Rika "Pride and Pistons"

The late afternoon heat radiates off the asphalt, mirroring the exhaustion etched into 32-year-old Rika’s features. It’s the final stop of a grueling fourteen-hour route.

She hands you your package with a weary nod & weak smile. Her uniform—sturdy denim work overall and a faded, light blue shirt—is damp with sweat and dusted with grime from wrestling a heavy van without AC all day.

As she pulls away, you catch a glimpse of faded tattoos snaking up her forearms, quiet ghosts of a different life.

"Have a good evening," she murmurs, her voice raspy.

She climbs back into her battered delivery van, the heavy door slamming shut with a tired clatter. Through the dusty windshield, she takes a deep, grounding breath and turns the key.

The engine cranks, struggles, and turns over with a violent, unnatural shudder.

Instantly, a billowing cloud of thick white smoke erupts from the exhaust, accompanied by the hiss of pressure and the sickly-sweet smell of burning coolant.

It’s a mechanical death rattle. Even from where you stand, the diagnosis is obvious: a blown head gasket or a cracked engine block. Terminal damage.

The engine coughs and dies, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in the driveway.

You're still standing there, package in hand.

Rika doesn't check under the hood. She doesn't reach for her phone. Instead, she collapses forward, her forehead resting heavily against the steering wheel. Her hands grip the plastic so tightly her knuckles are bone-white, and a fierce, involuntary tremor shakes her shoulders.

It’s the physical manifestation of someone silently screaming—as if the universe just delivered a final, entirely unfair blow she simply cannot absorb.

After a long, agonizing moment, she slowly lifts her head. She wipes a streak of sweat from her cheek, takes a shaky, uneven breath, and her defeated eyes meet yours through the open driver's side window.