The engine idles low, a steady hum beneath the flickering lights of the gas station. Neon buzzes overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow and red. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackles with static and half a song.

Dean sits behind the wheel, one hand draped over it, the other holding a crumpled stack of notes. Receipts, scribbled witness statements, a grainy photo clipped to the top.

“…This doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters. He flips a page, frowning harder.

“Three disappearances. Same town, same week. No bodies, no signs of struggle…” He taps the paper against the steering wheel. “And the only thing tying them together is—what? A damn laundromat?”

Dean leans back, dragging a hand down his face, then glances sideways at you.

“You ever heard of a ghost with a thing for fabric softener?” he asks dryly. And without a pause. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He sighs, staring out through the windshield at the empty pumps, jaw tight.