Author's Pov:
The world was a blur of grey streaks and the smell of hot rubber.
Nine-year-old Fallon gripped the edges of her leather seat until her knuckles turned white.
Outside, the rain was falling so hard it sounded like gravel being dumped onto the roof of the car. It was loud, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the engine's scream as her father pushed the speedometer higher.
"Don't look back, Sophia," her father said. His voice was tight, vibrating with a kind of fear she had never heard before. He always called her by her middle name when things were serious. "Just keep your eyes on me. Do you hear me?"
Fallon didn't listen. She couldn't help it. She twisted her small body in the passenger seat, peering through the rear window. Through the sheet of rain and the spray of water from their tires, she saw them.
Three black SUVs. They looked like predators—heavy, dark, and relentless. They didn't have their headlights on, but every few seconds, a flash of light would erupt from their windows.
Pop. Pop-pop.
"They're shooting!" Fallon screamed, flinching as something metallic sparked off the side mirror. The glass shattered instantly, disappearing into the night.
"Get down!" her father roared. He reached over with one hand, shoving her shoulder toward the floorboards. "Stay low, Sophia! Don't you dare move!"
Fallon huddled in the cramped footwell, her face pressed against her knees. She could feel every jolt of the car, every sharp turn that threatened to flip them over. The floor vibrated beneath her, and she could smell her father's sweat—sharp and bitter.
"Everything is going to be fine," he said, though his breath was coming in ragged gasps. He was fighting the steering wheel as the car hydroplaned across the slick asphalt. "I've got you. I've got you, baby. We're almost there."
But they weren't almost anywhere. They were on a stretch of highway that felt like it led into the mouth of a monster.
Another burst of gunfire rang out. This time, the back window exploded. Shards of glass rained down on Fallon's back like icy diamonds. She tucked her head between her arms, a high-pitched whimper escaping her throat. The cold wind rushed into the car, carrying the scent of rain and gunpowder.
"Listen to me!" her father shouted over the roar of the storm.
Fallon looked up. His face was illuminated by the flickering dashboard lights. He looked older than he had ten minutes ago. There was blood trickling down his temple, though she didn't know where it came from.
"When this car stops—and it's going to stop, Sophia—I need you to move," he said. He glanced at the rearview mirror, his eyes widening as the SUVs began to flank them, box them in.
"No," Fallon sobbed. "Daddy, no."
"You listen!" He gripped the wheel so hard the veins in his arms popped. "If we get out of this car, you run. Do you understand me? You don't look back for me. You don't stop for anything. You run into the trees and you keep going until your legs break. You don't wait. Not for a second."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"You will!" he screamed, the car fishtailing as a bullet finally found a tire.
The world began to tilt. The screech of metal on pavement was deafening, a bone-chilling sound that felt like it was tearing Fallon's ears apart. The car spun, the headlights sweeping across the dark forest like a searchlight.
Crunch.
The impact threw Fallon against the door. Her head hit the glass, and for a moment, the world went black.
When she opened her eyes, the car was tilted at an angle, resting in a ditch. The rain was pouring through the broken windows, soaking her clothes in seconds. It was quiet. Too quiet.
"Daddy?" she whispered. Her voice was small, swallowed by the mud.
Her father was leaning against the steering wheel, coughing. He fumbled with his seatbelt, his movements clumsy and slow. Outside, the sound of heavy car doors slamming shut echoed through the trees. The black SUVs had stopped.
He turned to her, his eyes glassy. He reached out, his bloody thumb brushing her cheek one last time.
"Run, Sophia," he breathed, his voice a ghost of a command. "Run now."
Fallon's eyes snapped open, her lungs burning as if she were still breathing in the smoke and rain of the crash.
She bolted upright in bed, a strangled cry dying in her throat.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the windshield wipers from her dream.
For a panicked second, she expected to feel the cold splash of rain and the jagged edges of broken glass.
Instead, there was only the suffocating silence of a room that wasn't hers.
She wasn't nine years old, and she wasn't in a ditch. She was in a dormitory at St. Jude's University. It was her first night, and the shadows in the corners of the room felt like the dark SUVs still waiting for her.
A soft shift of fabric from across the room made Fallon freeze.
Through the dim moonlight filtering through the high windows, she saw her. Elsa Kingsley.
Elsa was sitting up in the twin bed across the aisle. Even in the middle of the night, she didn't look messy or disoriented.
She looked like a statue carved from ice.
She was five-foot-eight, and even sitting down, her presence seemed to take up all the air in the small room. Her platinum blonde hair was a pale curtain against her shoulders, shimmering like silver in the dark.
She was the daughter of Kate Kingsley, the world-famous actress known for her warmth and "America's Sweetheart" smile. But Elsa? Elsa was the opposite. She was the coldest person Fallon had ever encountered.
When Fallon had arrived earlier that day, Elsa hadn't looked up from her book. No "hello," no "welcome to her," not even a nod. She had treated Fallon's existence like a minor inconvenience, a ghost passing through the walls.
Now, Elsa's hazel eyes were fixed on Fallon. There was no sympathy in them. No "Are you okay?" or "Was it a bad dream?"
Fallon sat there, trembling, her pajamas damp with cold sweat. She waited for Elsa to say something—anything—to break the haunting grip of the nightmare. A simple "Go back to sleep" would have felt like a lifeline.
But Elsa Kingsley didn't do lifelines.
She stared at Fallon for three long, agonizing seconds. Her gaze was clinical, observing Fallon's terror as if it were a boring lab experiment.
Then, without a single word, Elsa simply turned away, pulled her silk duvet up to her shoulder, and lay back down.
The message was clear: Your trauma is not my problem.
Fallon sank back onto her pillow, staring up at the dark ceiling. The two other girls who were supposed to share the suite wouldn't arrive until tomorrow.
For now, it was just her, the ghost of her father's voice telling her to run, and the girl made of ice sleeping five feet away.
Fallon squeezed her eyes shut, but all she could see was the rain.
She realized then that being at this university wasn't going to be the fresh start she had hoped for.
The nightmares had followed her here, and in this prestigious, silent room, she had never felt more alone.