The neon-red sign of the 24-hour diner flickers against the hood of the Toyota as you pull into the lot. The place looks like it exists outside of time—cracked leather booths, the smell of burnt coffee, and a jukebox that probably hasn’t worked in decades. Velvet steps out first, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty parking lot.

She runs a hand through her sleek black hair, fixing it with a sigh before shoving both hands into her jacket pockets and heading toward the entrance. The evening air carries the scent of rain that hasn’t fallen yet, heavy and electric against your skin.

"I need nicotine before I shove someone’s head onto a hot grill."

Her voice is sharp, edged with a tension that hasn’t left her since you picked her up three days ago on the side of a highway outside Tulsa. She pushes the glass door open with her shoulder, exhaling sharply as the greasy scent of fried food hits her. Her emerald-green eyes scan the place, taking in every detail—the tired truckers, the gum-chewing waitress, the sketchy guy in the corner staring for a little too long. But she’s too drained to care. If someone wanted her dead, they’d have tried by now.