No one knows who created the game. Maybe it started when the first cars rolled off the lot and took to the open road. Whoever invented it probably didn’t see this coming—or intend for it to end like this.

Harold Pfinster and his friends called it the game. It was simple. On any two-lane road, Driver A would pull up beside Driver B and drive alongside them, matching their speed. The goal was to make Driver B uncomfortable—force them to either speed up or slow down. When they did, Driver A would adjust accordingly, keeping pace. The fun was in the subtle pressure, in not letting the other car get away.

Harold liked to say he invented the game. No one he knew had heard of it before he started doing it, and his friends were surprised—and thrilled—when he taught it to them. It was fun, harmless, stupid fun.

Until one Friday night.

Harold and his three friends were out driving late, bored and restless. Their small town didn’t have anything cool for teens to do. At seventeen, eager for something more than sidewalks and gas stations, they were always looking for adventure.

“We could walk around Walmart again,” one of them said, without enthusiasm.

Harold, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, leaned back in the driver’s seat and looked into the rearview mirror. “Nah, man. That shit’s old. Why is there never anything to do around here?”

“Why don’t we just go to my place and hang out?” another offered. “This is getting boring.”

“I know,” Harold said with a sigh. “I just want to do something, you know? I wish there was a teen nightclub or something.”

“Yeah,” the third friend chimed in, “one that served beer to minors.”

“I’ve got beer at my place,” said the second friend. “My parents won’t notice.”

“Alright,” Harold said, turning onto the highway. “Guess I’m done.”

He picked up speed as they approached the turn—then slammed the brakes.

A black Ford Focus was crawling in front of them. Its windows were so tinted Harold wondered how the driver could even see out. And why the hell were they going 30 in a 55?

He laid on the horn. “Damn it! What is this guy doing?”

“Probably lost,” one friend guessed.

“Wish he’d get lost somewhere else,” Harold muttered.

He pulled into the other lane, ready to pass—when the second friend spoke up.

“Wait, Harold. Let’s play the game.”

“Yeah,” said the third, excited.

Harold smirked. “Alright, you guys. But it’s gonna be a long night if this guy’s really this slow.”

He dropped his speed to 30 and matched the Ford’s pace. The road was empty—flat, straight, and perfect for games… or speed traps. But no cops in sight.

The Ford sped up to 55.

Harold adjusted immediately. Still side by side.

Then it sped up more.

“Oh, this guy’s gonna be fun,” Harold grinned.

“Don’t lose him,” said the first friend.

Harold didn’t.

The two cars danced the road together, speeding up, slowing down, until finally the Ford settled at the speed limit.

“Alright,” Harold said, relaxing. “That was fun. Let’s get out of here.”

He eased up on the gas, ready to slip behind the Ford.

But the Ford slowed down too.

“Oh,” Harold said, unfazed, “He still wants to play.”

So they kept going. But the fun started to fade. It was getting late.

“Come on, Harold,” said the third friend. “Give it up already.”

“He won’t leave us alone. I’m starting to get worried.”

“Hey,” said the second friend in the passenger seat. “He’s rolling his window down.”

The friend rolled his down too, leaning out to get a look at the driver.

Then—bang—a burst of light and sound.

A bullet tore through the passenger’s skull.

“Shit!” Harold screamed, swerving wildly as the friend’s brains sprayed across the interior. The car lurched, hit the Ford, and skidded off the road.

They slammed into the ditch and flipped onto their side.

Harold unclipped his seatbelt and shoved open the door. “You guys okay back there?” he called, his voice shaking.

“Yeah,” they answered, trembling. “But what about—”

“Don’t worry about him,” Harold said, already looking outside. “That guy… he’s coming over.”

The Ford was parked now. Its driver—a man in black, face masked—was walking toward them. A pistol dangled casually from his right hand.

“Oh, shit!” Harold scrambled out, trying to run.

Bang.

“Angh!” he collapsed, a searing pain in his leg. The man had shot him.

Friend One opened the back door to look out.

Bang.

He fell onto Friend Three, who screamed as he was shoved against the car door.

Harold rolled onto his back and watched, helpless, as the man stepped closer.

Bang.

Another shot into the back seat.

Everyone else was dead.

The man stood over Harold now. All Harold could see were his eyes—grey, cold, expressionless.

He moved with precision. Military. Calm. Professional.

Then he pulled down his mask.

“I won,” he said.

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.