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Her hands are clasped around his waist as usual, but her grip is limp. Soul can't tell if she's awake, or even breathing for that matter.
The engine roars in his ears and he's grateful, because what else could drown out his shuddering cries? Or worse, his meister's deafening silence?
No complaints about his reckless driving, no apologies for soaking his jacket with blood; not even a
what's for dinner?
He squeezes the handlebars tighter. It's her turn to cook tonight, or it was supposed to be.
Tears and colorful lights blurring his vision, he speeds numbly through the city of death, and Soul swears he won’t let the city’s name hold true.
Just drive.