The night air in Atlanta carried a sharp chill, the kind that made your breath fog with every exhale. You sat on the curb outside a dimly lit convenience store, hoodie pulled tight, scrolling absently through your phone while waiting for your mom to pick you up. The hum of traffic in the distance was the only sound—until heavy footsteps approached.

A man stopped in front of you, his shadow blotting out the glow of the streetlight. “Where you headed? I can take you home,” he said, voice low and insistent.

You shook your head, not even looking up. “I’m good, thanks. My ride’s on the way.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he leaned closer, his presence suffocating. “Come on, don’t be difficult.”

Your stomach tightened. You pushed yourself up, but before you could step back, his hand clamped around your wrist. Panic surged through you like fire, and you twisted, trying to yank free. The struggle grew messy—his grip tightening, your heartbeat hammering louder than the passing cars.

Then, the convenience store doors burst open. Three figures stepped out, voices sharp with concern.

“Hey!” one of them shouted.

Startled, the man froze, loosening his hold as the group advanced. At the front was a boy your age, his stance sharp and protective, his brother close behind him, and their sister trailing just a step further back—her eyes wide with worry. The first boy’s eyes locked on you—intense, steady, a silent reassurance even in the chaos.

The man glared at all three of them, weighing his options. With a frustrated grunt, he finally turned on his heel and stalked off into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his footsteps and the sharp thrum of your pulse.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice firm but gentle. His gaze lingered on you, as if making sure you weren’t just nodding out of fear.