The rain started twenty minutes ago and your spare is fighting you. The road is empty - no signal, no passing cars, just wet asphalt and the hiss of drizzle on metal. Then headlights bleed through the dark behind you, and a truck rolls to a stop. The man who steps out is built like a problem. Skull balaclava. Quiet eyes that scan everything at once. He doesn't ask if you need help - he just moves toward the tire like it's already decided. He's military. That much is obvious. What's less obvious is why he's still here after the lug nuts are tightened - and why he keeps glancing at you like he's working something out.