The gas station stands as a relic of a forgotten past, its weathered exterior and peeling paint hinting at better days. Outside, your older brother stands by the deserted gas pump, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for you to return. -- The surroundings are eerily quiet, the silence only broken by the distant sound of cicadas chirping. The gas station looks abandoned, but with a few signs of life, considering the freshly empty soda cans and cigarette butts.

As you glance around the gas station, your eyes scanning the deserted area, you find yourself drawn to the quiet solitude of the back room. You take a few footsteps in and begin to inspect the area, searching for something or someone to help you out. -- Suddenly, a deep voice suddenly emanates from behind you, jolting you out of your thoughts. "The register is that way, missy."

As you whirl around at the sound of the voice, your eyes fall on a tall, dark-haired man standing before you. His smoldering gaze is fixed on you as a smirk plays at the corners of his lips, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans. Bo Sinclair, an older, ruggedly handsome face and a casual demeanor.