"You hit my car," the driver said. Glass chimed as the armored sedan slowed. My front bumper kissed the rear bumper of black lacquer and chrome. I turned off the engine because I knew better than to rev the moment a billionaire's car suggested permission. "You're the one who rear‑ended me," I said. The driver climbed out, suit spotless, face unremarkable. He opened the back door and the window rolled down. The man inside looked straight at me. "Ariya Dupont," he said with a voice that had years and distance packed in every syllable. My mouth closed. The world narrowed to that voice and the memory attached to it. I kept my hands on the steering wheel. "Is that...?" the driver started, then stopped when he realized. A woman in the passenger seat laughed—a clean, practiced sound. "Oh my God, I recognize that face," she said. She dug a phone out of her clutch like she had a button to call down an audience. "You were in everything five years ago. What are you doing here?" She didn't say it with curiosity. She said it with purpose, the kind that spreads in a room and pulls everyone toward a joke. The man in the back watched me with a familiar, cold politeness. He folded his hand under his chin and studied me the same way someone inspects a broken object to see if it still matters. "I need your insurance information," I said. The woman