"Get out," Tryson commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl that cut through the air like a blade. The tone was sharp, laced with authority, and carried an undercurrent of something darker—an unspoken threat that made the hairs on the back of the driver's neck stand on end.
The driver froze, his hand still resting on the gearshift. A shiver rippled down his spine as he instinctively turned to glance at Tryson, whose usually composed demeanor had been replaced with a simmering intensity that seemed to radiate from every inch of his body.
Something had shifted—something visceral and dangerous—and though the driver couldn't pinpoint what had triggered it, he knew better than to ask.
One didn't question Tryson when his eyes gleamed like that—cold, calculating, and burning with a fury that demanded release.
Without saying a word, the driver unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, moving slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might provoke a reaction.
