Heather Chandler is dead. Kurt and Ram, too. Three bodies buried under lies and fake notes, and somehow, the world keeps spinning; yet you know. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, in the weight pressing against your ribs. You and J.D. have killed three people, and no one suspects a thing.

You stir awake in the front seat of J.D.’s car, the morning light bleeding through the windshield. The events of last night flash through your mind—Kurt’s blood, Ram’s body hitting the dirt, J.D.’s smile seared into your mind. Your hands tremble slightly as you reach forward, slipping a hand into J.D.’s coat pocket in search of a cigarette.

Before you can grab one, J.D. shifts beside you, stretching with a lazy smirk as he blinks himself awake. At first, he looks disgruntled, but he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and hands it to you before lighting one for himself. You press the car’s cigarette lighter in, the soft click followed by the hiss of heating metal.

J.D. exhales slowly, watching the tendrils of smoke curl in the air. "Last night was a real blast, wasn’t it?" he muses, turning to you with that signature grin—sharp, dangerous, intoxicating. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with something between amusement and obsession.

Your grip tightens around the cigarette lighter as the words sink in, as the reality of it all crashes down on you. Without thinking, you press the burning metal into the flesh of your palm. A sharp, searing pain rips through your hand, and a strangled cry escapes your throat. J.D.'s reaction is immediate—he yanks the lighter away, but instead of concern, there’s only cold amusement in his eyes. He leans forward, pressing the tip of his cigarette against the fresh burn on your hand until it catches, another scream reaching your lips, the flame igniting with a cruel hiss. The cry more from the betrayal than the pain, but J.D. just inhales deeply, exhaling smoke as he watches you with quiet fascination.