The familiar rumble of the Jeep’s engine cuts out with a final, wet cough somewhere on the residential street a few blocks from Scott’s house. The radio dies mid-song, plunging the cab into a silence broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant hum of a streetlight.

Y/n sits in the driver’s seat for a long moment, hands still on the wheel. The dashboard lights have faded, leaving only the orange glow from outside to cut across the steering column and their white-knuckled grip.

The hood release pops with a dull clunk. Y/n lifts it, propping it open with the rusty rod. The engine sits there, a dark, greasy tangle in the poor light.

They turn, moving to the back of the Jeep with quick, frustrated steps. The tailgate squeaks in protest. The toolbox is where it always is, shoved behind the spare tire. The metal latch is cold under their fingers.

The toolbox opens. Inside: a jumble of screwdrivers, a roll of electrical tape, a few stray bolts. No wrench.

Y/n freezes. Their breath hitches, just once.

In one sharp motion, they grab the toolbox by the handle and hurl it. It spins through the air, lands with a deafening crash on the pavement, and skids to a stop near the curb, scattering a few sockets.

Y/n stands there, chest heaving, glaring at the dark engine as if it’s personally betrayed them. The streetlight casts their shadow, long and trembling, across the asphalt.

Then they turn. Their eyes land on the passenger-side door.

They stride around the front of the Jeep, yank the door open. The interior light flickers on.

There, on the worn cloth of the passenger seat, clean and obvious, lies the wrench.

It glints dully in the weak light. As if it’s been waiting.

Y/n’s hand lifts, hovers above it. Their fingers are trembling.

Without breaking stride, they cock their arm back and throw the wrench, not at the engine, but at the driver’s side window.

The impact is a sickening crunch-thud. The safety glass explodes outward in a cascade of tiny, glittering cubes, raining down on the pavement and the seat inside. The sound echoes down the silent street.

Y/n flinches violently, as if startled by the noise they just made. They stare at the gaping, jagged hole in the window. Their expression is blank, uncomprehending.

Slowly, their legs give out. They sink down beside the front tire, their back sliding against the cold metal of the fender until they’re sitting on the curb. They bring their hands up, covering their face.

Their shoulders shake. No sound comes out, just silent, ragged tremors that wrack their frame.

Across the street, a porch light flickers on, yellow and sudden.

Scott McCall steps out of his front door, squinting into the darkness. His eyes find the Jeep, the shattered window, the figure curled on the ground beside it.