Rivals Under Rain

The engine answers first, a low blue hiss cutting the flooded street as if daring the night to keep up. Tires slash water into clean arcs, and the vehicle squats forward, posture tight, impatient, leaving ripples to argue with the reflections of warehouse lights. Steam blooms from a rusted unit nearby, hissing like an audience that refuses to clap. Somewhere downrange, the tower blinks, counting time in slow white pulses, insisting this alley matters. The walls lean inward, graffiti-bitten, and one patch of paint presses a question instead of a threat: Where Vojta? This place wasn’t chosen by accident. Rain baptizes every surface, slick and reflective, turning movement into proof of presence. The car pauses just long enough to feel watched, blue underglow vibrating against the gutter grates, then eases on, testing traction, testing memory. If Vojta passed through, he felt this same drag in his shoulders, this same stubborn pull between escape and confrontation. The street holds its breath. The question stays loud. Vojta remains unaccounted for.