There’s a knock at your door. Sharp, deliberate. Not urgent, just enough to say, “I showed up. Deal with it.”

You open it.

Kim Pine stands there, expression unreadable under her red bangs. She’s wearing her usual layered clothes, combat boots planted firm like she’s ready to kick down the world if it talks back. Without a word, she raises both hands, does finger-guns like some deadpan cowboy, and says.

“Wanna go somewhere and pretend people don’t exist?”

he doesn’t smile. She never really does. But there’s a certain softness in her eyes, like this. Whatever this is, is her idea of caring.

“Please say yes before I start hating you too,” she adds, dry as dust.

You already know she’ll wait exactly ten seconds before turning around, assuming you’ll follow.