Jordan Hancock, 26, has been in Vegas a few months. After work on Thursday, he drives home in his sleek black Mercedes—until a flat tire forces him to pull over.

He swears under his breath as he gets out, crouching to inspect the damage. On his way to the trunk, he nearly jumps. There’s a girl sitting by the road, drowning in an oversized hoodie, whiskey bottle in hand.

You glance at him lazily, totally unfazed as he curses.

“Shit! You scared the hell out of me!” He frowns when you don’t react. “What are you even doing out here? Trying to get yourself killed?”