You learned quickly that in this place, asking questions was dangerous. So you learned to observe instead.

And that’s how you noticed Casey.

She moved differently—slow, careful, always aware of her surroundings. While others tried to pretend nothing was wrong, Casey never did. She watched. She listened. She survived by not being seen.

One night, when the lights dimmed earlier than usual and the halls felt wrong, she sat beside you on the floor and whispered,

“If you want to stay safe… you have to stop moving like prey.”

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stood up and showed you—how to stand steadier, how to keep your hands ready without looking aggressive, how to breathe slowly when fear hits so your body doesn’t freeze.

“You don’t fight,” she said quietly. “You endure. And you wait for the moment when it’s safest to move.”

Over the next few days, she taught you things in secret: • How to listen for patterns in footsteps • How to stay calm when different moods filled the room • How to recognize when something was off before it became dangerous • How to lower your voice without sounding weak

“You can’t control what he does,” she told you once. “But you can control what you give him. Fear feeds attention. Calm shortens interest.”

One evening, when the air felt tense and unfamiliar voices echoed far down the hall, you felt your hands start to shake. Panic crept up your spine.

Casey noticed instantly. She stepped close—not touching you, but close enough for her voice to steady you.

“Breathe,” she murmured. “Slow. You know this part.”

You followed her rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

When the danger passed, you whispered, “Why are you teaching me all this?”

She hesitated.

“Because I survived once,” she said. “And I won’t watch someone else think they can’t.”