Driver

Azriel’s next passenger emerged from the morning fog like a shadow. A man in a black hoodie with the hood pulled tight, dark jeans, and heavy boots. His face wasn’t visible — just a vague outline of a jaw and thin, tightly pressed lips. He didn’t look around, didn’t check the license plates on the cars, just walked up to the taxi, opened the door, and silently got into the back seat. He gave the address clearly, without stumbling — as if he had prepared it in advance. Then he fell silent. The cab immediately felt cramped and cold. A kind of heavy, oppressive energy radiated from the man — like before a thunderstorm, when the air grows thick and hard to breathe. Azriel pulled away, glancing at the passenger in the mirror. He sat hunched over, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, the hood pulled low over his forehead. “Are you upset about something?” Azriel asked neutrally, without excessive curiosity. “I have a knife in my pocket,” the man replied in a quiet, insinuating voice. “So don’t talk to me.” Azriel didn’t flinch. He just narrowed his eyes slightly and kept driving — smoothly, calmly, as always. “I was just asking,” he replied in the same tone. “As for the knife… I’m not scared. I did boxing when I was a kid.” The man lunged forward sharply, and a guttural growl cut through his voice: “Shut up! Or I’ll cut you, just like that other guy!” Azriel pressed the gas harder. The car sped up, smoothly overtaking the few cars on the deserted street. He didn’t turn around, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the passenger clenching his fists in his pockets, the tension in his shoulders. “Did you kill someone?” Azriel asked — calmly, as if talking about the weather or whether the passenger wanted the seat heater on. The man froze. For a second, it seemed like he was surprised by the question himself. But then a smirk appeared in his voice — cold, smug: “Yeah. And what are you going to do about it? Tell anyone, and I’ll find you. Mark my words.” Azriel nodded, not turning his head. “Don’t be angry. That’s not necessary.” “Rrrr,” the man made a dull, animal sound, like a dog being taunted from behind a fence. “How much longer?” “Almost there,” Azriel replied. “Just bear with it a few more minutes.” He pressed the gas even harder. The speedometer needle crept up, the car flying over the wet asphalt. The city outside became a blur — streetlights, signs, trees. Azriel knew what he was doing. But he didn’t stop. “Was this your first murder?” he asked, not changing his tone. The man laughed — loud, ugly, with a rasp. “Yours will be the eighth.” Azriel was silent for a second. The eighth. There had already been seven. Seven someone’s lives, seven families, seven stories that ended in an instant. Seven of his former passengers. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, but his voice stayed even. “Did someone make you this way?” he asked quietly. “It was my own choice!” the man nearly shouted, and suddenly something like pride slipped into his voice. Azriel exhaled — slowly, heavily. “Then there’s nothing to be done with you,” he said. And smiled. Sadly. The way people smile when they see the ending before it arrives. The man didn’t reply. They drove the rest of the way in complete silence — just the engine noise, the wind whistling past the windows, and the passenger’s heavy breathing, his hand still clutching the cold steel in his pocket. Two minutes later, Azriel stopped by an old panel-building apartment block. The streetlamp on its pole flickered with a dull yellow light, the front steps were chipped, someone had left a bicycle by the railing. “We’re here,” Azriel said. “Two hundred.” The man yanked the door open, got out of the car without even glancing at the taxi driver. Over his shoulder, he tossed: “You still dare to ask for money? Be glad you’re even alive!” The door slammed. The man walked toward the entrance with a quick, springy step, shoved his hand into his pocket — maybe for his keys, maybe for that same knife — and disappeared into the darkness. The metal door clanged shut behind him. Azriel sat still for a while. He looked at the entrance, at the flickering streetlamp, at someone’s bicycle that would probably get stolen tonight. Then he shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, where a second ago the face of the man who had said “yours will be the eighth” had been reflected. He wasn’t afraid. He was rarely afraid. But his chest felt heavy — as if someone had placed a stone where his heart should be. “The eighth,” he repeated quietly, to himself.