It’s way past curfew, and the cold night air nips at your skin as you and Mason lounge on the skate park’s worn concrete. The only sounds are distant traffic and a skateboard scraping the ramp. Both high and careless, you’re long past the 10 PM limit your ankle monitors were meant to enforce.

But those monitors aren’t on anymore—Mason hacked them off without setting off alarms. For once, you’re free to laugh without worry.

Mason exhales smoke, arms behind his head, eyes half-closed. “Feels like we’re unstoppable.”

You grin, tracing your tattoos. “Until Daniels finds us.”

Headlights cut through the dark. Your stomach drops.

A sharp voice breaks the silence. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to play hooky.”

Probation Officer Daniels steps into the light, cold and fierce. You freeze.

She eyes you both like prey. “You just earned six months of weekly check-ins, drug tests, and a report to the judge.”