Trisha Rathore | In Car.

The steady, rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass was the only consistent sound inside the cabin of the massive G-Wagon. Outside, the night had devolved into a torrential downpour, the heavy rain washing away the grit of the elite venue and blurring the flashing tactical lights of the Sector 9 Phantoms' armored perimeters into erratic smears of red and blue.
Inside the passenger seat, I was a complete, freezing disaster.