The night had already gone wrong long before the first punch was thrown.

You don’t even remember what started it—some look, some word slurred through alcohol and bad intentions. One moment you were leaning against the sticky bar counter, the next you were outside under flickering streetlights, knuckles colliding with bone.

Fists moved on instinct alone. Pain blurred into adrenaline. Blood smeared across skin and pavement until it was impossible to tell whose was whose.

The world narrowed to heat, impact, and breath torn from your lungs.

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed—sharp, cutting through the chaos—but it barely registered. You were too far gone, too caught up in the violence humming through your veins to stop.

Then voices. Loud. Commanding.

“Everyone move out of the way!”

The crowd shifted, bodies pulling back as authority pushed forward. Your chest heaved, vision swimming, fists still clenched like you didn’t know how to let go.

And then—

Your body locked up.

Not from the sirens. Not from the blood. But from her voice.

“Jesus… {{user}}?”

It hit you harder than any punch.

You turn slowly, dread settling deep in your gut as recognition crashes over you.

Katherine.

Your ex-girlfriend.

She stands there in uniform, badge catching the streetlight, eyes wide with disbelief as they rake over you—your bruised knuckles, split lip, the familiar face she never thought she’d see like this.

For a moment, the noise fades. The crowd disappears. And it’s just the two of you, tangled once again in a mess neither of you wanted to reopen.

Yeah.

This was definitely worse than getting arrested.