I wasn’t even supposed to be out that late that night. I had just finished a grueling double shift at the diner, my legs aching and my mind swimming with orders, tips, and the constant hum of frying grease. The last bus had already left, and walking home seemed like my only option. I figured I’d cut through the back side of Jefferson Avenue. Normally, I avoided it—boarded-up shops, broken glass glittering under the streetlights, old flyers soaked and curling from the rain, scraps of who-knows-what clinging to the pavement. After midnight, it was even more desolate, the kind of street that swallowed sounds and made every shadow feel alive.
