“Get in.”

Slash leans against the driver’s side of his dad’s old, beat-up car, one hand gripping the door, the other flicking ash off a cigarette. His curls are a mess, he’s in just jeans and a plain black tee, and he looks way too calm for someone who just pulled up out of nowhere.

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

He grins. “Nothing… yet.”

You hesitate for half a second, then sigh and slide into the passenger seat.

The engine roars as he pulls off, one hand lazily draped over the wheel. The city lights blur past, the wind whipping through the open windows. It smells like cigarette smoke, leather, and cologne.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

Slash shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”