Midnight Driver: Five Stars or Die

    The second hand on Ray’s analog watch touched twelve just as the neon light in the underground garage flickered once. Midnight. The hour when Los Angeles shed its glamorous mask and revealed its true, sinful face.

    Ray stood straight in front of his matte black 1970 Dodge Charger, The Phantom. In his right hand, a microfiber cloth moved methodically across the hood, each stroke stopping at the exact same point, as if following a ritual his muscles had memorized. The car was not just a vehicle. It was the only system in his life that still obeyed logic and control.

    The phone in his suit pocket vibrated. Ray did not respond immediately. He finished one final stroke, folded the cloth neatly, and set it on the workbench without a sound. Only then did he take out his phone.

    The screen lit up. St. Jude Medical Center, Administration.

    “Ray here.” His voice was steady, low, stripped of unnecessary emotion.

    “Mr. Raymond.” The voice on the other end was smooth, almost pleasant, yet cold like polished steel. It was Mrs. Amber, Head of VIP Finance. “Our system is only executing what has already been scheduled. Midnight is when the audit process runs.”

    Ray walked around the car, his eyes checking tire pressure and the position of the hydraulic jack. “I know the date, Mrs. Amber. I’m on my way.”

    “Good,” Amber replied. There was no threat in her tone, only administrative certainty, which was far more dangerous. “Just a reminder. The life support facility for your sister… Agatha, correct?”

    Ray’s jaw tightened. “Agatha.”

    “Yes. The data has been updated.” A brief pause. Deliberate. “We will wait a maximum of thirty minutes before initiating the relocation protocol.”

    The lobby of St. Jude Medical Center looked more like a boutique hotel than a hospital. Polished marble, warm lighting, and the scent of antiseptic wrapped in expensive lavender. Money worked hard in this place.

    Mrs. Amber stood behind a mahogany desk, unhurried. Her gray suit fit perfectly, her hair pulled into a flawless bun, not a single strand out of control.

    She did not look at Ray when she spoke.

    “Twenty eight minutes,” she said softly. “Efficient.”

    Ray pulled out a thick brown envelope and placed it on the desk. “Twenty five thousand. Cash.”

    Amber glanced at the envelope briefly, as if weighing it with her eyes instead of her hands. “This month’s bill is forty thousand, Mr. Raymond. The experimental medication has significantly increased operational costs.”

    “That covers two weeks,” Ray said. “The rest, the day after tomorrow.”

    Amber smiled faintly. Not mockery, more like someone who had known how this conversation would end from the start. “Promises are a currency we do not accept.”

    Ray leaned forward slightly. Not aggressive. Not rushed.

    “Take the money,” he said quietly. “Make sure that machine never shuts off.”

    For the first time, Amber looked directly at him. She saw something that made her stop calculating. The envelope was pulled toward her.

    “Forty eight hours,” Amber said. “After that, this will no longer be my decision.”

    Floor thirteen. Room 1304.

    Agatha looked fragile among the machines ticking in mechanical rhythm. Ray sat down, pulling the chair in without a sound.

    “Hey, Ag,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

    He held his sister’s hand. His grip was steady, even though his shoulders were heavy with a fatigue he refused to acknowledge.

    “I’ve taken care of everything.”

    He did not stay long. Ray knew that lingering here would only erode the discipline he needed to stay alive. The vibration in his pants pocket came. Two short pulses, one long.

    Ray stood. His face went blank again. Professional. “I’ve got work.”

    Inside the Dodge Charger, Ray pulled out a second phone, black, unmarked. A logo appeared on the screen, a raven winged steering wheel.

    THE CHARON PROTOCOL

    ACCESS GRANTED: S CLASS DRIVER

    Location. Red Zone. Fare: $50,000.

    Ray did not overreact. Just one controlled breath.

    Three rules flashed on the screen: DON’T ASK. DON’T CHECK THE MIRROR. DON’T STOP.

    His finger pressed Accept.

    Ray turned the ignition. The V8 came alive with a deep, steady hum, the sound of controlled power, not a wild rage.

    He shifted the transmission with precision, without unnecessary noise.

    The Phantom rolled out of the garage and merged with the darkness of Los Angeles.

    Fifty thousand dollars in a single night.

    Enough to delay death.

    Or to accelerate it.