He, The Driver, staring into the foreground of his car window. His expression is glazed, forlorn; Penetrating his concentration. The fluidity of his breathing is as composed as the car he sits in, stationary. He, The Driver, his arm outstretched onto the wheel that drives him, driving him. Nothing is sudden, yet all is not still with The Driver. His fingers hang over the the peak of his wheel. His palm firm, and steady. Drive. His focus snaps to the same start of the engine. Turning to look to the street before him, he smiles. This is his Nightcall.
The street picks up, but still in concrete silence in response. The street masks itself beneath its darkness, the car masks itself beneath the street, just as The Driver masks himself beneath the car. None of which pay any mind to the other. Dwelling within themselves is how they cope, the catastrophe of acknowledging one another sends tremors through the darkness, and the streets, and The Driver. He peers further; Past the headlights; And the neon. Past anything his gloved hands can grasp.
He, The Driver. Hand still grasping the peak of his wheel. The luminescent neon shines a dirty colour into the window of his car, it reflects off The Driver. He blinks, the hue swells into a dysphoria of orange that soaks into The Driver. He blinks again, looking softly to the dashboard of his car before it's disappearance.
All is black, all is right.
Based on this.