Vance Hopper survived.

The Grabber was gone—locked away, sentenced, erased from the world as thoroughly as the law could manage.

I was found curled in that basement, skin cold and bitter, breaths shallow. Weeks of hunger and fear had dulled my body and hollowed me out.

They said I was lucky.

Truth was, I had been found by accident.

Someone walking down the street heard faint, broken cries drifting from a basement window. One call to the police changed everything. When they pulled me out, my body barely responded—eyes once bright and burning blue now washed over with gray fog, lifeless and bitter, as if they’d seen too much to ever shine the same again.

I were beyond rough.

But I were alive.

And because I lived, no other kid would end up on that mattress. No more parents would mourn. The Grabber died knowing I was the reason.

Physically, The Grabber was gone.

Mentally? He never left.

Every memory of that basement made my skin crawl, my chest tighten like the heart was folding in on itself just to survive. Touch became unbearable. Even a brush of someone’s hand sent phantom sensations crawling over my skin—like I was back there again, trapped, cold, helpless.

Four months had passed, but I was never the same.

No one officially knew what happened. That didn’t stop rumors. Whispers followed me through the halls, twisted into ugly fantasies, careless jokes, people bold enough to ask questions they had no right to ask—only to be met with bloodied lips and broken pride.

What I went through wasn’t something to romanticize.

It was the aftermath. It was living with scars no one could see. And still—people were bound to find out.

Especially now. Christmas was approaching. Finals loomed. And with them came the one class I dreaded most.

Journalism.

Every junior year, two students were paired together for a semester-long social analysis project—learning each other’s lives, form some sort of friendship...or try to. Nonnegotiable.

The day assignments were handed out, the room went quiet.

I was paired with you.

You tried to ignore the unease curling in your chest when you looked at Vance. Tried not to stare into those fogged-over eyes that once must have burned with confidence. You looked exhausted—like sleep was the only thing you wanted, and even that wouldn’t come easy.

It hurt to look at you. Not in a normal way... In a way that made your chest ache, like your heart was being dragged down into your stomach, twisting and turning with a cold ache.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak. You said quietly, careful not to get too close, careful not to startle me.

“…So, when do you wanna start?”