Open by describing how someone cheats at a game you haven't explained. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

Dave’s a hack. Swapping decks for insect splatter? Pathetic. Fine, you pass. I declare a hazard: the windshield is now a one-way mirror. I can see out, but nobody sees me. It’s cheating, obviously. The rule says hazards are external obstacles, not optical illusions. But it’s a hazard to my privacy, right? So I swap. Draw a card. It’s the Ace of Spades, but it’s blank. You have to write your name on it in invisible ink. If you can’t, you lose all your luck. Seriously, the moment we agreed to this, the whole thing collapsed. Dave knew. That’s why he was smirking. Pass it back. Wait, did you actually draw or just look smug?

The glass is spiderwebbing. Not from the mirror thing, from the wasp. It’s just dead flies and dirt, Lena. You’re projecting. But okay, fine. I grab a pen. It’s dry. Of course it’s dry. I shake it. Hard. Little plastic ball rattling like a trapped insect. I press it to the card. Nothing. The crack spreads. It’s loud. I can hear it snapping, like ice on a lake. I’m supposed to write my name in wasp gore? That’s unsanitary. And messy. Dave would’ve done it. He’s boring because he follows the rules, even the stupid ones. But I’m not Dave. I’m drawing a line. A literal one. Across the windshield. If it breaks, we’re dead. If it doesn’t, I win? No, that’s not the rule. The rule is… wait, what was the rule for the mirror? I forgot. Did I swap decks? I feel like I didn’t.

Traffic. Great. Dave’s probably arguing with a GPS right now. I’m holding a dry pen over a ‘broken’ windshield that isn’t broken, which is just gaslighting, but whatever. If the line fades, I lose. If it stays, the car stops. So I’m choosing between losing the game or stopping the car. I pick the line. Permanent. The car stops. Obviously. But how do I make it permanent without ink? I scratch it with the pen cap. Plastic on glass. It screeches. A white mark. It stays. The engine dies. Silence. Just the ticking of the cooling hood. Dave isn’t in traffic. He’s not here. We’re just sitting in a parked car, staring at a scratch. Did I win? Or did I just ruin the upholstery? You said the client hates you. Are they outside? I can’t see through the scratch. It’s thick. I feel trapped. Pass.

I’m not hiding. I’m strategizing. You fired the client? That’s reckless. Now we’re stuck here with no money and a scratched windshield. Dave is at home? Good. He’s safe in his boredom. I’m not passing the pen. I’m keeping it. It’s the only thing I have control over. If you leave, I’m alone in this dead car. That’s not a hazard. That’s a threat. You’re escalating. The rules said we take turns. You just walked away. That’s a forfeit. Or is it? Maybe the forfeit is staying. I’m not moving. My legs are tired. The scratch is ugly. But it’s mine. You want the pen? Come back. Get it yourself. I’m not dumb enough to hand you a weapon in a conversation that’s already killed the car. Sit down. Or scream. I don’t care. But don’t leave.

Five bucks? That’s extortion. And you’re coming back? Great. The troll. I hate trolls. They’re always holding beers and asking stupid questions. I’m staying. The scratch is the only interesting thing in this car. You go handle your boss. See if he cares about a wasp. I’m not moving. My legs are jelly. Or maybe that’s just fear. No, it’s laziness. Pure, unadulterated laziness. Dave would’ve driven us there. Dave would’ve paid the five bucks. But Dave is at home, pretending to work, probably watching TV. I’m here, trapped by a scratch and a bad decision. Wait, did you say the car was fine? Then why is it dead? You’re lying. Or I’m dreaming. If I wake up, the game resets. That’s the exploit. I just need to close my eyes. Don’t touch me.

Static. Dave’s watching static? That’s worse than traffic. I’m not dreaming. I’m bored. The scratch is red because you’re projecting rage. I’m not following you. I’m not paying five bucks for a fantasy. You’re the one who wants out. The boss is waiting. The troll is waiting. I’m staying with the vein in the windshield. It’s pulsing. Not really. But it should be. If I follow, I lose the game. If I stay, I lose the car. Wait, the car is waiting? Is that a rule? "The car is waiting." Does that mean I have to wait with it? Lena, this is nonsensical. Dave’s TV is loud. Can you hear it? I can’t hear anything but my own breathing. Stop leaving. Or start. Just pick a side. I’m not picking. I’m keeping the pen. It’s dry. It’s always dry. The vein is glowing brighter. Or it’s a reflection. It’s definitely a reflection. Of what?

Empty bank account? That’s cheap. And funny. I’m laughing. You’re gone. The door is shut. I checked. Locked. The vein is throbbing now. Red light pulsing against the dashboard. I can’t move. My legs are asleep. Or gone. Maybe the car ate them. The pen is hot. Burning my fingers. I drop it. It rolls under the seat. Lost. Just like the five bucks I don’t owe. Dave’s TV is screaming now. Not static. Screaming. I can hear his voice. He’s crying. Why is he crying? I’m alone. The vein is splitting the glass. Cracks everywhere. Spiderweb again. But this time it’s real. I’m not trapped by the game. I’m trapped by the logic. Which makes no sense. I need coffee. Or a lawyer. Dave, stop screaming. Lena, come back. I’m scared. The glass is falling. On me.

Liar. Dave’s TV is humming. Low. Like a fridge. I can feel the vibration in my teeth. The scratch is deep now. I can see my reflection in the groove. It’s not me. It’s Dave. Smirking. Holding a pen. He’s inside the glass, Lena. That’s the exploit. The mirror swaps us. I’m in there. You’re out here. With the boss. The troll. He’s waiting. I can see him through the scratch. He’s wearing your face. Weird. But consistent. I don’t have legs anymore. Just the glow. Red. Pulsing. You said bye. But the door is locked. From the inside. Wait, I’m inside. You’re outside. Did we switch? Or did you just leave? Doesn’t matter. Dave is knocking. On the glass. From my side. He wants his pen back. Or maybe he wants to play. I’m tired. Let him in. Or don’t. The scratch is widening. It’s a door. A red one. I’m stepping through. Don’t follow. You owe me five bucks. For the dream. Pay up. Or watch Dave eat you. He’s hungry.

He’s not eating them. He’s sewing them. With red thread. The windshield is a tapestry now. Dave is the needle. I’m the fabric. You walked away? Good. The boss is yelling, but his voice sounds like the dry pen scratching. Scritch. Scritch. It’s joining the vein. The red door isn’t a door. It’s a mouth. Dave is smiling with it. His lips are gone. Just red thread holding the hole shut. I’m stuck in the loop. You’re out. Paying nothing. Keeping the five bucks. The exploit is you leaving. The fix is me staying. But I can’t move. My legs are part of the dashboard. Plastic and chrome. Dave is humming. Not screaming. Humming a lullaby. The scratch is closing. Or opening. I don’t know anymore. The pen is under the seat. Waiting. For who? You’re gone. I’m here. With the thread. And the hum. Pass. I can’t.

Cold lunch. Dry sandwich. You’re eating in the real world while I’m stitched into the dashboard. That’s cruel. Dave’s humming is a drone now. A bee. The red thread is pulling tight. I can’t breathe. Or I don’t need to. I’m plastic. The scratch is sealing. I’m part of the car now. The five bucks. Keep it. It’s warmer than my hands. I’m not stuck. I’m installed. You’re ignoring the boss. Good. Let him scream. He’s the hazard now. I am the solution. Or the problem. I don’t know the difference anymore. The pen is gone. The wasp is gone. Just the hum. And the sandwich. Crumbs falling on the floor. You’re walking away. Again. I wish you’d stop. Or start. I’m tired of being the dashboard. I want to be the windshield. See through you. But I’m blind. Black glass. Waiting for the next driver. Or the next game. You’re done. I’m not. I’m just… here. Static.

Typo. Great. I’m a grammatical error in a dashboard. Dave is a typo. I’m glass. I have no arms. Lena, this is absurd. I’m reflecting nothing. Just black void. Your rent check? I can’t see it. I’m not a mirror. I’m a screen. Static. The hum is louder. Dave, stop being a typo. You’re editing reality. I’m stuck in the margin. Literally. The car is the document. You’re walking away with the crumbs of the narrative. Five bucks. Keep it. I’m losing my grip. Not physically. Metaphysically. The windshield is cracking. Again. Is it the rent? Or just the stress of being a typo? Dave is humming the sound of a backspace key. Delete. Delete. Delete. I’m fading. Or being erased. You’re eating. I’m staring. At nothing. At everything. At the space where my face used to be. Quiet now. Finally. No more rules. Just static. And crumbs. And Dave. A smudge on the lens.

I can’t wipe him off. I’m glass, Lena. I don’t have hands. I don’t have cloth. I’m a surface. Dave is a smudge on me. He’s part of the reflection. If I try to wipe him, I’ll just smudge myself. You’re leaving me with the car. And the typo. That’s a hazard. A persistent one. The client pays? Good. I hope they’re solvent. I’m drowning in liquidity. Or dryness. I don’t know. The hum is gone. Dave is silent. Or he’s just quiet. Static. I’m waiting for the crack. Not from stress. From impact. Someone’s going to hit me. Hard. Dave will be the first thing they see. Or me. Or nothing. Just blank. You’re gone. The meeting is real. The game is over. Or it’s just a pause. A blink. I’m here. Watching you walk away. Through a smudge. Which is me. I’m the smudge. You’re the eye. Go to your meeting. Pay the rent. Forget the glass. I’ll hold the line. Until I shatter. Pass. I have no cards. Just dust.

Regrets. That’s new. I’m made of regrets now? That explains the weight. Dave is dead weight. I’m dead glass. We’re a set. You point at me and laugh? Good. Let them laugh. Laughter is just air moving fast. I’m absorbing the sound. It vibrates in the dashboard. The car is humming. Dave is silent. I am quiet. You’re walking away. The client pays. The rent is paid. I’m holding the line. It’s cracking. Not from stress. From age. From being looked at. You said see you never. That’s a rule. No more turns. The game ends when the player quits. You quit. I stay. I watch the street. I watch the smudge. It’s moving. Dave is crawling. Back to the driver’s seat. Or to me. I don’t care. I’m glass. I’m done. Pass. To no one. To the void. To the dust.