Evening had already settled by the time Drogo's car reentered the main road, the sky deepening into a heavy indigo that swallowed the last traces of gold at the horizon.
The forest disappeared behind them, replaced gradually by dim stretches of highway lit only by passing headlights and the occasional reflective sign flashing briefly in the dark.
Drogo drove in silence with his jaw set tighter than usual; one hand stayed firm on the steering wheel while the other rested against the door.
His discarded shirt lay sealed inside a plastic bag on the passenger floor, the faint scent of antiseptic from the spare he had pulled on mixing unpleasantly with what still lingered in his memory.
In the back seat, Mathieu — or Samson, as he had introduced himself — lay slumped against the leather, breathing slowly and heavily, as though exhaustion had overtaken him completely. The performance was now careful, subdued rather than dramatic.
