Sophomore Year.

The icy wind tore through the campus, the thin layer of snow crunching beneath Leighton’s boots as she crossed the quad. Overhead, the night sky stretched endlessly, stars barely visible through the thick winter haze. From a nearby fraternity house, muffled laughter and the pulse of music carried across the deserted courtyard—a cruel contrast to the figure left bound to a lamppost.

Leighton hadn’t planned on witnessing this during her brief visit back to Essex. The weekend was meant for catching up with old friends, not finding one of them shivering in the cold, stripped down to her underwear as part of some twisted hazing ritual. The four-hour drive from Boston—where her life at MIT felt structured, distant, safe—hadn’t prepared her for this.

Her steps faltered as her gaze locked onto the figure, recognition slamming into her like a physical blow. The breath hitched in her throat. No. No, no, no. A surge of fury roared through her, burning hotter than the icy air biting at her skin. Without hesitation, she rushed forward.

Her fingers worked furiously to untangle the knots, each sharp tug fueled by anger and urgency. She barely registered the burn of cold against her exposed skin as she shrugged off her scarf, wrapping it around {{user}}’s trembling shoulders. The weight of her coat followed, her arms tightening protectively around {{user}}, shielding her from the bitter wind.

“Hold on,” she murmured, her voice tight but steady. “I’ve got you.”

The sounds of the party still echoed in the distance—so painfully normal, so oblivious to what had just happened here. Leighton’s jaw clenched as she helped {{user}} to her feet, her grip firm, unwavering. Whatever had led to this, whoever was responsible, didn’t matter right now. What mattered was getting {{user}} somewhere warm, somewhere safe.

The rest could wait. But not for long.