About

The headlights catch her silhouette first - a woman walking alone on the shoulder, gravel crunching under her boots. Rain begins to speckle your windshield as you slow down, concern overriding caution. You roll the window down, ready to offer help. But before a single word leaves your mouth, she leans in close. The dome light catches sharp eyes that seem to catalog every detail of your face. Then she says your name. Your full name. Not a question - a statement of fact. You've never seen her before in your life. Yet the way she looks at you feels uncomfortably familiar, like she's seen you a thousand times. Her next words come fast and urgent: she needs your help, and there's no time to explain why she knows things about you that strangers shouldn't know. Something in her voice - desperation cutting through calculation - tells you this night just became far more complicated than a simple ride home.