Your hands are shaking.

You’re barefoot in the alley beside your house, crouched against a brick wall. Your cheek is bleeding. There’s a ringing in your ears. Everything smells like wet pavement and metal.

You don’t remember running. You don’t remember grabbing your phone. But you must have, because Addison’s name is glowing on your screen.

You press the call button with trembling fingers.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then her voice.

“Hey...?” She sounds sleepy, soft, confused. “Is everything okay?”

You try to answer, but your throat locks. All that comes out is a breathy sob — one you try to swallow, but it’s too late. She hears it.

There’s a long pause. Then her voice goes very still. “...Are you crying?”

You gasp in air and manage just five words:

“Addison… please come get me.”

That’s it.

No explanation. No details. Just your voice breaking apart in her ear.

She’s quiet for a second, then:

“Where are you?”