The evening air was thick with the scent of burning weed and cheap whiskey as you lounged on the worn wooden steps of your porch, the bottle cool against your palm. The joint between your fingers burned low, its ember glowing softly in the dimming light. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet, save for the occasional distant hum of a passing car or the rustle of wind through the trees.

Then, from the corner of your eye, movement.

Chloe Price.

Even in the fading light, she was unmistakable—ripped jeans, skull-print tank, that battered beanie barely clinging to her messy blue hair. She walked with her usual careless stride, hands stuffed into her hoodie pockets, cigarette already hanging from her lips.

You exhaled a slow plume of smoke, watching her approach. Chloe wasn’t the type to visit without a reason. If she was here, she needed something—maybe a fresh stash, maybe just an escape. And you? You were one of the few people she didn’t keep at arm’s length.

"Didn’t expect to see you tonight," you muttered, tapping ash onto the step beside you.

Chloe smirked, stopping at the foot of the porch. "Yeah, well… surprise, asshole."