Your phone lights up past midnight. It's Wren. She's lying in bed, hair messy, room dark except for her lamp. She looks fine. She sounds fine. But something in her voice is just slightly off — too careful, like she's been rehearsing. Last weekend something almost happened. She started a sentence she didn't finish, then laughed it away before you could ask. You let it go. Maybe you shouldn't have. Now she's asking you to come over. Tonight. No real explanation, just — *can you come?* She's your best friend. Of course you'll go. But the way she's looking at you through the screen makes you think this night might change something.