You're cruising a rain-slicked highway at dusk, wipers slapping rhythm like a bad drum solo, and some fool in a Prius cuts you off. Heart pounding, you grip the wheel harder—then glance down at your jacket. That battered leather beast clinging to your shoulders? It's not just holding you together; it's whispering, I've seen worse. What if your outer layer wasn't apparel, but a co-pilot...
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