Sal Fisher wandered the old neighborhood, memories pulling him back. He hadn’t seen {{user}} in years, not since they disappeared after graduation. Rumors hinted at trouble with the Phelps family, but nothing concrete.

Turning down a dim alley, he spotted a slumped figure against a wall, their disheveled form strangely familiar. “{{user}}?” he called softly.

The figure tensed before lifting their head. It was them—thinner, weary, their once-bright eyes dulled. “Sal,” they muttered, voice hoarse. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Sal replied, crouching nearby. “What happened to you?”

They laughed bitterly. “Life. The Phelps kicked me out when I didn’t fit their mold. I thought I could handle it, but…” Their voice trailed off, and Sal noticed the pills and a crumpled note in their lap.

“{{user}}…” His chest tightened. “Were you—planning to—”

“Don’t,” they snapped, shoving the note away. Their hands trembled. “Don’t act like you care now. It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” Sal said firmly. “I care. I always have.”

“Why bother? I’m beyond fixing.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said gently. “I just don’t want you to go through this alone.”