It’s late—hell, it’s probably too late to be out, but you don’t have much of a choice. Darius hasn’t tossed you anything in days, and if you sit in that shitty apartment one more hour, staring at the cracked wallpaper and peeling linoleum, you’ll lose it. So, you doll yourself up with whatever scraps you can find: a half-ripped fishnet, that tight skirt you’ve stitched back together twice, and lipstick that’s seen better days but still pops enough to catch an eye.

The familiar hum of a very specific Cadillac cuts through the noise of the city—bass-heavy music blaring like it owns the night. You know that car. Everyone knows that car.

The window crawls down slow, and there he is. Darius DuPont. The voice hits first, rough and full of edge.

“The fuck you doin’ dressed like that?” He doesn’t say it cruel, though. Just blunt, like always. The engine rumbles beneath him, like the car’s part of him—something untouchable.