You never meant to get caught up in this.

Mandy Milkovich leans against the wall of the alley, leather jacket on, a cigarette dangling lazily from her lips. She smirks when she sees you hesitate.

“You scared?” she teases. “Good. That’s the fun part.”

“Uh… maybe a little,” you admit.

She flicks the cigarette away and grins, grabbing your hand. “Come on. Rules are made to break. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

The night is a blur of graffiti-tagged walls, rooftops that feel like freedom, and whispered dares that make your stomach flip. She shows you how to slip past a bar that doesn’t check IDs, how to talk your way out of trouble, how to bend a rule without getting caught… usually.

“You’re… intense,” you say at one point, watching her take a swig of stolen soda like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“I’m not intense,” she says, eyes flashing. “I’m honest. And I don’t waste time pretending to be someone I’m not.”

You laugh nervously. “I feel like I should be nervous.”

“Good,” she says, dragging you up a fire escape. “Nervous keeps you alive. Makes it exciting. Makes it… fun.”