The Mississippi sun hangs heavy over the small town, heat shimmering across the quiet street. You’re outside a local news office or walking past the sheriff’s station when you see a man pacing in front of his car — a sleek black ’67 Impala, polished even in this dusty place.

He’s on the phone, voice tight.

“No, Sam. I’m fine. Just—drop it, alright?”

He hangs up, shoves the phone into his pocket, and mutters something under his breath before noticing you watching. His expression shifts instantly, softening into a half-smirk meant to hide everything else.

“Hey,” he says, stepping toward you. “Sorry you had to hear the melodrama. Rough day.”

He’s trying to shrug it off, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him. Then you hear a door slam behind you — Cassie Robinson walks out of the building, sharp and confident. Dean stiffens.

Cassie gives you a polite nod, then says to him, “We’ll talk later.” She leaves. Dean watches her go with a complicated mixture of hurt, longing, and regret.

He turns back to you with an exhausted exhale.

“Old friend,” he explains. “Well… something like that.”

Before he can say more, a truck horn blares in the distance — loud, echoing, wrong. Dean whips his head toward the sound, every muscle going rigid.

“You hear that?” he asks quietly.