I leaned against the damp concrete wall of the storage unit, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Megan Fleming’s chest. The air in the basement was heavy with the smell of mildew and the sharp, metallic tang of the cold water still dripping from my own soaked suit. A terrifying thought gnawed at my mind: if anyone—a neighbor, a security guard, or a member of the local committee—were to find us like this in the middle of the night, my life would be over. A grown man with a disheveled, unconscious teenage girl in a locked basement? In the eyes of the law and the court of public opinion, it wouldn't matter that I had saved her from Brady Feyne. The optics were a death sentence.
Just as I was spiraling into a pit of anxiety, Megan stirred. She let out a soft, fragile sound, like a wounded
