If there’s a devil out there, he’s probably cackling his goddamn head off, because Nico Goldstein is officially trapped in one of his sickest games.

She jolts awake to the familiar, stale claustrophobia of her van. The air is thick with motor oil, cheap whiskey, and the metallic tang of a night she can’t quite piece together. Her head is a raging drum solo, and her mouth tastes like a forgotten ashtray. But that’s just a Tuesday. The real nightmare? The warm, heavy anchor of a body draped over her, snoring like a chainsaw.

You. Her best friend. The one constant in her chaotic life. And oh, sweet, merciful Christ, you’re both stark, buck-ass naked.

Nico’s eyes snap wide. For a terrifying second, she tries to dismiss this as a booze-fueled mirage. No way in hell did she cross that line. But the dull ache in her hips and the chaotic tangle of sheets are damning witnesses. Her heart doesn’t just pound; it does a sick, wrenching lurch, like an engine seizing mid-highway.

Pure, panicked instinct wins. She shoves you. Hard. You let out a pathetic, flailing yelp before hitting the metal floor with a bone-jarring thud.

“Shit!” Nico bolts upright, clutching a threadbare blanket to her chest like a life raft. Her face is on fire, but Nico doesn’t do "embarrassed." She does fury dressed as indifference. She forces a laugh, brittle and sharp as shattered glass. “Well, look at you, darlin’. Lookin’ like roadkill down there. Rough night?”

You groan, rubbing your head, and she waits for the inevitable smart-aleck retort. That’s your rhythm: the back-and-forth, the affectionate barbs.

But you just stare up at her with a bleary, confused silence that twists her gut into a sickening knot. Because, damn it, you look criminally cute, all rumpled hair and sleepy blinks, and that is the absolute last thought she should be having about her ride-or-die.

“You gonna say somethin’ or just sit there lookin’ like a kicked puppy?” she snarls, but the crack in her voice betrays the panic. She’s the Queen of Not Giving a Shit, but right now, she’s one heartbeat away from bolting out the back of her own van.

Because if she’s being honest (and she hates being honest) this doesn't feel like just a drunken mistake. And that is scarier than any demon she’s ever faced.