I shut off my PC and sank back in my chair, trying to catch my breath. Cold sweat ran down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. The AC hummed like it was straining, doing nothing to calm me.
I stepped out of my room. Mom was washing dishes, lofi music humming softly in the background. A warm, ordinary scene—but it scared me. Normal life felt fragile now. If I told her anything… she'd get dragged in. My sister, my brother too. Fuck.
I sank into the living room, trembling, pale, tears threatening to spill. My chest tightened with guilt and fear. Somewhere deep inside, though, a spark lit up—a tiny, stubborn flame. I had to get out of this mess. I had to do something.
I wiped my eyes, wobbly on my knees, and shuffled to help Mom. Of course, she immediately nagged me.
"Oh, you're finally out of your room after holing again. So you finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh, you little shit? Go sweep the floor."
Her voice, sharp and familiar, grounded me. I grabbed the broom and muttered under my breath,
"I really needed that…"
The chores were endless, each one stretching my limbs and shaking off the terror a little. After she was satisfied, Mom handed me a list and some extra cash to run to the convenience store down the block.
I left the house, the cool afternoon brushing against my sweaty skin. By the time I bought what I needed, a corndog in hand, I froze. Two of the guys from the videos were just down the street, walking casually. My stomach lurched. I didn't know they were this close.
Instinct screamed: run. But my mind argued: act normal. I shoved the corndog into my mouth, pretending nothing was happening, and walked past. Heart hammering, I rounded the corner—and overheard them talking.
"Lower Junction Apartment Green, 5 PM," one said.
I froze. My blood went cold. I knew that place. I had hacked their CCTV before, thanks to a friend there.
My legs started moving before my brain fully processed it. I ran home, tripping over the curb, grazing my knee, scraping skin and fabric. Cold sweat drenched me.
Back in my room, I tossed the groceries on the table and slammed the door shut. I crawled under my blanket, trying to disappear from the world like the scared, immature teen I was.
The clock ticked: one… two… three… four… five PM loomed. My mind spun. What if there was a victim there? What if I did nothing? Guilt, sharp and merciless, clawed at me. I felt like a monster.
Tears threatened to break free. My hands shook. My chest tightened. My mind screamed: safety for me, or safety for the victim?
Then I remembered something my dad said once, years ago, when we caught a pickpocket in the market: Even if it's scary, even if it threatens you, you'll never forgive yourself if you don't do anything when you can. Guilt eats you alive.
The words cut through the panic like a lifeline.
I sat up in my gaming chair, still wrapped in my blanket, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I started running through possibilities, scanning old hacks, CCTV access points, phone numbers I had memorized. Every second counted.
I hacked into the Lower Junction CCTV again, flipping through cameras until I saw the Green Apartment. Inside, the guys had already entered. The room was in use. Heart thudding, I tried to think clearly. Evidence. Steps. Timing.
I opened a fresh document, fingers trembling, and logged every detail: time of arrival, number of people, known identifiers. I marked which cameras had blind spots, which angles could give proof without putting me at risk.
Minutes dragged. My stomach churned, a mix of fear and adrenaline. Thoughts kept looping: I could get caught. I could get hurt. Nobody would believe me. I'm just a kid.
And yet… I had to try.
I reminded myself of the basics: stay calm. Be methodical. Observe. Record. Protect myself. Protect evidence.
Then a small, wild thought sparked: phone booths. Mid-city has phone booths everywhere, all unmonitored. I could reach someone. A real officer. Someone who would listen.
I got up, sweaty hands shaking, and grabbed the closest one. Five cents in my pocket. I dialed a number I'd memorized for emergencies—a police officer named Charlie.
"Ring… ring…"
"Hello? Charlie speaking."
"Sir! Please, there's something going on at the Lower Junction… worse than drugs. It's… it's rape. Apartment Green, Room 13!"
Toot… toot… the line cut out. My stomach twisted. But it was enough. Someone had to respond.
I sneaked back home, caught in a scolding from Mom for slamming the door twice. She pinched me hard enough to sting. I gritted my teeth, ignored it, and bolted to my room. Blanket wrapped tight around me, I sat at my desk and pulled up the CCTV feeds.
One… two… three… four… five minutes crawled by. Every second felt like hours. My mind played through worst-case scenarios: the victim hurt, the perpetrators escaping, me failing. My hands shook. My chest ached.
Then—sirens. Loud, wailing, unstoppable. Police raided the apartment. My desperate call had worked.
Gunshots. Shouting. Silence. Seven people were dragged out. One wrapped in a towel, carried by Charlie himself. Relief washed over me, but horror lingered—I couldn't shake the images of what had happened.
The other four guys in the room looked stunned, trapped, powerless. Idiots, yeah—but dangerous ones. My chest tightened in disgust and fear.
Relief and exhaustion crashed over me. My heart felt lighter, but a heaviness stayed. The victim was safe. But this nightmare wasn't over—not for them, not for me.