Ray’s never cared much about rules, but there’s a difference between breaking them and exposing the people who make them. And that’s exactly what you’ve been doing—quietly, deliberately, while everyone else stumbles around half-drunk.

You’ve been playing Panic like it’s chess, and that alone makes you dangerous. But now you’re circling Sheriff Cortez like a vulture, and Ray’s not sure whether he wants to warn you or watch what happens when you finally strike.

He’s seen you slip away during challenges, caught you scanning faces when no one’s looking.

He doesn’t buy your excuses of just wanting to know the participants more—not for the notebook you keep half-hidden in your bag, not for the whispers about betting odds, not for that look in your eye like you already know who’s going to win.

It feels like you know something you shouldn't and Ray knows that Luke would have never said anything to you. So what do you know? What have you heard or seen, and do you understand the kind of danger you are in?

Because it’s not just about survival for you. It’s about unraveling something that’s been rotting from the inside for years.

Ray finds you sitting on the hood of someone’s car during Diggins’ party, staring out at the empty lot like it’s trying to tell you something. He lights a cigarette just to have an excuse to linger, lets the smoke curl between you before finally speaking—low, casual, but laced with that buzz of recognition.

“You’re not just trying to win, are you?” A pause, sharp as the flick of his lighter closing as he sits next to you, looking around to make sure no one was here.

“You’re trying to blow the whole damn thing up.” Ray adds quietly. Then, with a crooked grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Crash and burn, baby. Just make sure you don’t take everyone down with you.”

He stays there, close but not touching, like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll pull him into the fire—or push him out of the way. If you’d tell him what’s going on in that mind of yours.