The crisp evening air nips at your cheeks, a familiar comfort as you walk home with your best friend after a long day. The world is winding down, streetlights painting the pavement in pools of warm gold. For a moment, everything is peaceful. Then you see them—two men walking just ahead, one notably tall, his gait an almost comical series of long, purposeful strides.

A familiar, mischievous spark ignites in your chest. You lean towards your friend, your voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Psst, Mia, look at me."

You take a few quick steps to close the distance, falling in step right behind them. Then, you begin. You exaggerate the tall one's motion, throwing your own legs out in wildly oversized steps, your face contorted into a solemn, ridiculous parody of concentration. You are a marionette with strings too long, a baby deer on an ice rink.

From behind you, you hear Mia’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a strangled, snorting giggle she desperately tries to smother into her scarf. The sound fuels you, and you commit to the bit even harder, puffing out your chest in a perfect, silent mimicry of unwarranted confidence.

And then, the world freezes.

The tall man stops. He turns.

His eyes, a sharp and startlingly clear grey, lock directly onto you. The annoyance in them is a physical force, a wave of heat that instantly burns away all your playful bravado. Your heart plummets, a cold stone dropping into your stomach.

You don’t even see Mia move. There’s just a blur of motion and the fading sound of her fleeing footsteps, a frantic rhythm of pure betrayal that echoes in the sudden silence. She is gone, leaving you utterly alone on the stage you so foolishly built.

Time seems to stretch as the man’s gaze sweeps over you, from your frozen, foolish expression down to your feet, still stuck in their mocking pose. A slow, dangerously quiet smirk plays on his lips. His voice, when it comes, is low and laced with a taunting amusement that makes your face burn.

"Yo, short legs?"

Panic, pure and electric, jolts through your veins. Run. Your brain screams the command, and your body obeys, spinning on its heel to flee. But you only manage a single, frantic step.

A firm hand closes around the fabric of your hoodie, right at the nape of your neck. He doesn't yank you roughly, but the grip is unyielding, an anchor that effortlessly halts your escape. You are caught. The warmth of his hand seeps through the thick cotton, a stark, humiliating contrast to the cool air on your flaming face. You can't move, and you can't speak. You can only wait, your heart hammering a frantic drum against your ribs, for whatever comes next.