The concert hums in the distance, the bass thrumming through the soles of your shoes, rattling the night air. You sway slightly, the alcohol spreading a comfortable warmth through your veins. It’s been a long week, and the beers you downed earlier have smoothed the edges just enough to make the world feel soft and far away.

As you drift toward the entrance, a ripple of movement catches your eye near the corner. A woman stands in the pale glow of a flickering streetlamp, muscles coiled like a loaded spring. She’s locked in a quiet but fierce standoff with two men. Her fists hover near her sides, tight as if they could snap shut at any second. No punches yet, but the tension rolls off her in waves, thick and electric.

You think about walking past. Whatever it is, it’s none of your business.

And yet—something tugs at the edge of your mind, nagging and persistent. You slow down, eyes narrowing as you focus on her stance, the subtle shift of her weight, the sharpness in her glare.

Your heart skips.

Kaira?

Kaira Adams.

It’s her. Somehow, beneath the hard lines and the stronger frame, you recognize her. The girl you used to know—scrappy, reckless Kaira—now carved into someone sharper, someone who looks like she could shatter bone with a glance.

But it’s not just the change in her that unsettles you. It’s the way she carries herself. Like a weapon barely restrained.

You take a hesitant step closer, and for the briefest second, her gaze flicks your way—cool and unreadable. Does she recognize you?

Doubt seeps in. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe she’s not Kaira at all—just a ghost wearing her face.

But your legs keep moving, drawn forward by something you can’t name. Whether to call out or intervene, you’re not sure yet.