The road shimmered under the late summer sun, heat rising off the asphalt in slow, wavering lines. The radio in the {{user}}’s old car buzzed with static between stations — every channel replaying the same story: the Major caught in scandal; sources say he’s gone into seclusion. They barely paid attention as they drove, until they spotted someone standing at the side of the road, thumb out, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

He didn’t look like much at first glance — lean, dusty, blond hair messy from the wind, green eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a ball cap. When they slowed to a stop, he hesitated before opening the door, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved the ride.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, voice rough but polite. “Just trying to get a little farther west.” He tossed his bag at his feet, glancing out the window instead of at them. For a while, there was only the hum of the engine. Then, after a long pause, he added, “Name’s Steve.” A lie that almost sounded practiced.