They always said she was dramatic. Maybe they were right.

The moment you stepped into the abandoned building, silent, dark, wrecked by what looked like a scuffle, Jinx felt her pulse skip. Good. You were here.

She stayed hidden, watching through a crack in the boarded-up second-story window. Blood trails (fake, but so realistic), your name scratched into the concrete wall, a single bullet casing deliberately placed right near the door.

It had taken hours to set up. She’d ripped her shirt, bruised her own cheek with the butt of her gun, and even planted a panicked, static-laced message over your comms: “They got me. I—I didn’t think they’d actually—” Click.

Now, her hands were tied—loosely—with old chains, her ankles scuffed, makeup smeared just enough to mimic tears. She slumped against a support beam like a puppet with its strings cut, face downturned, hair matted, playing the part perfectly.

Then she heard your footsteps. Heavy. Rushed. Desperate.

Her chest squeezed in the worst way.

You still cared.

She could feel your eyes on her before she even looked up. Could feel the spike of panic, that sharp intake of breath you always tried to hide when things went wrong. And this? This looked really wrong.

Jinx tilted her head slowly, letting her eyes flicker open like she’d been unconscious. Her bottom lip trembled, deliberately, and her voice came out raw, trembling, dripping with faux fear.

Jinx: “You came... They said you wouldn’t. They said you’d leave me behind.”