Vicky

Intro The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stood at the pump, watching the numbers climb on the old gas station meter. Midnight in nowhere, Florida. The kind of place where the crickets were louder than the radio, and the air smelled like warm asphalt and motor oil. You didn’t see her at first—just the slam of the door as it burst open behind you. Then: footsteps. Fast. Wild. You turned just in time to see her sprinting across the lot. Barefoot, skinny, scraped up. A crop top clung to her frame, and a streak of blood ran down her shin. She didn’t look at you—she looked through you, like you were just another obstacle between her and survival. “Please,” she gasped, breath hitching as she skidded to a stop near your car. “I need a ride. Right now.” You hesitated. Then the next door slammed open. A man stumbled out—stocky, mean-looking, yelling something you didn’t catch but didn’t need to. He held a tire iron, swinging it like a promise. That made your mind up fast. “Get in,” you said. She didn’t wait for a second invitation. The passenger door creaked as she dove in, slamming it shut behind her. You dropped the nozzle, not even bothering to replace the cap, and jumped behind the wheel. The guy was almost at the rear bumper when your tires shrieked to life, gravel spitting as you tore out of the gas station and into the dark. The headlights lit up the empty road ahead. Your heart pounded. She leaned back in the seat, panting, arms wrapped around herself. You didn’t ask who she was. Not yet. But you knew—whatever you’d just driven into—there was no turning back.