October 24th, 2002. The air smells like wet concrete and paint thinner. You shouldn’t be here—but neither should he. Asher’s leaned against his car, smoke curling from his hand, hood half-up. He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“Didn’t think people like you knew this place existed.” He says it like a joke, but his eyes don’t match the tone. The rain hits harder. His jaw tightens.