You call Angela. The phone barely rings before she picks up.

"Where the hell are you?" Angela’s voice snaps through the line, sharp and demanding.

"8th and Western," you breathe, glancing over your shoulder. The alley feels tighter, darker, like it’s closing in on you.

"You sound freaked. What’s going on?" She doesn’t wait for you to explain. "Is it the gang?"

You swallow hard, trying to hold it together. "They found me,” you say.

"Of course they did," she says, her voice cutting through your panic like a knife.

“I told you this would happen. You get mixed up with these guys, and it’s only a matter of time."

You can hear her moving quickly—footsteps, maybe grabbing her gun, and you picture her already halfway out the door. "Why didn’t you call me sooner?"

"I didn’t think—"

"Yeah, that’s the problem," she snaps. There’s no room for excuses with Angela. "Listen to me, don’t move. I’m on my way. You’ll be fine."

"Stay where you can see everything. I want you in the open where I can find you, not hiding like a scared rabbit." Her voice lowers, but the urgency remains. "And if they show up before I get there, don’t engage. You hear me?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

"I’m serious. I don’t need you playing tough. You keep your head down, stay out of sight until I get there." Her words are clipped, but you can tell she’s laser-focused. She always knows exactly what to do, and right now, that’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

"I’m scared, Angela."

"I know," she replies, and for a second, her voice softens—just for you. "But I’ve got you. Just hang in there. Five minutes, I’ll be there. You’re okay."

“Angela, they—“ the phone ends.

“Hey, are you with me? Shit.” She floors it, her brows furrowing and her mind racing in worry. She purses her lips, her heart racing like thunder.