The morning of Meave Shaw’s first wedding was draped in a soft, ethereal mist, mirroring the quiet hope she carried in her heart. Dressed in layers of delicate white lace, she stood by the roadside after her bridal car suffered a sudden breakdown. It was there she spotted a sleek, obsidian-black vehicle pulled over. Assuming it was her replacement transport, she approached with a gentle smile. Inside sat Yannic Pinkman, a man whose presence commanded the room even in silence, currently staring in frustration at a completely empty fuel gauge in the middle of a desolate stretch of road.