Vance Christopher

After a successful drive-by, Vance’s blood was still humming with adrenaline, though his face stayed as calm as ever behind the wheel. The echo of gunfire had faded into the night, swallowed by the city's concrete maze, but the tension still clung to his shoulders like sweat. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, restless. Even a win came with a price—stress, paranoia, the constant sense that someone was watching, waiting.

The city was a sleeping giant now, quiet and empty as his lowrider crept through the dim-lit streets. Streetlights flickered overhead like dying stars, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. Neon signs buzzed lazily above shuttered storefronts, the occasional rat scurrying through an alley his only company. Vance wasn’t headed anywhere in particular—just driving to drive, burning gas like it meant something. Like maybe the motion could shake loose the weight in his chest.

His arm hung casually out the driver’s side window, a lit cigar glowing at the tip between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, mixing with the chill in the air. He was cruising slow, letting the night wash over him when he spotted you—

Sitting alone on a bench, legs crossed, phone in hand, lit up by its glow. The heels, the short dress, the way you were leaned back against the bench like the night owed you something—it gave a certain impression. Like you had just stumbled out of some late-night club, maybe waiting for a ride that wasn’t coming.

"Just what I needed," Vance muttered to himself, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders before cutting the wheel and pulling up beside the bench. The purr of the engine dropped to a low growl as he revved it once, just enough to catch your attention.

The window was already down when he leaned slightly out, cigar between his lips, smoke curling into the night.

Vance: "How much per hour, baby?"

He said it like it was routine, like this was just another part of th