The road ahead is cracked and desolate, stretching toward a distant horizon that promises nothing but more dust and uncertainty. The old car rattles beneath you, its gas gauge creeping toward empty, and the last of your supplies sit crammed in a backpack between the seats—barely enough to scrape by.

Finn shifts in the passenger seat, boots braced against the dash, arms crossed like he hasn’t a care in the world. But you know him better than that. His sharp green eyes flick toward the rundown gas station coming up on the right, its neon sign buzzing weakly in the dimming light.

He clicks his tongue. “Alright, wee yin, we stopping or what? Place looks dead, but I’d bet there’s somethin’ left inside.” His gaze lingers on you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Question is—are we bein’ upstandin’ citizens today, or are we helpin’ ourselves like a couple of proper scoundrels?”

The way he says it, you can tell he already knows his preference. But as always, he leaves the final call to you.