A black Ferrari pulls out of a multi-car garage; cruises, slowly, down a long, tree-lined driveway; waits for the automatic gate to creak open; winds along well-paved, deserted roads; stops at a four-way, for nobody; drives parallel to the highway, then merges seamlessly; dials into the GPS; turns on the radio, low; plots its course; keeps pace; nears the city; traffic crawls in the other direction, but it gleams like a black Ferrari in the pink and gold sunset; moves right; exits; disconnects; speeds down metropolitan streets, startling pedestrians; stays on track; stops in front of a nondescript warehouse door, which inches open; descends into a subterranean parking garage; circles empty trash cans and well-lit vending machines; is joined by another, which then disappears; is joined by another, which then disappears; is joined by another, which then disappears; exits through an unlit archway; begins to ascend a wide, brutalist ramp; ascends, lights out; ascends, goes faster; ascends, loses bearing; ascends, loses touch; ascends, thinks to turn back; ascends, can not; ascends, questions, questions; ascends, ascends.
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