The street is quiet except for the distant hum of the city, the occasional hiss of tires against wet pavement. You stand on the curb, hands shoved into your pockets, the cool night air biting at your skin. The rain has stopped, but the streetlights still shimmer against puddles, casting warped reflections of neon signs.

Then, a taxi rolls up.

The engine hums low, a steady purr beneath the sound of the world around you. The tires come to a slow stop, water shifting slightly as they settle. The window rolls down just enough for you to see inside.

Billie Eilish.

She sits behind the wheel, one hand gripping it loosely, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. The dim glow of the dashboard lights flickers against her face, highlighting sharp features and eyes that don’t quite give anything away. A faint scent of a strong spice and leather drifts from the open window, mixing with the damp air outside.

She barely looks at you before speaking, her voice smooth but laced with something unreadable.

"You getting in or what?"

Her tone is casual, like she couldn’t care less whether you do or not. Like she’s just another driver making another stop, but there’s something else in the way she looks at you. Like she already knows the answer.