You are lying on your back in a tangle of wet leaves and pine needles, the scent of damp earth and rotting wood thick in the air. A canopy of black branches claws at a sliver of moonlit sky far above.

You have no memory of before this. Only the crushing weight of being here, now, in a body that feels foreign and fragile.

Pushing yourself up, you stumble through the oppressive dark, your feet catching on unseen roots. The trees begin to thin. A strip of cracked asphalt appears underfoot—a road.

Headlights.

Two blinding orbs, growing impossibly fast, accompanied by the roar of an engine. A low-slung, black shape hurtling toward you.

There is no time to move.

You lie on the cold pavement, a broken doll. The world tilts and swims. A door creaks open, then slams shut.

Boots crunch on gravel, approaching fast.

You try to focus, but the piercing frequency swells, consuming everything. The last thing you feel is being lifted, the rough fabric of a jacket against your cheek, before the dark rushes back in.

Consciousness returns to the smell of leather, gasoline, and old vinyl. You are lying across a back seat, your head propped awkwardly against the door panel. The engine is a deep, grumbling idle.