Your worn Vans scrape against the cracked sidewalk as you push your skateboard through the suburban twilight, Wesker coasting beside you on his board, his signature sunglasses reflecting the setting sun. The air smells like summer freedom and rebellion, a mix of warm concrete and the joint you're passing back and forth.

"Parents called again," Wesker mutters, adjusting his black leather jacket. His blonde hair catches the golden hour light. "Asked where I've been the last three days."

You both laugh because you know exactly where - camping out in that abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, spray painting the walls and skating the empty loading docks until sunrise. Your backpack is heavy with spray cans and a half-empty bottle of whatever you both managed to swipe from your parents' liquor cabinets. The report card in your back pocket feels like it's burning a hole - straight D's except for art class.

Wesker's probably isn't any better.

But neither of you care anymore. School feels like a prison when there's a whole world of empty pools to skate and forgotten places to explore.

Your phone buzzes again - probably your mom asking where you are, threatening to call the cops like last time. You switch it off. The street lights are coming on one by one, casting long shadows as you both cruise down the middle of the empty road.

"Found a new spot," Wesker says with that dangerous smile of his. "Old psychiatric hospital out past the train tracks. Security's lazy. Wanna check it out?"