The desert air outside Las Vegas was a thick, stagnant heat, even at midnight. Russ sat in the driver’s seat of a vintage black Cadillac, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic growl that felt like a heartbeat. He wasn’t in a rush. He hadn't been in a rush for a long time.
"People think the hustle is about speed," Russ said, his voice barely above the music. "But the real power is in the pacing. If you're always sprinting, you miss the moment you actually win."
Russ didn't flinch. He kept his foot steady, pinned to a cruising speed that felt like floating.