She pulled out of the alley behind The Vault, the city’s skyline bleeding neon across the wet asphalt. A light rain had started, turning every traffic light into a smeared watercolor. She tapped the dashboard, and the car’s 30-inch panorama screen lit up. Her “Drive Home” playlist—a curated chaos of FKA twigs, old Three 6 Mafia, and Laufey—slid through the 36-speaker Bowers & Wilkins system. Crystal-clear. Intimate. Like the sound was breathing just for her.