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SOPHIE

T he streets of New York are alive—too alive. The noise of traffic, voices, the bright pulse of neon flashing through the cracks of the buildings. People shuffle by, lost in their own world, and I’m trying to focus on anything but the man behind us.

He’s still there. Has been for at least the last seven blocks. Which is how I know he’s following us.

Plus, I noticed him yesterday. He didn’t stand out at first—just another face in the crowd, just another person who might’ve been walking the same path. But now? It’s obvious.

I glance at Mom, pretending like everything’s fine, like I don’t feel that twinge in my gut, that cold weight settling in the pit of my stomach. She’s walking ahead, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like she doesn’t even notice. But I do.

And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

“Mom,” I say, trying to sound casual, “Is that guy with our agency?”

She doesn’t even look back. “I don’t think so. Why?”

My stomach tightens. That’s when I know. I don’t know why, but I feel it. This isn’t just a coincidence. It never is. He’s too close. Too persistent. He’s not here for nothing.

I start walking faster. My legs feel shaky, but I make them move, one step after the other. I’m not thinking about anything else anymore—school, the annoying roommate I’m going to have to figure out how not to kill, the texts I haven’t responded to—none of that matters. Only him. Only his footsteps behind me, too steady, too close. That’s all there is.

The alley is ahead. Dark. Quiet. The kind of place no one would hear you scream, if things went sideways. I’m not thinking about the consequences. I can’t. I just need him to follow us in. I need him to make the mistake.

I glance at Mom. She’s just walking, not looking at me. She’s already read the situation. She knows. She’s waiting for me to handle it.

Really, I’d prefer dinner over murder, but what can you do?

Besides, maybe it will get Mom off my back for a while. Probably not, though a girl can dream.

But that’s all it is. A dream. And I know better than to hope for easy answers.

The alley smells like trash and old beer. The air feels thick and sour, like it’s choking on something. It’s the perfect place to do this. I reach for the knife, my fingers shaking just a little as I pull it out of its sheath. The metal is cold in my hand, steady. I grip it harder, trying to ignore how my skin feels like it’s crawling.

I don’t want to do this. I really don’t. But I have to. He’s closer now. Too close.

His footsteps slow behind me. He’s right there, close enough now that I can feel his breath on my neck. I don’t dare turn around, but his proximity feels like a weight on my chest. My throat tightens around the lump of fear I can’t swallow down.

I can’t wait any longer.