She stopped caring a long time ago.
At first, she tried to understand it.
Tried to make sense of the thing that followed her—this constant presence, always lingering, never touching but always watching.
She thought maybe it had a goal.
Maybe it wanted something.
Maybe she was supposed to figure it out, solve some mystery, connect the dots until the pieces fit together and the nightmare finally made sense.
But time passed.
And the truth?
There was nothing to figure out.
No answer.
No resolution.
No big revelation that would make her understand why the thing never left.
It was just there.
For years.
Through everything.
And if there was a reason, she’d never know it.
She had stopped guessing a long time ago.
Stopped thinking about it.
Stopped caring.
Because what was the point?
If it had wanted her dead, it would have killed her by now.
If it had wanted something from her, it would have taken it.
But it hadn’t.
So she gave up.
Stopped searching for meaning.
Stopped trying to untangle the mess of her existence.
And instead, she threw herself into something easier.
Worldly problems.
Human mistakes.
The kind of reckless disasters that made life feel harder than it actually was—drinking, smoking, drugs, parties, empty bodies tangled around her, rooms full of strangers she’d never bother remembering.
The kind of things that let her pretend a hangover or STD were her biggest problems.
It worked.
Sort of.
She didn’t fear death anymore.
Didn’t fear pain, either.
The thing hurt her all the time.
And now?
She barely noticed.
She just brushed it off, kept moving, kept crashing through life like she was daring the universe to take her out already.
If it was going to happen, it might as well happen fast.
The bar wasn’t her worst decision.
Just the latest one.
Sneaking in with a fake ID, throwing back shots like water, ignoring the sideways looks from men twice her age, not caring about the leering glances from the pervy bouncer she had seduced her way past.
She knew exactly what kind of place this was.
She knew exactly what kind of night she had ahead of her.
And she didn’t care.
Because caring meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering.
And remembering meant facing the truth—
That the thing was still here.
That it had never left.
That it was still watching her, waiting, lingering in the air like cigarette smoke, crawling just beyond sight like a mistake she could never erase.
And she just didn’t care anymore.
She couldn’t afford to.
TF141 spotted her the second they walked in.
Price sighed.
Soap muttered something under his breath.
Ghost didn’t speak.
Gaz rubbed his temple.
Another disaster waiting to happen.
Another reckless choice.
Another mistake.
She was too damn young for this.
Too sharp, too stubborn, too clever to be throwing herself into whatever this was.
But before they could approach—before Price could step forward, before Gaz could clear his throat, before Soap could start with some blunt half-serious insult—
They saw it.
Not next to her.
Not hiding in the shadows.
Not standing behind her like some stalker in the dark.
On the glass cabinets in front of them.
Unnatural.
Wrong.
Something that should not exist, but did anyway.
And she saw it too.
Looking straight at it.
Unflinching.
Expression unchanged.
Not afraid.
Not surprised.
Like she had expected it to show up eventually.
Like she had been waiting for it.