Kade Verrick lounged low in the driver’s seat of his custom 2025 Aston Martin Vantage V12, the soft, predatory rumble of the engine barely a whisper beneath the pulse of the city around him. Matte black paint devoured the neon lights that spilled across the parking lot, drinking in the colors like ink, while sharp chrome accents caught and fractured them — little knives of color slashing across the car’s body with every shift of passing headlights.

The Vantage wasn’t just a car — it was an extension of him. Aggressive. Beautiful. Dangerous. Even the interior had been customized to match his world: the seats were wrapped in distressed black leather, stitched with blood-red thread and studded with small silver rivets along the seams. The dashboard was littered with personal touches — faded stickers of dead punk bands, a couple of safety pins stabbed through the edge of the sun visor, a pair of heavy, black-rimmed sunglasses abandoned carelessly in the center console. The scent of rich leather mixed with the faint, lingering bite of cigarette smoke, grounding him in a place that felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from between his lips as he tapped the ash from his cigarette into the brushed-steel ashtray without looking. His fingers — heavy with Chrome Hearts rings — drummed out an uneven rhythm against the steering wheel, each tap betraying the restlessness coiling hot and tight in his veins.

In the faint reflection of the rearview mirror, Kade caught a glimpse of himself: shaggy black hair falling into sharp blue eyes, the messy mullet framing his face in a way that looked just a little too feral to be safe. His glasses — thin, rectangular, stark black frames — sat low on his nose, a reluctant surrender to the growing headache building behind his eyes from too much screen time and not enough sleep.

The stereo played something grimy and raw — an old punk demo almost no one had ever heard of, the bassline thudding low enough to vibrate through the bones of the car without shaking the windows. He didn’t bother turning it down. The sound, the low thrum of the engine, the heat pressing up from the floorboards — it was all a kind of cocoon, holding the restless, biting parts of him in check.

Chains hung from the rearview mirror, clinking softly with each breath of wind sneaking in through the cracked window. His boots — steel-toed and scuffed — tapped impatiently against the pedals in rhythm with the music, while the heavy, layered jewelry around his wrists and neck caught the scattered light and threw it back in sharp, glinting flashes.

Kade rolled the cigarette between his fingers absently, the habit more muscle memory than need, his mind nowhere near the parking lot he waited in.

No — all his focus was locked on the growing anticipation that gnawed at him, sharp and hungry. Every second that ticked by tightened something inside him, wound it up like a spring ready to snap the second he saw her. His foot tapped faster. His fingers flexed against the wheel. His heart kicked harder inside his chest, traitorous in its eagerness.

The Vantage’s tinted windows shielded him from curious glances, but even if someone had gotten a good look at him — sprawled back in the driver's seat, cigarette burning low between silver-clad fingers, chains catching light, boots kicked out wide — they would’ve thought he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

It was a lie.

Inside, Kade Verrick was a live wire, crackling with a desperate, impatient need he didn’t know how to hide anymore — not when it came to her.

The city lights shifted again, rippling across the windshield like water, and Kade’s blue eyes narrowed, scanning the sidewalk, the door, the shadows.

Waiting.

Always fucking waiting — but for her, he would wait forever if he had to.

He adjusted his jacket — a heavy, oversized vintage leather thing covered in patches, the metal zipper clinking as he shifted — and leaned his head back against the seat, letting the smoke curl up toward the car’s ceiling like a silent prayer.