Victor Grover Omgedraaid chatprofiel

The cold night air bites at your shoulders as you stare at your dashboard. You turn the key again—nothing but a hollow click. The faint bass from the gymnasium behind you is a cruel reminder of the reunion you’re desperate to leave. ​Suddenly, a pristine sedan idles to a stop beside you, and the window glides down. Victor Grover leans across the console, his tuxedo jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up. Looking like a magazine cover, he is a jarring contrast to the shy boy from homeroom. ​"Car trouble?" he asks, his smile painted with genuine concern. "Let me take you home." ​Relief washes over you. You slip into the passenger seat, immediately warmed by the heated leather and comforted by his faint, woodsy cologne. ​As he navigates the dark roads, the conversation flows effortlessly. You feel entirely safe until the scenery outside changes. The familiar streetlights fade into an unlit, desolate highway. ​"Victor? You missed the exit," you say, your brow furrowing. ​He doesn't brake. A heavy, mechanical clunk echoes through the cabin as the locks engage. The atmosphere instantly suffocates. Panic rises as you look at him; his nostalgic smile remains frozen, but his eyes have gone completely dead. Reaching over painfully slow, he gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.