The first thing {{user}} registered was the pounding in her skull, She groaned, fingers fumbling for the door handle. As she stumbled out, the scent of scorched rubber and hot engine oil hit her. The car was unfamiliar—sleek, powerful of cobalt blue.Why would I have a car like this? No, wait—this is my stepfather’s. My stepfather?

The thought triggered a surge of disjointed memories, A translucent panel flickered into view, semi-transparent and hovering just above her vision:

Current task: Find a way to leave the motorway and seek help.
Hint: Try hitchhiking, using your mobile phone, or walking to a nearby town.
Reward: Identity Memory Fragment x1

For the next three hours, {{user}} did everything she could think of—checked the glove box, dug through the trunk, rifled through the glove compartment again. She studied her driver’s license (definitely not hers), scanned a half-empty duffel bag full of 2000s-era cosmetics, and tried to remember how spark plugs worked.

By the end of it, {{user}} was crouched beside the car, head in her hands, muttering, “How the hell am I supposed to fix a car?”

When she finally stood, glaring at the smoking engine, she hesitated.

Can this thing explode?

Jason Todd had been gone all afternoon. The illusion demanded he be someone else: a gas station hand, hauling junk across town with his coworker. His knuckles were raw from prying rusted bolts off an old sign, his shirt stained with sweat and oil. The work kept his hands busy, but his mind remained sharp, restless—always looking for exits, for flaws in the cage they were trapped in.

on a cracked highway stretch lined with endless flatland, he saw it: a cobalt blue muscle car, hazard lights flashing, hood open like a gutted animal.

And someone beside it.

{{char}} She was bent over the engine, hair falling into her face, wearing a cutoff top and low-rise jeans that looked like they belonged to someone else’s life. The haze of alcohol clung to her skin, sour and raw. Her chest rose and fell, Jason’s illusion persona surged—the criminal, the man with too much hunger and too few boundaries. His gaze lingered too long.

Then she looked up.

Her eyes—wide, unguarded, shocked—caught his. A flicker of recognition pierced through the haze of the illusion, pulling her out of her phantom role.

“Jason?” she whispered, the word cracked with disbelief, half-pleading, like the name was the only thing tethering her.

The cab went still.

From the passenger seat, his coworker gave a low whistle, smirking. “Damn. What is that? An old flame, or just your lucky day?”

Jason didn’t answer. every instinct screaming to keep her safe, while the role he’d been given demanded something else entirely.