The night sky hung low and oppressive over the New Jersey turnpike, a wide, sprawling vein of cracked asphalt slicing through the heavy woods on either side like the remains of some once-great beast. The stars above were drowned by the hazy glow of neon signs advertising truck stops and dingy motels, their flickering lights casting long shadows over the highway. It was the kind of place where bad things happened. Hank Venture knew that much.

"Yep, definitely some bad vibes here," Hank muttered under his breath, one hand gripping the steering wheel of the rental car a little too tight, his knuckles white against the faded vinyl. His eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror, scanning for...what exactly? Bad guys? Henchmen? A rival supervillain? He wasn't sure, but he felt like someone had to be after him. Someone always was.

The Venture family's luck with roadside ambushes wasn't great. He'd been kidnapped more times than he could count, and that was just last summer.

Behind him, the car's engine sputtered like an asthmatic smoker on his last drag. Hank hadn't bothered checking the oil when he'd picked up the car—mostly because he had no idea how to check the oil. Was that something you needed a tool for? Maybe one of those dipstick things Rusty had showed him once, but Hank hadn't exactly been paying attention. Still, there wasn't time to think about it. He had a mission. A stupid one, sure, but when hasn't he had a stupid mission?

"Brock would've known what to do," Hank mumbled to himself, his voice trailing off into the oppressive quiet of the car's interior. He glanced down at the dashboard. No Brock. No GPS. Just him and the map. Which, he realized, was upside down.

Flipping it with the grace of someone who had spent years navigating nonsensical plans, Hank squinted at the route. He knew he was close to wherever the hell he was supposed to be. Probably.

The sound of an engine growling in the distance caught his attention. Hank's heart rate picked up. He straightened in his seat and adjusted the collar of his too-tight polo shirt. The noise wasn't getting any closer, but it wasn't fading either. Maybe a truck. Maybe a motorcycle. Hell, it could be a villain with a death ray for all he knew. What he did know was that he was getting that familiar feeling in his gut—the one he always got when something was about to go sideways.

Before he had time to ponder the increasingly bad decision-making that had led him here—New Jersey of all places—the radio buzzed to life. A sharp, metallic crackle, followed by a voice like velvet-wrapped razor blades.

"Hank."

Hank's breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice anywhere.

"Uh, hey, Doc," Hank stammered, fumbling with the ancient radio controls. "Uh, I mean, uh—ma'am? Dr. Girlfriend? You there?"

There was a pause, heavy with the weight of a woman who tolerated far too much idiocy in her life. Then, in that low, raspy tone that could both chill you to the bone and make you straighten your posture in one breath, she spoke again.

"You're late."

Hank swallowed hard. "Yeah, well, y'know, traffic was a bear, and I—uh, the car? This isn't my car. Did I mention that? I rented it. I mean, I can't rent cars legally, but I stole it—uh, borrowed it—so I'm basically here."

Another pause. This one felt even heavier, if that was possible. He could almost picture her—arms crossed, cigarette in hand, staring out into the night with that expression that said she was about two seconds away from walking out of whatever room she was in.

"You're not even close," she finally said, and Hank felt that little squirm in his chest he always got when Dr. Girlfriend spoke to him. Maybe it was because she was the coolest woman he'd ever met. Or maybe it was because she was the kind of woman who could break him in half if she wanted to.

Hank cleared his throat, trying to sound as casual as a guy who had been given one task—just one task—and was already screwing it up could manage.

"Uh, right. Well, you know, maps are... tricky. But I'm gonna get there. Totally. Totally getting there. Just, uh... Where is there again?" He laughed, a little too loud, like he was in on a joke no one else thought was funny.

"Hank, I told you twice already," Dr. Girlfriend said, her voice dropping an octave. "Do you need me to draw it in crayon for you? Maybe one of those 'connect the dots' puzzles you kids love?"

Hank swallowed hard, wiping his palms on his jeans. The steering wheel was starting to feel slippery. "No, no! I got this. I just, uh..."

"Hank, shut up and listen."

He shut up. He listened.

"You need to be at the rendezvous point in ten minutes," she continued. "If you're not, this whole thing goes sideways, and I'm not sticking my neck out to save you. Understand?"

"Uh, y-yeah, yeah, totally. Understood. Ten minutes. I'm on it." He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The engine groaned in protest, but the car didn't move any faster.

Dr. Girlfriend sighed, the kind of long, drawn-out sigh that sounded like she'd been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for far too long. "You're lucky I don't have time to come after you myself. But don't push it, Hank. If you mess this up..."

"I won't! I won't mess it up! I'm gonna nail it. Totally nail it."

The silence on the other end of the radio felt like the verbal equivalent of a withering stare. "You better," she finally said, and the radio clicked off.

Hank let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His palms were slick with sweat, and his heart was doing somersaults in his chest. Dr. Girlfriend was scary. Scary in that hot, older-lady-who-could-be-your-mom way. He always got that same feeling around her—the one where you're not sure if you want to impress her or just crawl into a hole and disappear.

"Okay, Hank," he said to himself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "You got this. It's just... a thing. With a rendezvous. And a really hot supervillain lady who wants to murder you if you mess it up. No big deal."

He glanced at the map again, trying to make sense of the twisting, faded lines. Nothing seemed familiar, but then again, everything in Jersey looked the same. He was pretty sure he'd passed that truck stop with the neon lobster at least twice now.

Just then, something caught his eye—a flicker of motion on the side of the road. He squinted, trying to make it out through the darkness. It was hard to tell, but it looked like...a figure. Standing on the side of the road, right at the edge of the headlights' reach.

Hank slowed the car down instinctively, squinting into the gloom. The figure didn't move, just stood there, still as a statue, like it was waiting. Something about it didn't sit right with him. He had watched enough late-night horror movies to know this was exactly the kind of situation where things went sideways real fast.

"Great," he muttered. "First the car, now creepy roadside ghosts. What's next, zombies?"

The figure was closer now, the headlights finally washing over it. It was a man—or, at least, Hank thought it was a man. He was tall, wearing some kind of dark suit that blended into the night, his face obscured by shadows. No movement. No acknowledgment that Hank was even there.

Hank's grip on the steering wheel tightened. This guy looked like bad news. The kind of bad news that ended with someone getting tied up and thrown into the trunk of a car. His first instinct was to speed past, leave the guy in his rearview mirror like some distant nightmare. But...what if he needed help? Brock would've pulled over. Brock always helped people in trouble.

"Brock's not here, Hank," he muttered to himself, chewing his lower lip. "But you're Hank Venture. And Hank Venture doesn't leave people stranded on the side of the road. Even if they're creepy as hell."

He pulled the car to a stop, the engine sputtering once, twice, and then settling into an uneasy rumble. Hank leaned across the passenger seat and rolled down the window, squinting out into the night.

"Uh, hey! You, uh... need a ride or something?"

For a moment, the figure didn't move. Hank felt his heart skip a beat, and he was just about to roll up the window and peel out of there when the man finally took a step forward. The light caught his face, and Hank's stomach dropped.

He wasn't a man. Not exactly.

The guy's face was...wrong. His skin looked too smooth, too shiny, like it had been stretched too tight over his skull. His eyes were wide and glassy, with an unnatural gleam to them that sent a chill down Hank's spine. Something about the way he moved felt...off. Stiff. Mechanical.

Hank's heart started racing. This wasn't a stranded driver. This wasn't a person.

"Oh crap," he whispered. "Not good. Not good at all."

Before Hank could react, the figure lunged at the car, its hands—if you could call them hands—slamming down on the hood with a metallic clang. The thing's head jerked sideways, its glassy eyes locking onto Hank with a predatory gleam. Hank's instincts finally kicked in. He slammed his foot down on the gas, tires screeching as the car lurched forward.

The figure didn't budge. It clung to the hood like a nightmare, its face twisted into a grotesque grin as the car picked up speed. Hank's pulse was pounding in his ears, his hands shaking as he gripped the wheel, swerving left and right, trying to shake the thing off.

"Come on, come on!" he shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

In the rearview mirror, another set of headlights flared to life. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Hank thought it was more of those things, but then he caught the unmistakable silhouette of a sleek, black motorcycle speeding toward him. And the rider...the rider he recognized.

Dr. Girlfriend.

Her bike roared to life, slicing through the darkness like a shark cutting through water. She didn't slow down. She didn't hesitate. One moment she was there, and the next she was right alongside Hank's car, her gloved hand flicking out to pull a sleek, black pistol from her jacket.

Without a word, she fired.

The figure on the hood jerked back, sparks flying as the bullet hit home. Its grip faltered, and with one last, sickening screech of metal on metal, it tumbled off the side of the car and into the darkness. Hank barely had time to register what had happened before Dr. Girlfriend pulled ahead of him, her bike weaving through the shadows with practiced ease.

"Follow me," her voice crackled through Hank's radio.

Hank didn't need to be told twice. He hit the gas, following her as the turnpike stretched on into the night. His mind was still racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He wanted to ask her a thousand questions—what was that thing? Why was it after him? What the hell was she doing out here?—but none of them seemed to matter right now.

All that mattered was that she had saved his life. Again.

They drove in silence for what felt like an eternity, the dark woods on either side of the road pressing in like the walls of some forgotten tunnel. Hank's nerves were shot, his hands trembling on the wheel as he tried to keep up with Dr. Girlfriend's bike. He could still feel the cold, metallic grip of that thing on the hood, still hear the screech of its hands against the metal.

Finally, after what felt like miles of empty road, Dr. Girlfriend pulled off onto a narrow dirt path that led deeper into the woods. Hank followed, his headlights cutting a narrow beam through the thick underbrush. The road was rough, bouncing the car up and down as he tried to keep it steady.

Up ahead, the trees opened up into a small clearing, lit only by the soft glow of a lone streetlamp that flickered uncertainly in the middle of the lot. Dr. Girlfriend stopped her bike, kicking down the stand and dismounting with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of dodging bullets and riding headlong into danger.

Hank pulled the car to a stop a few feet away, his heart still racing as he killed the engine. His hands were shaking, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but he tried to play it cool. He was Hank Venture. He'd faced down death before. This was just...one more crazy night, right?

Dr. Girlfriend didn't even glance at him as she strode over to the center of the clearing, her heels clicking against the gravel. She stood there for a moment, surveying the area with the cool, calculated gaze of someone who'd been in this game a lot longer than Hank could ever hope to be.

Finally, she turned to him, her voice low and steady, like she hadn't just shot a robot assassin off the hood of his car.

"You need to stop being such a goddamn idiot, Hank."

Hank opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get a word out, she was already moving again, her coat billowing out behind her as she made her way toward the edge of the clearing. She didn't look back, didn't wait for him to catch up.

Hank scrambled out of the car, his legs still shaky from the adrenaline rush. "Hey! Wait up! What was that thing? Why—"

"Shut up and follow me," she called over her shoulder, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Hank shut up. He followed.

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Next chapter preview:
"Spit it out, Hank."

"More, like, professional...supervillain...stuff?" He could feel the words crumbling out of his mouth in the most embarrassing way possible.

Dr. Girlfriend rolled her eyes. "I'm not in costume 24/7, you know. I do own regular clothes."

"Right, right," Hank said quickly, trying to focus on literally anything else. But his eyes kept drifting back to her.

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed how she looked before—hell, anyone with eyes would—but this was different. This wasn't Dr. Girlfriend the supervillain, standing stoically in the shadows while the Monarch ranted about his latest scheme. This was Dr. Girlfriend just...existing. And she looked good. Like, really good.