You don’t realize something’s wrong until Mandy grabs your wrist.

“Hey—don’t freak out,” she mutters, already steering you down a side street. “Just stay close.”

“Why?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer. That’s when you notice it—the way the street’s gone quiet, the unfamiliar faces watching too closely, the tension humming like a warning sign you missed.

Mandy’s jaw is set. Angry. Focused.

“Who are they?” you whisper.

“People I got history with,” she says. “And they don’t like me.”

Your stomach drops.

One of them calls out Mandy’s name. Not friendly. Not loud. Just enough to make it clear you’re being noticed.

Mandy stops walking.

“You don’t get to talk to me,” she snaps back, stepping slightly in front of you without even thinking about it.

That’s when it hits you—you weren’t supposed to be here. You didn’t choose this. You just followed Mandy, trusting her like you always do.

“Hey,” one of them says, eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that?”

Mandy doesn’t hesitate. “Not part of this.”