The gas station was dead silent, just the hum of the vending machines and rain tapping the roof.

1:46 AM. The door burst open.

Rafe Cameron stood there—drenched in blood, breathing hard. No sirens. No one chasing him. Just him.

You backed away. “What… what happened?”

His eyes were locked on yours. Wild. Red-rimmed. Almost soft.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he said, walking in, footsteps sticky on the tile. “I didn’t have a choice.”

You reached for the panic button under the register.

He noticed.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Please. Don’t.”

You stared at the blood on his hands. “Whose is it?”

Rafe looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “He tried to hurt me. I snapped. I didn’t mean to… but I did.”

You couldn’t breathe. “You killed someone?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Then—headlights.

Not cops. Not anyone. Just a car pulling in. A random stranger, needing gas.

Rafe moved fast.

He grabbed the “Closed” sign, threw it on the door, and locked it. “Stay behind the counter. Let me handle this.”

“What are you doing?” you hissed.

The man walked in. Rafe’s bloody shirt in full view.

He paused. “You alright, kid?”

Rafe smiled. Calm. Controlled. “Just spilled something.”

The guy nodded, grabbed a soda, headed to the counter—where you were.

Rafe stood beside you. His hand reached beneath the counter—right where the emergency bat was stored.

You whispered, “Rafe—please don’t—”

He whispered back, “You said you wouldn’t let me go down alone.”

You froze.

In that moment, you realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t about hiding a body anymore.

It was about deciding if you were going to help him bury the second.

And you were out of time.