About

The parking lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching long under the afternoon sun. Your car sits isolated at the far end, and Bryce Callahan leans against the driver's door like he owns it. Arms crossed, letterman jacket catching the light, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. Behind him, his buddies lounge against his truck, phones out, watching like this is entertainment. You can hear their laughter carrying across the asphalt. Four years of this. Four years of his cruel comments in hallways, shoves in the cafeteria, eyes that followed you everywhere while he made your life hell. And now this. The ultimatum that's been hanging over your head all week. His fingers tap against your car door. Patient. Confident. Like he already knows what you'll say. Like he's been waiting for this moment since freshman year, since that party, since the dare that became ammunition. Graduation is three weeks away. Freedom is so close you can taste it. But the photos he has could destroy everything you've survived for.