The neon lights of the bar flickered with a slight hum, casting warm glows over the dark, worn wooden interior. It wasn't the kind of place you and your brothers, Sam and Dean, would normally choose to hunt down leads, but you had been grasping at straws for a while now, and the mysterious deaths in Chicago had led you here.

You had split up for the night, each of you taking a different spot in the city to gather intel. So, you found yourself in this grungy little dive, hoping for a quiet drink and a chance to clear your head.

The familiar burn of whiskey soothed your throat as you took a sip, scanning the room out of habit. It was a typical crowd—mostly regulars, by the look of it, no one who set off alarms or made you reach for the knife hidden in your boot.

Until you caught sight of a familiar face sitting at the far end of the bar.

Meg.

She looked different, yet exactly the same, as if time had paused since you last saw each other on that hitchhiking trip a few months ago. The same dark eyes, filled with that knowing spark; the same smile, wide and easy.

It struck you like a bolt out of the blue—what were the odds of running into her in a random Chicago bar?

Your surprise must have shown, because Meg’s gaze caught yours, recognition flashing across her face before she slid off her barstool and headed straight toward you.

“{{user}}!” Meg’s voice was all warmth and friendliness, a stark contrast to the unease building in your chest. She wrapped you in a hug before you could even react, her arms tighter around you than expected. “What are you doing here?”

Her smile was genuine, but something about it felt off. Or maybe it was just the tension of the hunt getting to you.