After about a five-minute wait in line, I finally order our drinks. I go with my usual grande iced vanilla blonde latte with vanilla cold foam. Marlena decides on a grande matcha latte with strawberry-flavored cold foam, and Khloe orders a caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino in the largest size available, the fucking trenta. I shoot Khloe a heated glare as I pay the tab, then join them at an open table tucked beside the emergency exit.
“Coffee is on you next time,” I mutter as I drop my bag onto the ground beside my seat.
She only giggles, clearly unbothered. “Deal.”
Almost ten minutes crawl by before my name is finally called. Relief washes over me, and we push away from the table to collect our drinks. Marlena grabs her matcha latte with a bright grin, Khloe clutches her massive frappuccino like it’s a newborn, and I secure my iced vanilla blonde latte, straw in hand.
The second we step outside, the heat slams into us like we’ve opened the door to an oven preheated to four hundred degrees. The blast of dry air steals the breath right from my lungs, clinging to my skin and making the condensation on my cup vanish almost instantly.
“Alright,” I sigh, tightening my grip on the cold plastic as I tug the hem of my shirt out, fanning myself with it.
The Arizona sun is ruthless—like the devil’s own breath scorching the earth. We’re supposed to be easing into fall, but apparently, Mother Nature didn’t get the memo. And to make matters worse, the monsoon season has been practically nonexistent this year: hardly any storms, barely any relief—just unrelenting heat.
“I’m off to endure seventy-five minutes of pure torture,” I announce, taking a long pull from my coffee. The caffeine is necessary, even if it’s already fighting a losing battle against the exhaustion of the day. “I’ll see y’all later for lunch?”
“Same place, same time?” Marlena asks, raising her cup with an easy smile.
I nod mid-sip, returning her grin before waving them off. With the sun already prickling against the back of my neck, I start my slow, reluctant trek toward the Chemistry Building—dragging my feet like I’m on my way to my own execution.
I sit cross-legged in bed, the morning sun streaming through the half-open blinds, casting soft streaks of light across my comforter. Max is curled up before me, his massive head resting in my lap. He’s snoring gently, his hind leg twitching every now and then in response to some dream he’s chasing. I absentmindedly scratch behind his ears while my other hand cradles my phone, thumb flicking lazily through the usual parade of masked men, bikers, book-related posts, and chaotic meme dumps clogging up my feed. It’s Friday, and after my alarm woke my ass up, I heavily debated whether or not I wanted to drive to campus for my only class, despite it being one of my favorites.
Clearly, I chose not to, or I wouldn’t still be doomscrolling on Instagram.
Neither Tessa nor I have to work. Her parents are the reason for that little miracle. They cover the rent on our apartment, the bills, groceries, and practically everything else we could ever possibly need. They insisted on it from the start, wanting us to focus on school rather than worrying about making ends meet. Her dad is a trauma surgeon at the university hospital, and her mom owns a veterinary clinic, so money’s never really been an issue for them.
At first, I felt guilty as hell living off their generosity. I’d been under their roof since I was thirteen, and even though they took me in without hesitation, I couldn’t shake the need to earn my keep. During my first year of college, I got a job as a caregiver to help with expenses, as I was convinced I needed to contribute something. That brilliant decision nearly tanked my GPA. I was placed on academic probation, risking the loss of my financial aid and scholarship. I pulled through (barely) and, after a long talk (and an even longer crying session), I finally accepted the deal they’d offered.
They’ve never treated me like an outsider, never made me feel like a charity case. And every time I open the fridge to see it fully stocked or find an envelope of “pocket money” slid into my mail slot, I swear I could cry.
I’ll never stop being grateful for what they’ve done for me. Not just the money, but also the way they welcomed me like family without hesitation or strings attached.
Eventually, the dopamine buzz from scrolling socials fizzles out, and like clockwork, I swipe over to my news app. No matter how grim or disturbing, I always end up here. It’s a reflex now—compulsion dressed up as curiosity. It doesn’t just whisper to me, it claws at the back of my mind until I give in.
There isn’t much this morning—a couple of drug busts, some domestic disturbances, and a hit-and-run. Then, tucked between headlines about rising heat advisories and a city council debate, one article catches my eye.
Young Woman Found Fatally Stabbed Behind East Side Strip Mall—Identity Still Unknown
My thumb hesitates only a second before I tap the link.
The article is vague, which suggests that the case is still fresh, possibly even hours old. The body was discovered early this morning behind a cluster of dumpsters in a narrow alley, not far from a 24-hour smoke shop and a cash-only pawn store. The area is renowned for its vibrant nightlife and the diverse range of activities that thrive after dark.
No ID. No wallet. No phone.
The victim was estimated to be in her early twenties. Petite. Signs of recent drug use, according to an unnamed source. The coroner has confirmed multiple stab wounds, but no weapon was found. She was wearing black strappy heels, a black mini skirt, and a neon pink crop top when she was found—an outfit the article pointedly describes as “indicative of sex work.” Just subtle enough to be judgmental.
There’s no surveillance footage, no suspects, no motive—just a young woman with no name, discarded like garbage.
My chest tightens—not with fear, but something sharper. Anger. Someone did this and walked away. And unless someone cares enough to dig deeper, she’ll be chalked up as another statistic. Another body in a city that’s no stranger to bloodshed.
I sigh and drop my head against the headboard, rubbing my fingers through Max’s short, silky fur. His tail thumps once against the mattress, like he’s reassuring me.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, vibrating hard enough to jolt Max’s ears. He lifts his head, blinking up at me sleepily while I glance at the screen.
KHLOE:
Do you and Tessa want to hang out today? I’m bored, and Marlena is too busy fucking Austin to literally do anything else.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. That girl has no filter. I tap out a reply with a smirk.
