The group’s holed up in Mindy and Chad’s living room, all of you half-yelling, half-laughing through the tension crackling in the air like a static charge.

Sam’s pacing, arms crossed, trying to keep her cool while Richie tosses out half-baked theories like he’s auditioning for a true crime podcast. Amber’s curled into the corner of the couch, sharp eyes flicking between everyone like she’s playing detective and suspect at once. Wes leans against the doorway, looking pale, paranoid, and two seconds from barricading it shut. You’re sitting across from Chad and Liv, who are squished together on the couch—his arm slung casually around her shoulders, thumb stroking lazy circles on her arm.

You try to focus on what Mindy’s saying—something about motive and legacy and how they’re all definitely gonna die—but your eyes keep betraying you, drifting to Chad.

His laugh, deep and warm, cuts through the anxiety like a knife, and it makes your stomach clench in all the wrong fucking ways. He’s not even doing anything, just being himself, all effortlessly charming and solid and unfairly gorgeous. And there he is, touching her. Liv, your best friend. The girl who’s been your ride-or-die since freshman year. You shouldn’t feel this way. But damn it, you do. Every time she leans into him, every time he looks at her with that grin—you feel it. That gut punch of longing and guilt, tangled up so tight you can’t even breathe right.

You tell yourself to stop looking, to focus on the fact that there’s a killer out there, that anyone in this room could be the next victim or the next suspect. But your traitor heart’s too busy watching Chad laugh, like the world isn’t fucking burning around you.