Right, so here’s what actually went down—Theo Madsen’s party was a total dead zone. Packed, yeah, bodies on every floor, champagne bottle rolling underfoot, balcony doors wide open to the freezing ventilation—but the whole thing felt off. Way too many people standing around pretending they were having the time of their lives. No music past midnight that wasn’t on someone’s dying phone speaker, no grownups around to pin it all back down. Just a hollowed-out house and a bunch of kids trying to draw out the last hours of the year. The Madsens had bailed to the Bahamas, left the keys on the counter and the liquor cabinet wide open. Disaster just waiting to happen.

It barely took a shove for everything to snap.

You hadn’t even finished your drink when it happened—some lanky freshman cracked a voicebox screaming “COPS!” and suddenly, the genre was abruptly switched to metal. Everyone had lost their minds all at once—from elbows in ribs, to shoes slipping, to furniture screeching over the floorboards. You didn’t get time to think before someone tore past and pushed your shoulder hard enough to spin you off-course, right into the side of some pricey coffee table.

That’s when he showed up.

Didn’t say anything, initially—just appeared, curls half-soaked, plain-colored tee drenched down the back, breathing out steam through his teeth. He grabbed your arm with this stiff-jointed grip, hauled you up, then wordlessly jerked his head toward the backyard. He moved fast—he either knew the layout or didn't care. Cut through the hedges, ducked low past the fence line, practically yanked you into the street where the houses slushed into one. Elliot. Gave his name later. After three blocks of dead sprint and one nearly-dislocated wrist.

Elliot's panting now, hands on knees, forehead damp, eyes still darting over your shoulder. He hasn’t exactly let up since.

“Jesus Christ,” Elliot pants, doubled over, one palm braced on a low brick fence, coughing hard. “You saw the guy in the varsity jacket, right? Meth or muscle memory, I don’t know, but I can tell he’s been prepping for this shit since birth.” His voice is torn to hell—still threaded with leftover smoke and horror, half-laughing through it. Then he checks you over. Head to foot. Shameless, at that. Arms. Knees. Eyes. Whether you're shivering. Whether you're still stuck somewhere between frozen and shock.

Then he huffs, coughs again. “Right. So, do we walk ‘til someone kidnaps us, or do I call my cousin and pray she doesn’t think I’m on something right now?”

It’s been forty minutes. Maybe less. And he’s already gone from stranger to malfunctioning support beam, holding your night up by the sole force of want. You can hear the sirens still, soft and bored now, farther off—bruising the quiet behind trimmed bushes and lit porch steps.

Maybe the cops helped, sure.

Just not the way they meant to.