The invite didn’t whisper.
It flashed on Rina’s phone just after sunset, neon slicing across the screen like a dare she never agreed to.
SIGMA HOUSE — FRIDAY NIGHT. NO CAMERAS. NO RULES.
She stares at it.
“No rules” never means that.
Bree was halfway dressed when Rina looked up. “You’re going.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Bree said, sliding on gloss with calm certainty. “If you don’t show up, they’ll decide why for you. If you do, at least you control the narrative.”
Rina exhaled. “I hate that you’re right.”
Thirty minutes later, Sigma House glowed like a wound. Music spilled onto the lawn. Bodies pressed together. Laughter cut sharply through the night.
Rina stepped inside and felt it immediately—the shift. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Phones lifted, then dropped when people
