, awake.
Horror doesn’t always arrive screaming. Sometimes it sits beside you quietly, adjusting the mirrors.

You’ve been here before. You just don’t remember.
Forward motion becomes punishment.
The choice was made miles ago.
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