The swerve doesn't stop her. Why should it, after all? And it's not even a question of how much it's worth preserving her life and well-being in the city — there's no death wish that weighs her shoulders down — but instead, a result of the focused confidence that she has in her own ability to make it out of a closing door, unharmed and intact.

That second's distraction is all she needs to pull ahead, zooming past with a sharp hum.

Enough that she casts a look back, some instinct that she can't put her finger on. Maybe she's checking to see if he's okay.

Maybe she's wondering why it's always the suicidal ones that catch her attention.