Nash leaned back in the taxi seat, the old vinyl groaning under his weight, like he was made of bricks or something.
He rubbed his eyes hard, man, that stung, and let out a sigh so deep it fogged up the window a little. The crumpled papers in his lap stared back at him, and for a second he just... froze.
The truth didn't hit him like a slap. Nah, it was worse, this slow, awful dawning, like realizing you left the stove on halfway to work.
His hands shook as he smoothed out one of the papers, careful not to tear it.
This is so fucked up.
Outside, neon signs pulsed red and blue, painting the Underground streets in weird flashes. People rushed past, all shadowy blurs.
The car's movement almost rocked him to sleep, but that heavy feeling in his chest wouldn't budge. He shifted, crossing his legs. Still uncomfortable.
