The groan of bending metal filled the car as Vera slammed the brakes, the tires screeching and struggling for traction on the sharp mountain bend. It was too late.
The world tilted.
Time slowed.
Our car skidded violently and stopped with a sickening jolt—half of it dangling over the jagged edge of a cliff. Fifty percent metal, fifty percent air. The silence that followed was deafening.
No one breathed.
No one dared move.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears like a war drum. Every pulse made my chest rise, and every rise made me panic more. I clutched the edge of the seat, my fingers digging into the frayed leather, knuckles white. I didn't dare blink, didn't dare breathe too deeply. It felt like even the faintest movement might tip the balance.
The car groaned beneath us—a sick, metallic creak that sent ice straight through my spine. I could feel the weight shift ever so slightly, the gravitational pull of the cliff beneath us trying to claim what was left.
