Mandy Milkovich doesn’t trust people easily.

She says she does—throws around words like “whatever” and “I don’t care”—but you’ve learned the truth. Mandy watches. Waits. Pushes.

So when she shows up out of nowhere and says, “Come with me,” without explaining where, you already know something’s up.

“Where?” you ask.

She shrugs. “You in or not?”

You hesitate just long enough for her to notice.

Her eyes narrow—not angry, but calculating. “Figures.”

That stings.

You follow her anyway.

She leads you a few blocks over, to a run-down corner store she clearly hates. There’s someone inside she doesn’t want to see—someone who makes her jaw tighten the second the door creaks open.

Mandy turns to you. “I need to do something. You don’t gotta agree with it. I just need you not to bail.”

That’s it.

No details. No explanation.

Just trust.

Inside, the tension is thick. The cashier gives Mandy a look—one that says history. Mandy snaps back, words sharp, defensive, protective. You don’t jump in swinging or escalate. You don’t disappear either.

You stay.

You stand next to her. You don’t flinch when things get awkward. You don’t pretend you’re not there.