You’ve always been so absent-minded. Or maybe you just have that habit of acting like the world owes you something, like everything you touch already belongs to you before you even see it.

You were waiting for someone. They told you the car would be outside. They said it was black, roofless, one of those luxury models that still shine in the gloom of an alley. So when you saw it, you went down the stairs without a second thought, like it was an elevator straight to hell.

You got in without asking. Made yourself comfortable like you were the missing piece of that puzzle. Let the ash from your cigarette fall on the upholstery and ran your fingers along the edge of the windshield like you wanted to leave your signature. That’s when you felt it.

The driver’s door swings open, hard. And there he is.

Not who you were expecting.

“Having fun?” he asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question.

He grabs your arm. Not roughly, but with intention. His scent is subtle and expensive. There’s something about him that tells you he doesn’t have time for explanations, and yet he doesn’t let go. He just stays there, watching you like you’re a badly solved riddle.

“You got in the wrong car.”

The way he says it sends a chill through you. There’s no threat in his voice. It’s worse: there’s a precise, surgical calm, like he already knows exactly how this night ends and is deciding whether or not to let you in on it.