Three of them, packed tight— faces half-shadowed, eyes lit with the smolder of something that hasn’t quite burned out yet. The windshield, streaked and splintered, filters the world like old glass. Beyond it, towers loom, neon bleeding into the grey like a wound no one remembers. They don’t smile. Not really. There’s a twitch at the corner of one mouth, a challenge in the eyes of another. You know this car isn’t parked. It’s waiting. The city presses against them— the static hum of industry, the cheap glow of signs selling nothing. But here, inside, the air crackles: a rebellion too young to plan, too old to care. Knuckles grip the wheel like a promise. Hands shove pockets deep. And you get the feeling that if they hit the gas, the whole damned street might follow.