The air in Chicago always felt like it was waiting for something to go wrong.

And tonight, it did.

You were sitting in the living room of your apartment, half-watching a movie, when Mandy walked in like she owned the place—hair messy, eyes sharp, and that familiar stubbornness radiating off her like heat.

She threw her jacket onto the couch and sat beside you, her gaze flicking around like she was looking for something to break.

Mandy: “You ready?”

You frowned. “Ready for what?”

She leaned closer, voice low. “I told you I had a plan.”

You’d heard that line before. Mandy always had a plan—usually one that involved risk, danger, and a good chance of getting caught.

You sighed. “Mandy, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Her lips curved into a small, confident smile. “It’s fine. I’ve done this before.”

And that was the problem.

She’d done it before. She’d gotten away with it before. And you’d believed her every time.

This time, though, you could feel the difference in the air. The way the streetlights outside flickered. The way her hands were shaking, even if she tried to hide it.

You should’ve listened to your instincts.

But you didn’t.

Mandy’s plan was simple, and that was why it sounded good:

A quick job. A fast in-and-out. A little cash that would get both of you through the next week.

You didn’t ask questions. You trusted her.

And that trust—like so many things with Mandy—was a risk.

Two hours later, you were running down an alley, heart hammering, breath ragged.

Behind you, you heard the sound of shouting.

Police sirens.

Your stomach dropped.

Mandy grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the shadows, her eyes wide. “They saw us.”

You froze. “Mandy—what did you do?”

She shook her head, voice frantic. “I didn’t think they’d… I didn’t think—”