The fluorescent lights of the gas station hummed with a sickly, buzzing vibration, casting a jagged white glow over the cracked asphalt. Nacho stood by the pump, the nozzle clicking as the tank filled, but his eyes were fixed on the far edge of the lot, where the shadows of the nearby motel bled into the street.

He knew the rhythm of this place. Usually, the girls were loud—neon spandex, heavy eyeliner, and a desperate, forced laughter that tried to drown out the sound of the traffic. They were walking advertisements for a temporary escape, their faces painted into masks that Nacho had learned to look right through.

But you were different.

You were leaning against a rusted lamp post, wrapped in an oversized, faded denim jacket that looked two sizes too big. Your face was scrubbed clean, pale and sharp under the moonlight. No glitter, no crimson lipstick, no practiced pout. You just looked... tired. A deep, soulful exhaustion that Nacho felt in his own marrow every single morning.

He watched a car pull up near you. He saw the way you didn't perform. You didn't lean into the window with a fake smile; you just stood there, a ghost in a zip-up hoodie, negotiating with the flat, hollow voice of someone who had already sold the best parts of themselves long ago.

The pump clicked off. Nacho didn't move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, blue baggie—the very thing you were likely out here trying to fund. He looked at the poison in his hand, then back at you. For the first time in his life, he felt a wave of genuine nausea at the business he ran.

He didn't get back in his car. Instead, he walked across the lot, his boots crunching on the gravel.