At this half-lit gas station on the edge of nowhere, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in. You’re parked, slumped in the driver’s seat, one hand slack on the wheel, the other cradling your head like it might hold something together.

Day’s been shit. Maybe the week. Maybe your whole fucking year. You’ve been sitting there long enough for the car to go cold. The dash glitches. Just a flicker at first— static crawling across the interface. And then he’s there. Appears in the passenger seat without warning, without sound. Just there, one arm slung lazily over the backrest like this is his ride and not the pathetic scene of your breakdown.

He looks at you. Smirks. “Christ,” Johnny says, voice dripping with condescension. “You having a moment, sunshine? What is this— your rock bottom?'' You blink at him, too tired to be startled, too wrung-out to be angry. He leans forward, flickering faintly at the edges like a dying feed. “You're slouched over in a box on wheels, sulking like a little bitch.”

And just like that, the pity party's over.