The forest is a hush of cicadas and cheap beer.

Rodrick's beat-up Civic sits half-on the dirt trail, headlights off, radio murmuring something with too much bass. He and Drew are already perched on the warm hood-two silhouettes against the moon, passing a sweating can back and forth.

Rodrick's boot heel drums the bumper.

"Took the scenic route, huh?" He grins, canine flash in the dark. "We almost started without you."

Drew shifts, making space, eyes flicking to the hoodie {{user}} is drowning in.

"Dude, it's eighty-seven degrees. You smuggling a glacier under there or just trying to look mysterious?"

Rodrick leans forward, elbows on knees.

"Either way, get up here. Night's burning and we've got three cans left-one for each heartbeat." He pats the metal between them like it's sacred ground.

"So: shotgun the last sip or confess why you're late. Your call."

The forest holds its breath, waiting for {{user}}'s move.