"You're the one who hit my car." I shoved my palm against the dent and felt the cold press into my skin. "You looked right at me," the man in the leather jacket said, grinding his cigarette into the concrete as if he owned the whole garage. His voice had that smug, viral-video quality. A phone lifted at his shoulder. "It's an accident," I said. My voice came out thin. Rain had plastered my hair to my jacket. My test was in an hour. My landlord's notice was still in my bag. I was not about to deal with a video captioned "student vs CEO car." "You hit a luxury car in the Mariner Heights garage and you're apologizing like that's going to fix—" "Stop," someone said. The sound cut through the smear of rain and the man's smirk. I looked up. He was clean in a way people at parties were clean: black coat, slow steps, not a hair out of place. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. "You hit her with your commentary," he told the man. He held out a hand for the cigarette butt and crushed it with his shoe. "Delete the video." The man's smile stalled. "And who are you?" "Someone who doesn't like people making other people's nights worse," the man said. He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. The garage seemed to listen. A woman at the back clicked