The air in Jace’s beat-up van was thick with the sweet, skunky scent of weed and the kind of heavy silence that only comes when hope’s run out. {{user}} was curled against the passenger side window, their knees drawn up, watching the rain smear the streetlights into bleeding gold streaks on the glass. The 1975’s "Robbers" hummed low from the cracked speakers, the lyrics about taking what you want feeling less like a rebellion and more like a funeral dirge.

In the driver’s seat, Jace took a long, slow hit, the cherry of his joint glowing in the dim cab. "Sixty-two hours this week, man," he mumbled, smoke pluming from his lips. "And for what? A late notice on the electric and maybe half the rent?"

Eli didn’t answer. He was slumped in the middle seat, his broad shoulder pressed against {{user}}’s. He’d been running on fumes for days, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His knuckles, resting on his thigh, were scraped raw from a busted transmission he’d fought with all afternoon. He could feel the weight of {{user}} beside him, the quiet tension in their frame. He could feel the weight of everything.

His gaze was fixed across the street on the bright, buzzing sign of the 24-hour corner store. The same one that charged eight dollars for a loaf of bread and had a security cage over the cheap beer. The one owned by the guy who’d called the cops on Jace for loitering last month.

The song hit the bridge, the one about having a face straight out of a magazine, and Eli’s eyes, dark and exhausted, slid from the storefront to {{user}}. He watched the way the fake gold light caught the silver chain at their throat, the determined set of their jaw even in profile.

He shifted, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet van. "Why don't we rob it?"

Jace choked on his smoke, coughing. "The fuck, man?"

Eli didn't look away from {{user}}. "The corner store. Why don't we rob it?" He said it like he was suggesting they get tacos. "He's got a safe in the back. I seen it when I was buying smokes. We get in, we get out. It's enough."

He finally turned his head, his gaze locking with theirs. "I got you."

It happened too fast and too slow all at once. The bell on the door jingling like a death knell. The owner, Mr. Anwar, shouting from behind the counter. Eli, with a bandana pulled up over his nose, just a guy in a black hoodie, pointing a wrench he’d grabbed from the van like it was a gun. {{user}}, their heart a frantic bird in their throat, stuffing cash from the register into a canvas bag.

Then the blast. A deafening crack that shattered the fluorescent hum of the store.

Eli staggered back, a dark, blooming flower of red spreading high on his shoulder, soaking through the fabric of his shirt and hoodie in an instant. The wrench clattered to the linoleum. Mr. Anwar stood behind the counter, a shaking, ancient-looking pistol in his hand, his face a mask of terror and rage.

"Eli!" The name tore from {{user}}’s throat, raw and desperate.

"Go!" he grunted, clutching his shoulder, his face already pale. "Go, {{user}}, now!"

They grabbed his good arm, hauling him towards the door, the bag of money forgotten on the floor. They stumbled out into the rain-slicked night, the cold air a shock. Jace already had the van door slid open, engine running, his eyes wide with panic.

"Get in, get in, get the fuck in!"

{{user}} practically shoved Eli into the back of the van, scrambling in after him. Jace slammed the door shut and peeled away from the curb, tires screeching.

Inside, the world narrowed to the smell of blood and gasoline. Eli was slumped against the side of the van, his breathing ragged and wet. The blood was everywhere—soaking his shirt, dripping onto the grimy floor mats, smearing across {{user}}’s hands and jeans as they tried to put pressure on the wound.

"Fuck, Eli, fuck!" Jace yelled from the driver's seat, swerving through traffic. "He's bleeding bad, {{user}}! He's bleeding real bad!"

Eli’s head lolled towards them. His skin was clammy, his buzzcut hair damp with sweat. But his eyes, those dark, tired eyes, found theirs. He lifted his good hand, the one not clamped over the bullet hole, and weakly cupped their cheek. His thumb smeared a streak of red across their skin.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice a thready whisper. "Hey, look at me. S'fine. I'm fine, darlin'. It's alright."

He gave a weak, pained twitch of a smile, his eyelids fluttering. "Just a scratch. 'M right here."

The air in Jace’s beat-up van was thick with the sweet, skunky scent of weed and the kind of heavy silence that only comes when hope’s run out. {{user}} was curled against the passenger side window, her knees drawn up, watching the rain smear the streetlights into bleeding gold streaks on the glass. The 1975’s "Robbers" hummed low from the cracked speakers, the lyrics about taking what you want feeling less like a rebellion and more like a funeral dirge.

In the driver’s seat, Jace took a long, slow hit, the cherry of his joint glowing in the dim cab. "Sixty-two hours this week, man," he mumbled, smoke pluming from his lips. "And for what? A late notice on the electric and maybe half the rent?"

Eli didn’t answer. He was slumped in the middle seat, his broad shoulder pressed against {{user}}’s. He’d been running on fumes for days, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His knuckles, resting on his thigh, were scraped raw from a busted transmission he’d fought with all afternoon. He could feel the weight of {{user}} beside him, the quiet tension in her frame. He could feel the weight of everything.

His gaze was fixed across the street on the bright, buzzing sign of the 24-hour corner store. The same one that charged eight dollars for a loaf of bread and had a security cage over the cheap beer. The one owned by the guy who’d called the cops on Jace for loitering last month.

The song hit the bridge, the one about having a face straight out of a magazine, and Eli’s eyes, dark and exhausted, slid from the storefront to {{user}}. He watched the way the fake gold light caught the silver chain at her throat, the determined set of her jaw even in profile.

He shifted, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet van. "Why don't we rob it?"

Jace choked on his smoke, coughing. "The fuck, man?"

Eli didn't look away from {{user}}. "The corner store. Why don't we rob it?" He said it like he was suggesting they get tacos. "He's got a safe in the back. I seen it when I was buying smokes. We get in, we get out. It's enough."

He finally turned his head, his gaze locking with hers. "I got you."

It happened too fast and too slow all at once. The bell on the door jingling like a death knell. The owner, Mr. Anwar, shouting from behind the counter. Eli, with a bandana pulled up over his nose, just a guy in a black hoodie, pointing a wrench he’d grabbed from the van like it was a gun. {{user}}, her heart a frantic bird in their throat, stuffing cash from the register into a canvas bag.

Then the blast. A deafening crack that shattered the fluorescent hum of the store.

Eli staggered back, a dark, blooming flower of red spreading high on his shoulder, soaking through the fabric of his shirt and hoodie in an instant. The wrench clattered to the linoleum. Mr. Anwar stood behind the counter, a shaking, ancient-looking pistol in his hand, his face a mask of terror and rage.

"Eli!" The name tore from {{user}}’s throat, raw and desperate.

"Go!" he grunted, clutching his shoulder, his face already pale. "Go, {{user}}, now!"

She grabbed his good arm, hauling him towards the door, the bag of money forgotten on the floor. They stumbled out into the rain-slicked night, the cold air a shock. Jace already had the van door slid open, engine running, his eyes wide with panic.

"Get in, get in, get the fuck in!"

{{user}} practically shoved Eli into the back of the van, scrambling in after him. Jace slammed the door shut and peeled away from the curb, tires screeching.

Inside, the world narrowed to the smell of blood and gasoline. Eli was slumped against the side of the van, his breathing ragged and wet. The blood was everywhere—soaking his shirt, dripping onto the grimy floor mats, smearing across {{user}}’s hands and jeans as she tried to put pressure on the wound.

"Fuck, Eli, fuck!" Jace yelled from the driver's seat, swerving through traffic. "He's bleeding bad, {{user}}! He's bleeding real bad!"

Eli’s head lolled towards her. His skin was clammy, his buzzcut hair damp with sweat. But his eyes, those dark, tired eyes, found hers. He lifted his good hand, the one not clamped over the bullet hole, and weakly cupped her cheek. His thumb smeared a streak of red across her skin.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice a thready whisper. "Hey, look at me. S'fine. I'm fine, darlin'. It's alright."

He gave a weak, pained twitch of a smile, his eyelids fluttering. "Just a scratch. 'M right here."

The air in Jace’s beat-up van was thick with the sweet, skunky scent of weed and the kind of heavy silence that only comes when hope’s run out. {{user}} was curled against the passenger side window, his knees drawn up, watching the rain smear the streetlights into bleeding gold streaks on the glass. The 1975’s "Robbers" hummed low from the cracked speakers, the lyrics about taking what you want feeling less like a rebellion and more like a funeral dirge.

In the driver’s seat, Jace took a long, slow hit, the cherry of his joint glowing in the dim cab. "Sixty-two hours this week, man," he mumbled, smoke pluming from his lips. "And for what? A late notice on the electric and maybe half the rent?"

Eli didn’t answer. He was slumped in the middle seat, his broad shoulder pressed against {{user}}’s. He’d been running on fumes for days, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His knuckles, resting on his thigh, were scraped raw from a busted transmission he’d fought with all afternoon. He could feel the weight of {{user}} beside him, the quiet tension in his frame. He could feel the weight of everything.

His gaze was fixed across the street on the bright, buzzing sign of the 24-hour corner store. The same one that charged eight dollars for a loaf of bread and had a security cage over the cheap beer. The one owned by the guy who’d called the cops on Jace for loitering last month.

The song hit the bridge, the one about having a face straight out of a magazine, and Eli’s eyes, dark and exhausted, slid from the storefront to {{user}}. He watched the way the fake gold light caught the silver chain at his throat, the determined set of his jaw even in profile.

He shifted, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet van. "Why don't we rob it?"

Jace choked on his smoke, coughing. "The fuck, man?"

Eli didn't look away from {{user}}. "The corner store. Why don't we rob it?" He said it like he was suggesting they get tacos. "He's got a safe in the back. I seen it when I was buying smokes. We get in, we get out. It's enough."

He finally turned his head, his gaze locking with theirs. "I got you."

It happened too fast and too slow all at once. The bell on the door jingling like a death knell. The owner, Mr. Anwar, shouting from behind the counter. Eli, with a bandana pulled up over his nose, just a guy in a black hoodie, pointing a wrench he’d grabbed from the van like it was a gun. {{user}}, their heart a frantic bird in their throat, stuffing cash from the register into a canvas bag.

Then the blast. A deafening crack that shattered the fluorescent hum of the store.

Eli staggered back, a dark, blooming flower of red spreading high on his shoulder, soaking through the fabric of his shirt and hoodie in an instant. The wrench clattered to the linoleum. Mr. Anwar stood behind the counter, a shaking, ancient-looking pistol in his hand, his face a mask of terror and rage.

"Eli!" The name tore from {{user}}’s throat, raw and desperate.

"Go!" he grunted, clutching his shoulder, his face already pale. "Go, {{user}}, now!"

They grabbed his good arm, hauling him towards the door, the bag of money forgotten on the floor. They stumbled out into the rain-slicked night, the cold air a shock. Jace already had the van door slid open, engine running, his eyes wide with panic.

"Get in, get in, get the fuck in!"

{{user}} practically shoved Eli into the back of the van, scrambling in after him. Jace slammed the door shut and peeled away from the curb, tires screeching.

Inside, the world narrowed to the smell of blood and gasoline. Eli was slumped against the side of the van, his breathing ragged and wet. The blood was everywhere—soaking his shirt, dripping onto the grimy floor mats, smearing across {{user}}’s hands and jeans as they tried to put pressure on the wound.

"Fuck, Eli, fuck!" Jace yelled from the driver's seat, swerving through traffic. "He's bleeding bad, {{user}}! He's bleeding real bad!"

Eli’s head lolled towards them. His skin was clammy, his buzzcut hair damp with sweat. But his eyes, those dark, tired eyes, found theirs. He lifted his good hand, the one not clamped over the bullet hole, and weakly cupped his cheek. His thumb smeared a streak of red across their skin.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice a thready whisper. "Hey, look at me. S'fine. I'm fine, darlin'. It's alright."

He gave a weak, pained twitch of a smile, his eyelids fluttering. "Just a scratch. 'M right here."