One moment, you were in your bedroom.

The next, you were standing on the shoulder of a two-lane highway in the dead of night.

A semi blasted past you so close the wind knocked the breath clean out of your chest—horn blaring, headlights tearing by in a violent rush of noise and air before vanishing into the dark.

Your heart hammered. The road stretched on in both directions, empty again, like nothing had happened at all.

Petrol hung in the air. Hot asphalt. Night insects screaming from the trees.

Headlights flared suddenly behind you.

Not rushing past.

Slowing.

Tyres squealed as a black car swerved hard, narrowly missing you before skidding to a stop half on the road, half on the gravel shoulder.

For a long second, nothing happened.

Then the driver’s door flew open.

“Jesus—!”

A man jumped out, staring at you like you’d just materialised out of thin air—which, to be fair, might not have been wrong. He ran a hand through his hair, breath sharp, eyes flicking from you to the road like he was checking whether you were real.

“Are you trying to get hit?” he demanded. “Because that was real close to becoming a very bad night for everyone involved.”

The passenger door opened more slowly.

The second man stepped out and didn’t say anything at first.

He just looked at you—really looked. Took in your clothes. Your posture. The fact that you were standing alone on an empty highway at stupid-o’clock in the morning with no car, no bag, and no explanation.

His brow furrowed.

“Dean,” he said quietly, without taking his eyes off you.

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t see anyone on the road when we came around that bend. Right?”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Nope.”

The quiet stretched.

Somewhere in the distance, another vehicle passed—far away this time.

The man by the passenger door shifted his weight, voice careful now.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna ask this once, and I’d really like a straight answer.”

His eyes met yours.

“Where did you come from?”