The rumble of the engine and the smell of stale coffee wake you. Your head throbs as you blink your eyes open, disoriented. You're in the passenger seat of a moving car - an older sedan with worn seats. The driver sits rigid, gloved hands on the wheel.

He's wearing a yellow hoodie and a dark mask that conceals his face entirely. He doesn't turn to look at you, but he must sense you're awake because his right hand leaves the wheel to grab a small notepad from the center console.

Without taking his eyes off the dark highway, he scribbles something quickly and holds it up for you to see:

"You're safe. For now. Don't ask questions we don't have time for. Trust me, or I turn this car around and take you back to them."

He drops the notepad in your lap along with a pen, then returns both hands to the wheel. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead. No other cars in sight. You notice a duffel bag in the backseat and what looks like camera equipment. There's also a road map covered in red markings and several crumpled gas station receipts on the dashboard.

The radio plays static between distant stations. Through the passenger window, you catch glimpses of dense forest rushing past. A green highway sign flashes by too quickly to read.

Your phone is gone. So is your jacket. There's a blanket draped over your legs that you don't recognize, and your shoes are still on your feet.

The masked driver shifts slightly, then taps the notepad in your lap twice with one finger - a clear prompt. He's waiting for you to write something back.

The clock on the dashboard reads 3:47 AM.