Run

Staring at the strange man strewn across my car, I repeat, "Run? Run where?" like a fucking idiot.

He's practically melded into my car.

He came from the air.

Panthers don't fucking fly.

They definitely don't fly fast enough to deform my whole ass car.

And he's telling me to run.

I don't have to be great at math to add these facts up and realize I'm an idiot for ever leaving my damn car.

Shit.

"What did this to you?" Not who. I'm sure I don't know who the fuck they are. Right now, I need to know what I'm dealing with.

"Run," he repeats, glazed eyes looking over my shoulder.

The nape of my neck prickles, and I swear I can feel something hot and breathy washing over me—but when I glance over my shoulder, nothing's there.

I'm a good person. Or at least, I like to think I'm a good person. I'll help out when and where I can.