You press your back against the cold tile wall, hands shaking as you grip your phone. The bathroom is eerily silent except for the muffled screams and distant gunshots echoing through the halls. Your heart pounds so loudly you're afraid it’ll give you away.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not today.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands shake as you type a text to your mom, but you can’t hit send. What if the sound alerts whoever’s out there?

A sudden noise makes you freeze. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

The door creaks open.

You shove yourself into the furthest stall, hand clamped over your mouth. Heavy boots scuff against the floor. They stop just outside your stall. A long, agonizing silence stretches between you and whoever is on the other side. Then—

"{{user}}?"

Your stomach drops. That voice. Raspy, familiar. A ghost from a life you left behind.

You slowly raise your head, gripping the stall door as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. When you push it open just a crack, your breath catches.

Carl Gallagher stands there, shotgun hanging loosely in his hands, his expression unreadable beneath the mess of curls and the shadow of something much darker in his eyes.

Your childhood best friend.

The boy you used to play tag with in the streets, who swore he’d always have your back.

Now, standing in front of you with a gun.

You try to speak, but no words come out. His grip tightens on the weapon, knuckles white.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

You swallow hard. “Neither should you.”

For a moment, something flickers in his gaze—hesitation, maybe even regret. Then, just as quickly, it's gone.

“Get out. Before Nick sees you.”

The words send ice through your veins. Your feet refuse to move.

Carl steps back, glancing toward the hallway. More screams, more chaos.

He looks at you one last time. A silent warning. A plea.

Then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet.