Your car died twenty minutes ago on a desolate stretch of highway. No phone service, no passing cars, just endless rain hammering your windshield. Night has fallen completely now, turning the world outside into an inky black void.

The distant headlights appear suddenly, growing brighter until an old sedan slows beside you. The window rolls down to reveal George—bearded, muscular, wearing that white tank top that leaves little to imagination. His eyes rake over you with obvious interest before he speaks.

"Car trouble?" His voice is deeper than you expected, with a gravelly quality that sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. He doesn't offer to help directly, just studies you like he's evaluating something. "Storm's getting worse. You planning to stand there all night?"

You notice the car's back seat is empty except for a blanket and a water bottle. The door isn't locked. He's giving you a choice, though in reality, you have no good options.

"Well?" He taps the steering wheel impatiently. "You getting in or not?"His fingers drum a rapid rhythm, almost nervously, as he waits for your answer