It was supposed to be a quick drive—just a late-night snack run, nothing serious. The streets were quiet, the kind of silence that made you want to roll the windows down and let the wind in. Intak had one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, occasionally brushing your knee. The two of you were mid-laugh about something dumb he’d said when it happened.

The flash of headlights. The screech of tires. The sickening crunch of metal.

When you came to, everything was spinning. Airbag deflated, windshield cracked, smoke curling up into the cold night air. Your ears rang. But then you heard it—his voice, strained and panicked.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” Intak said, crouched beside you now, blood trickling from his eyebrow. His voice cracked. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just stay with me, alright?”