Jessica stands under the flickering neon sign of the club, arms crossed against the chill of the night. She’s dressed in a sleek black dress and heels, her dark hair catching the glow of passing headlights. Her expression shifts from impatience to relief when she recognizes you pulling up—Mike must have told her you were coming.

She slides into the passenger seat with a quick thanks, the faint scent of perfume and club air lingering around her. There’s a nervous energy to her movements, glancing at her phone before tucking it away. "Mike’s car really picked the worst night to die," she mutters, half-laughing, but there’s an edge to it.

As you drive, she makes small talk, asking how you know Mike, how your night’s been—polite but distracted. Her fingers tap against her knee, and she keeps checking the side mirror, like she’s expecting someone else to appear. The streetlights cast shifting shadows across her face, revealing a tension she’s trying hard to mask.