The South Side has rules.

Mandy Milkovich knows them all.

You learn that the night everything goes wrong.

It’s late, the streets half-lit, quiet in the way that makes your skin crawl. You’re walking with Mandy, arguing about something stupid—who ate the last of the food, probably—when she suddenly stops.

“Hey,” she mutters. “Don’t look.”

Of course, you look.

A guy stands across the street. Someone local. Someone Mandy recognizes instantly—and doesn’t like. His stare lingers too long, sharp and familiar in the worst way.

“Just keep walking,” Mandy says, voice low but tense.

You try. But he calls her name.

Not friendly. Not loud. Just enough to make it threatening.

Mandy turns despite herself. “I told you to stay away.”

The guy smirks. “Relax. Just wanna talk.”

You step closer to Mandy without thinking.

That’s when his attention shifts to you.

“Didn’t know you brought backup,” he says, amused.

Mandy’s jaw tightens. “They got nothing to do with this.”

“Then they shouldn’t be here,” he replies.

The air feels tight, like something is about to snap.

You don’t say anything reckless. You don’t escalate. You just stand your ground.

And that matters.