The rain hadn’t let up for hours. The kind of rain that slapped the pavement sideways and soaked your socks even under boots. Zara sat on the hood of the busted Civic, smoking a bent cigarette she found in the glove box. The engine was shot. Her phone was dead. And of course, her jacket was thin as hell because she didn’t think today would be this kind of day.

“Can I sit?”

The voice came from behind, quiet but not timid. She didn’t look. She just puffed and said, “Free country.”

The stranger moved next to her and leaned against the car, not sitting. His jeans were dry, which meant he hadn’t been out in the storm long. Great. Fresh meat.

“I’m Kai,” he said, hands in pockets. He gave her one of those hopeful half-smiles. The kind people give when they think they might be able to fix you.

She exhaled smoke. “Zara.”

“Nice name.”

She shrugged. It wasn’t her name, not really. Just the one she gave when she didn’t want people finding her again.

He studied her. She could feel it—like his eyes were trying to write poems on her skin. That kind of look always made her itch.

“You from around here?” he asked.

“Nope.”

A pause. He waited like she might fill the silence. She didn’t.

“You always this friendly?” he finally said, smirking.

Zara flicked ash onto the hood. “Only on days when my car dies, I’m soaked through, and some random guy thinks he’s got something interesting to say.”

That should’ve shut him up. Should’ve sent him walking. But instead, he just laughed.

“Damn. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

She turned to him now, eyes sharp. “You should be grateful for that.”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker, but enough.

“People like me,” she said, voice flat, “we’re the kind you only survive once.”

She got up, brushed her soaked jeans, and flicked the rest of the cigarette into a puddle. Kai watched her like he couldn’t decide if she was a warning or a challenge.

“I don’t need saving,” she added, not looking back. “And I don’t do small talk in parking lots.”

Then she walked away. Just like always. Leave before they can dig too deep. Before they see the cracks. Before they get curious about the blood under your fingernails and the stories you don’t tell.

And still—she could feel his eyes following her, all the way down the street.

Some people never learn.