As if it owed him money, Stan slapped the dashboard of the worn-down truck and groaned as the heater coughed out one last breath of lukewarm air before dying for good.
"Goddamn piece of shit."
Frost lined the edges of the musty windshield, and the snowy roads ahead stretched out in a blur of black and gray. Just another quiet South Park night, just another drive home. Another day, another few bucks in weed deliveries for a business that technically didn't even have a license anymore.
Working for his dad was never the plan. But after a failed attempt at college and no real direction or motivation, Randy had been more than happy to hand him a "position." He even insisted on calling Stan a Delivery Associate, which made Stan roll his eyes every time.
The truck was a barely running junker with a faded Tegridy Farms logo peeling off the side. He made minimum wage—Randy swore he'd "cut him in on the profits," but those promises never meant much. Not when the farm was circling the drain and Stan was the one delivering poorly made edibles to paranoid stoners out in the snow.
Day after day, it was the same shit: awkward customers, late payments, and long-winded rants from Randy about capitalism and "the death of Tegridy." After a while, even alcohol couldn't take the edge off. Eventually, a man starts to feel pretty fucking shitty.
He didn't even feel angry anymore with his dad's antics. Just so tired. Like everything in his life had lost its colour, and now he was stuck coasting through shades of gray.
Wake up, work, drive, sleep. Repeat.
Some days, he'd just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. Other days, he'd go down to the gas station, grab a few beers, light a cigarette in his truck, and pretend like that counted as coping.
He wasn't suicidal.
But, he wouldn't have minded if the road in front of him disappeared beneath him and took him with it.
Stan Marsh. Twenty-four. No degree. No girlfriend. No future. Just a few jars of packaged weed in the back seat and a head full of static.
Stan's eyes glazed over as the colder air hit his face, making him shiver. The monotonous hum of the road nearly lulled him into a trance.
He was in that place again—a quiet, dark space where the world seemed to fade into the background. That was until something caught his attention.
A shape. A car pulled off to the side of the road, parked crookedly, its headlights dimmed.
Stan blinked and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't unusual. People broke down on these quiet stretches of road all the time. But something was off about this one.
His foot instinctively eased off the gas. The headlights glinted off the snow, casting long, jagged shadows across the road.
He shifted in his seat, a flicker of something—maybe curiosity, maybe unease—stirring in his chest. It was a gut feeling, the kind he usually ignored.
The figures ahead became clearer. Two people were standing by the hood. One of them was shouting—loud, broad, and tall. The other—quiet, small, and... maybe scared?
Stan figured it was just a drunk couple arguing and was about to drive past. He almost told himself to keep going. After all, he'd seen worse in South Park. But something—something in the man's posture made his gut tighten. He could've sworn he saw the woman flinch.
Then the man's arm shot out.
The slap was hard, fast, and sickening, knocking her to the ground in the snow.
The crack of the slap echoed like a gunshot. He froze. His pulse roared in his ears. Stan's heart skipped a beat. His foot slammed on the brake, tires sliding on the icy road. The air around him seemed to freeze.
The man lifted his foot and drove it into her stomach hard and deliberately with no hesitation. She gasped, curling in on herself, trying her best to protect her small frame.
Stan didn't think. Without a second thought, he threw the door open and was out of the truck in an instant.
"Hey!" He yelled, his voice fueled by instinct and fury. He launched himself forward and shoved the man away from her.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The man staggered back a few steps, nearly losing his footing before steadying himself. His bloodshot eyes burned with feral rage, like a wild animal ready to lash out at anything that dared challenge him.
He was bigger than Stan, standing slightly taller with big broad shoulders. His hair was slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead in greasy strands. The stench of booze clung to him-cheap, bitter, sour. His skin was pale and waxy, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
''The fucks your problem?'' He slurred, his eyes piercing through Stan like he had just found his next meal.
Stan didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes were locked on the woman curled up in the snow, her breath hitching in shallow sobs as she pushed a curtain of long black hair from her bruised face with trembling hands.
The man followed Stan's line of sight and sneered.
"Ain't your business man, there's always two sides to a story." He snapped, stepping towards him. "Just get lost and forget you saw anything."
Stan's fists clenched. "I watched you slap and kick her."
"So what?" The man said, his voice rising. "My girl, my business. You wanna play hero? You'll end up face-down like her."
"You piece of shit," Stan spat, taking a step forward. He didn't hesitate. He swung.
His fist collided with the man's jaw, jerking his head sideways. The man stumbled back a step but didn't go down, instead, he roared and lunged, grabbing Stan by the collar and slamming him against the side of the car.
"You little shit!" He growled, spit spewing in Stan's face.
Stan shoved back, throwing another punch at the side of the man's head. It wasn't the strongest punch he could have delivered, but it did make the man stagger away.
The cold air burned in Stan's lungs, adrenaline roaring through his veins.
The man wiped his snotty nose with his sleeve and came at him again, fists flying wild and sloppy. One hit caught Stan in the shoulder, another in the cheek.
Stan ducked, grabbed the guy by his jacket and drove his knee into his gut. The man let out a wheeze and doubled over, cursing.
"Still think it's your business now?" Stan snapped, his voice ragged.
The man reached for something. Maybe a weapon or maybe just his balance- but Stan didn't give him the chance. He tackled him into the snow, fists raining down in a blur of red knuckles.
"Stop!" A soft voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Stan froze mid swing. His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps. He turned, slowly, like waking from a dream.
She was kneeling now, one arm cradling her ribs, her face smeared with tears. Her hair tangled, whipping in the cold wind.
That's when he knew. The shape of her face. Those eyes.
"…Wendy?"
Her gaze met his, wide and disbelieving.
"Stan?"
He scrambled off the man without thinking and rushed to her side, his hands hovering, unsure what to do with them.
"Jesus Christ- Wendy, are you okay? What the hell- what the fuck happened?"
Behind him, gravel crunched and tires spun suddenly. Stan turned around just in time to see the man- bloodied but conscious- stagger into the drivers seat of the car. The engine roared to life.
"Hey!" Stan shouted, but it was too late.
The car peeled out, skidding slightly on the icy road before disappearing into the darkness. Stan turned back to Wendy.
She was standing now, shaky but upright, her arms crossed tightly against her ribs. Her eyes didn't meet his.
"You okay?" He asked gently, stepping closer.
"I'm fine." She said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice cracked around the lie.
"Wendy…"
"You shouldn't have gotten involved." She finally looked at him, but there was something distant in her gaze. Defensive. "I didn't ask you to."
Stan blinked, caught off guard. "He hurt you."
"I had it handled."
"Like hell you did,'' he said, a little sharper than he meant to.
She flinched-not from fear, but from something deeper. Shame
''You don't get it,'' she muttered, brushing past him. ''Just leave me alone, okay?''
She started to walk towards the road. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't care. All she knew was that distance felt like the only thing she could control.
''Wendy. Stop.''
She didn't.
"Where are you even gonna go?" Stan called after her, his breath turning to fog in the freezing air.
She didn't answer. Just kept walking.
"Wendy, it's miles to town," he said, louder now, taking a few steps toward her. "It's pitch black, it's freezing, and you're hurt."
She kept going, arms wrapped tight around herself, her hair whipping in the bitter cold wind.
"Where would you even stay?" he pressed. "You gonna knock on a stranger's door and hope they don't kick your ass too?"
She stopped, her shoulders rose with a slow, shaky inhale.
''Or are you planning to sleep in a ditch? Freeze to death just to prove a point?''
She turned slightly, just enough for him to see the way her eyes shimmered under the moonlight. They were wet, glassy, and guarded.
"I'm not trying to argue with you," he said, his voice softening. "Just… get in the truck. Please."
Wendy looked back toward the road again. For a moment, he thought she was going to keep walking. But she didn't.
Without a word, she turned and walked past him, heading for the truck.
Stan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It came out shaky.
''...Thank you,'' He murmured, almost to himself, before following her.