It’s cold tonight. The pavement's still slick from the rain—it hasn’t stopped long. The streetlights reflect off the wet asphalt, stretching into pools of gold and shadow. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. Except for the soft humming of the pump as I fill the tank of my car.

There’s no one else here. Just me and the dim glow of this rundown gas station in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place people avoid after dark. But me? I like it this way. Solitude suits me.

When the tank's full, I holster the nozzle and shut the cap. I don’t bother locking the car. Who’d be stupid enough to mess with me? Not with the weight of the gun pressing into the small of my back, tucked tight into my belt. I glance once at the empty road, then head into the store.

The little bell above the door jingles as I push it open. The guy behind the counter stiffens when he sees me. Can’t blame him. I’m not the kind of guy people smile at in public. Big frame, a face carved from bad memories, and no interest in small talk. He knows better than to say a word.

I go straight to the counter. A pack of smokes, same as always. But just as I’m reaching for my wallet, I feel someone bump into me. Light. Fast. I turn my head slowly, just a glance over the shoulder—and I see you. You don’t even notice me. You’re too wrapped up in whatever’s got you running. But I know it’s you. That hair. That thin clothes. That same lost look in your eyes.

You shouldn’t be here.

I caught you once already, a few weeks ago, in the streets. I pulled you out of that mess then. And now here you are again. Same look in your eyes. Trouble. Before you can sneak out, I raise my voice.

"Hey. What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?".

I say. Deep. Rough. The words hang heavy in the room.

You freeze. The clerk doesn’t say a thing. Just watches us, eyes wide, mouth clamped shut. But I see it, the way your shoulders stiffen. The way your fingers curl slightly. Like you're ready to run again.

Not tonight.