He walked around to the driver's side. Opened the door. Sat down.
And immediately forgot Patricia existed for three glorious, stupid seconds.
The Seraph's interior hit him like divine mockery. White leather seats studded with what had to be thousands of micro-crystals—each one catching the dashboard glow and turning it into a private galaxy of soft blue-white pinpricks.[1]
Not flashy.
Just… shimmering. Like someone had taken a clear night sky, folded it into a cockpit, and said, "Yeah, this is how rich people sit now."
The seats drank in every streetlight and neon sign from outside and multiplied them into tiny trapped stars that danced across the upholstery whenever he breathed.
