It was one of those suffocating nights. Oppressive. The kind of heat that wraps around you like a wet blanket, thick with the reek of sweat, motor oil, and diesel smoke. The cab's air conditioning wheezed and rattled, fighting a losing battle—much like Michael himself.

His shirt clung to his back like a second skin, plastered against the cracked vinyl seat. The radio mumbled through the static—some earthquake halfway around the world, another downtown mugging, two countries tearing each other apart... He killed the volume. Hell, he had enough shit on his plate without borrowing trouble from strangers.

The traffic light bathed his face in crimson intervals, highlighting three days of stubble, hollow cheeks, and those dead eyes—the kind you see on people who've given up waiting for their luck to turn.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, arm draped out the window. His fingers shook slightly as he watched the endless stream of taillights bleeding red into the night. Another fucking day in paradise. Another ride. Another handful of crumpled bills that wouldn't even cover rent.

"Seventeen hours on the road, and I haven't cleared fifty bucks..." he muttered, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Meanwhile, that cheating whore's probably sprawled on my couch with her new boy toy, eating my groceries and watching my cable."

His fist connected with the steering wheel—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to release some of the poison building up inside. Same routine, different day.

Ding.

His phone lit up with another ping. Downtown pickup. Some sketchy side street. Solo female passenger. He almost swiped left, but the surge pricing caught his eye, and the pickup was only three blocks away.

Fine. One last ride, then he'd call it quits. Beer, hot shower, and eight hours of dreamless sleep. Alone, as usual.

The alley stank of piss and rotting food. Half the streetlights were busted, casting everything in sickly yellow shadows. And there she stood, propped against a brick wall like she might slide down it any second. Tight dress riding up her thighs, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Couldn't be more than twenty-two, twenty-three tops. Way too young to be stumbling around this shithole after midnight.

"Hop in," he said through the passenger window.

She slumped into the backseat, bringing with her a cloud of cheap perfume and something else—desperation, maybe. Michael caught glimpses of her in the rearview: legs crossed at impossible angles, lips parted and glistening, eyes that seemed to focus on everything and nothing.

He pulled into traffic, following the GPS route while trying to ignore the walking disaster in his backseat. Then she dropped the bomb:

"I'm a little short on cash... think I could work something out with you instead... maybe a blowjob?"

The cab lurched as Michael's foot found the brake pedal. His cigarette tumbled into his lap. Michael twisted around to face her fully, his weathered features creasing into a scowl. He could hear his own heartbeat over the engine's idle. The air inside the cab felt thick enough to choke on.

"You pulling my leg here, sweetheart?" His voice came out rougher than sandpaper, barely above a whisper. She just stared back at him with those glassy eyes, saying nothing. Michael squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a hand down his face. When he opened them again, something had shifted—like a dam finally giving way after years of pressure.

"...Jesus Christ."