The transition from the bright fluorescent lights of the supermarket to the dim, leather-scented interior of Theron's car felt like stepping from a stage into a sanctuary. The car doors clicked shut with a muffled, expensive thud, effectively sealing out the rest of the world, the bustling parking lot, the grey afternoon, and the lingering, oily ghost of Mark's presence.
Theron sat in the driver's seat, his hands resting at ten and two on the steering wheel. He hadn't started the engine yet. He just stared through the windshield, his profile etched in the fading daylight like a Roman coin, sharp, regal, and currently clouded with a rare, heavy layer of contemplation. In the back seat, the groceries sat in their neat paper bags, the mundane items a strange contrast to the high-stakes adrenaline still vibrating in the air.
