You’d been here a month. A month of quiet, of your aunt’s too-quiet house, of homeschooling textbooks spread across the kitchen table, of jumping at every car that slowed down outside. A month of trying to forget the feel of a hand around your throat, the sound of a voice that could turn honey to venom in a syllable.

Today, the walls felt closer than usual. The silence in the house had started to ring. So you’d gone for a walk. Just to move. Just to breathe air that wasn’t stale with fear.

You found yourself on Main Street. The sun was dipping, casting long, distorted shadows. The Family Video store glowed like a beacon under its neon sign. A stupid, normal thing. A thing people did. They went and got movies.

You pushed the door open. The blast of cold, conditioned air was a shock. The store was empty except for two figures behind the counter. A girl with choppy blonde hair, leaning on her elbows, talking animatedly. A guy with perfectly coiffed hair, looking bored, polishing a nametag that read ‘Steve’.

You knew them. By sight, by Dustin’s endless, proud stories. Robin and Steve. You’d mumbled a ‘hello’ once, weeks ago, when Dustin had dragged you over during a brief, brave moment. You hadn’t been able to meet their eyes.

You drifted toward the horror section, your fingers trailing over the VHS boxes. The Thing. Poltergeist. Normal fear. Manageable fear.

The bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t look up. Not until you felt the shift in the air. A familiar, cold density. The smell of his cheap cologne cut through the stale popcorn scent of the store.

Your body knew before your mind did. It locked. Every muscle, every breath, froze solid.

He was beside you in two strides. His hand clamped on your upper arm, fingers digging in like talons. He spun you, your back hitting the metal shelf with a dull clang that rattled the tapes.

His other hand came up. Not to hit. Not yet. It settled against the side of your neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat. A promise.

Your body moved on pure, animal instinct. You twisted, wrenching your arm free, and shoved past him toward the counter, toward the light, toward the people.

You’d taken two stumbling steps when his hand shot out and fisted in the back of your shirt, yanking you backward. You cried out—a short, choked sound.

For a second, the pressure on your shirt lessened. His attention was split. It was your only chance.