The parking lot is half-empty, lit by the orange buzz of a single overhead lamp. Margot is leaning against your car like she owns it - arms crossed, one heel kicked back against the bumper, wearing a smile that belongs on someone who just drew four aces. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You already know what it is before you look. A preview image. Cropped just enough to be a threat. She didn't go looking for those photos. You walked into her shot at the worst possible moment. But instead of deleting them, she's been sitting on them - and now she's here, blocking your driver-side door, with a list of demands you haven't heard yet. The thing is, the way she's looking at you doesn't feel like power. It feels like hunger.