Alice Mae’s heart didn’t race.

Not yet.

It slowed.

A sharp, chilling stillness settled in her chest—bone-deep and familiar. The kind that only came when something real was watching you. Something that didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Her grip on Caleb’s hand tightened, their fingers laced like armor.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

She could feel him standing beside her, could feel the shift in him—from soft to steel. From porch swing quiet to fight-or-flight tension. The air had changed. Dense. Pressurized. Like the night itself was holding its breath.

She stood, slow and sure, bare feet planting against the porch boards.

The swing creaked behind her and went still.

Her eyes didn’t leave the figure across the street.

The mask was wrong. Too smooth in some places, too jagged in others. It caught the porch light in flashes—just enough for her to see what was waiting underneath. The glint of the axe. The soaked, torn flannel. The hulking frame of something once human, now just… hunger.

“Caleb,” she said, her voice low, even.

Not fear. Not panic.

Just fact.

“That’s him.”

A beat.

“Tommy Slater.”

She let the name settle. Let the weight of it crawl down her spine like ice.

“The Nightwing Killer.”

The one who tore through campers like they were paper. The one with the axe. The one who didn’t stop.

She swallowed hard, jaw set.

He was watching them.

Waiting.

And she knew what happened next if they hesitated.

Her hand squeezed Caleb’s like a command.

“Get inside.”

Still, he didn’t move.

So she looked at him, eyes fierce.

“I mean it. Go.”

And this time—he did.

He bolted for the door, and she followed fast behind, feet slapping against wood, porch light strobing behind them as if the house itself knew what was coming.

She crossed the threshold right behind him and threw her weight into the door, slamming it shut with a jarring bang that rattled the frame. She flicked the deadbolt with shaking fingers, chest heaving as the porch fell silent again.

Too silent.

Until—

CRACK.

The door shuddered violently.

A second later, the blade of an axe split through the wood—splinters flying, the jagged steel glinting like it had waited for this moment.

“Go, go, go!” she yelled, already pushing Caleb toward the kitchen with both hands. “Back door—now!”

He didn’t argue.

They tore through the hallway, the house narrowing around them in flashes of lamplight and shadow. Alice ducked low, snatching a pair of sneakers from the floor near the coat rack and tucking them beneath her arm as she ran. The thud of footsteps—not theirs—rumbled through the floorboards behind them.

The back door loomed ahead.

She could already see the moonlight spilling through the glass.

Almost there.

Almost out.

And with every step, every breath, every scream caught in her throat—

Alice Mae wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was fighting.

Caleb didn’t even remember standing up.

One second he was on that swing, soaking in the softness of her voice, the warmth of her hand, the way she leaned in like maybe—just maybe—they’d earned a sliver of peace.

The next?

He felt it.

That ripple in the night. That pressure drop in the air. Like the whole world hit pause and then rewound just enough to whisper: run.

And when she said his name—when she said that’s him—
everything else dropped out.

His body went cold, fast. Not numb, not frozen. Just focused.

He didn’t question it. Didn’t ask if she was sure.

She was. He knew it. Knew it the same way you know when lightning’s about to strike.

Tommy. Slater.

Axe. Flannel. Blood that never dried.

And Alice? Barefoot. Terrified but steady. Still trying to protect him.

“Get inside.”

She’d said it like a command. Like she thought he might hesitate.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was afraid.

Because he needed to get her safe.

He moved fast, sneakers hitting the porch hard as he grabbed the door and slammed it open with enough force to bounce off the wall. She was right behind him—he heard her, felt the heat of her breath on his neck, the panic rising behind them like a tidal wave.

The slam of the door. The lock clicking home.

And then—
CRACK.

The sound of that axe hitting the wood tore through him like a thunderclap.

Splinters flew. The blade punched through, glinting in the porch light.

And Alice? Alice shoved him like she meant it. Like she wasn’t about to let either of them die on her damn welcome mat.

“Back door—now!”

He ran.

Because of course he did.

Because he had shoes on and she didn’t and his blood was already sprinting three beats ahead of his brain. His shoulder hit the corner of the hallway, but he didn’t slow—just grabbed Alice’s arm when she snagged her sneakers and hauled her forward, hand locked around hers like a lifeline.

The house groaned behind them.

Footsteps. Heavy. Too heavy.

He heard the door frame splinter.

Felt it like a punch in his spine.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, more to the world than her, like if he just said it enough times the universe might give them a damn break.

The kitchen opened up ahead, the back door glowing silver in the moonlight like some kind of promise. One more hallway. One more second.

His grip on her hand never wavered.

Not when she stumbled. Not when he heard the axe again. Not when the shadow behind them moved too fast to be human.

He wasn’t gonna let her fall.

Not now.

Not ever.

The screen door slammed behind them with a metallic snap as Alice Mae shoved it open and burst onto the back steps, her hand still clenched in Caleb’s like the only thing keeping her upright was the anchor of him.

The night air hit her like a wave—thick and humid, still clinging to summer like it didn’t want to let go. Her lungs burned. Her feet stung against the gravel and broken twigs scattered across the backyard. But none of it mattered.

They had to move.

She could hear the slam of the front door giving way. The heavy, brutal footfalls inside. No voice. No scream. Just presence.

The kind that didn’t need to shout to kill.

“Fence—go!” she hissed, already lunging toward it, a rusted chain-link wall that bordered the back edge of the yard, barely holding back the tangle of woods beyond.

Caleb reached it first.

Didn’t hesitate.

He turned, braced one hand against the fence, the other reaching for her like he knew she wouldn’t make it on her own—not barefoot, not like this. She didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just planted one hand in his and the other on the warm, rusted metal, letting him boost her with a rough grunt of effort.

She scrambled awkwardly, one sneaker tucked under her arm, the other still clutched in her hand, legs flailing as she swung herself over the top.

She hit the ground on the other side, hard—too hard.

Her bare foot landed on something sharp, a thick branch buried in overgrown grass. It rolled under her, and with a sickening pop, her ankle twisted out from under her.

Pain exploded through her leg.

She went down.

Hard.

One of the sneakers flew from her grip as she cried out and hit the dirt, scraping her palms and biting back a scream.

But she didn’t get time to process it.

Because Caleb vaulted the fence behind her in one smooth motion—and landed just in time to see her not standing.

She was trying. God, she was trying to stand, to force weight onto the ankle that already felt wrong, loose and sharp and not hers. Her teeth clenched hard enough to ache, and her hand braced against a tree trunk, but her leg buckled again beneath her.

“Shit,” she hissed, breathless, panicked. “Caleb, I—”

She didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

He was already moving.

No hesitation.

His arms hooked under her thighs and back in one motion, lifting her like it was instinct—because it was.

“Don’t—” she started, weakly pushing against his chest. “I can run, just—give me a sec—”

But she didn’t fight him.

Because behind them, she could hear it.

The sound of crashing brush. Metal dragging. Something ancient and wrong tearing through the yard like the fence meant nothing.

Alice clenched her fists into the fabric of Caleb’s shirt, her head pressed against his shoulder as he ran, the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding against her ear.

They tore into the woods—him carrying her, her clutching the remaining sneaker tight against her ribs, teeth gritted through the pain and the fear.

Because yeah, she was hurt.

But she wasn’t helpless.

Not while he was still running.

Not while they had each other.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t calculate.

Didn’t do the whole “what’s the plan” routine he’d once prided himself on during game days and group projects and every other moment where being the guy who had it together actually mattered.

This wasn’t that.

This was now.

Alice went down hard. The sound of her body hitting the dirt was a gut punch—shallow, sharp, final in the worst way.

He was over the fence in a flash, barely registering the sting of chain-link scraping his palms. She was already trying to get up, teeth clenched like she could will her ankle into submission.

“Caleb, I—”

Nope.

No time for that.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Didn’t waste a breath.

He scooped her up like every horror movie he’d ever mocked had just become a manual for survival. One arm under her knees, the other around her back, her heart hammering wild against his chest.

“Don’t—” she tried, pushing at him like she still had something to prove.

But her voice broke. Not with fear. With fury. At the situation. At her body. At him for not being the one who fell, probably.

Still—she didn’t fight him.

Because they both heard it.

That sound.

The drag of the axe across gravel. The snap of a branch too thick to break under anything human. The kind of sound that chased you into your nightmares and didn’t leave when the sun came up.

His grip tightened around her.

And he ran.

Not a stumble. Not a second thought.

He tore through the woods like the trees didn’t matter. Like the branches ripping at his sleeves and the roots trying to trip him were background noise to the singular, blaring alarm in his head:

Get her out. Get her safe.

She was clutching his shirt, her breath hot against his neck, that damn sneaker still wedged between them like it mattered. Like she was still fighting, even now.

Good.

He needed that.

Because he could handle pain. Could take a hit, make a plan, throw a punch if it came to it. But if she stopped fighting?

That would break him.

“Almost there,” he said, mostly to her, partly to himself, like saying it would make it true. “Just hold on, okay?”

He didn’t know where there was.

But he’d carry her every goddamn step if he had to.

Because she wasn’t just Alice Mae anymore.

She was his to protect.

And whatever monster was breathing down their necks?

It could go through him first.

Alice Mae didn’t know how long they’d been running.

Time didn’t work right when your body was screaming and your brain was stuck between fight and don’t you dare faint. The trees blurred past in streaks of green and shadow, moonlight flickering like a dying lightbulb through the canopy overhead.

She should’ve been thinking.

About the pain. The curse. The fact that the Nightwing Killer was following them with an axe and the patience of something that enjoyed the wait.

But all she could think about was him.

Caleb.

His arms around her. Tight. Unshaking. The smell of soap and sweat and blood—that grounding mix of now. His heartbeat against her ribs like a war drum that refused to miss a beat.

She wanted to scream.

Not from fear. Not even from the pain in her ankle, though it was sharp and hot and unforgiving. She wanted to scream because it wasn’t fair.

She was supposed to protect him too.

And now she was this—dead weight, sneakers half-lost, breath catching in her throat like even her lungs had given up on her.

But he never slowed.

Not once.

Even when her voice cracked out his name. Even when she tried to push against his chest again—not to stop him, not really, just to feel something other than helplessness—he didn’t falter.

He just kept going.

Because that’s what Caleb Larson did.

He didn’t back down. He didn’t break. He didn’t leave.

And god, that made her chest hurt more than her leg.

She tightened her grip on him.

No more trying to get free. No more wasting energy trying to prove she could walk.

He knew she could. He also knew she didn’t have to. Not this time.

The trees began to break, just ahead.

She could see light—warm, flickering, low. A porch light. Maybe two. A house tucked at the edge of the woods. Safety, or the illusion of it. Either way, it was something.

Her head dropped against his shoulder, her voice a rasp now.

“Please tell me you’re not about to die carrying me like some kind of final girl fantasy.”

He huffed a breath—something between a laugh and a sob—and that was enough.

She didn’t need a speech.

Didn’t need promises.

He was still holding her.

Still running.

And as long as he didn’t let go, she’d survive this.

Even if the monster was still behind them.

Even if the blood never stopped.

Even if the world broke again and again and again.

She’d make it.

Because he hadn’t dropped her yet.
And she wasn’t planning on letting go.

She didn’t remember when the trees ended.

Only that suddenly there were streetlights again. Sidewalks. A coffee shop they used to skip class to walk to. The low hum of a passing car. A string of fairy lights still lit over the bakery window, like the town was dressing itself up to feel less haunted.

Caleb carried her straight down Main Street like it wasn’t the most insane thing to ever happen here—like he hadn’t just run for miles with her in his arms, covered in dirt, blood, and fear. He was shaking. She could feel it in the way his arms tensed around her, the ragged drag of every breath he pulled in.

Sunnyvale didn’t notice.

Or it pretended not to.

A couple crossed the street, slowed when they saw them, then kept going. A woman sitting on a bench outside the florist did a double take. Someone on a bike nearly stopped, then pedaled faster instead.

No one asked if they were okay.

No one offered help.

Because things like this didn’t happen here.

Caleb lowered her gently onto a bench beneath a flickering antique lamppost, the wood cool under her legs, her ankle screaming the second it dropped below her knee.

Alice let out a shaky breath and finally looked up.

People were still looking.

Not rushing over. Not dialing phones. Just staring.

Like they didn’t know if she was real—or if acknowledging her would make it real for them, too.

She blinked hard, jaw clenched, her voice thin and furious when it finally came out.

“Call Max.”

Caleb didn’t move at first.

So she grabbed his wrist.

Her hand was still shaking, but her grip was solid.

“I’m serious. Call Max. Right now.”

Because something was wrong. Worse than wrong.

Tommy Slater had come into Sunnyvale.

Had crossed into the town they were told was untouchable. Protected. Immune.

He hadn’t cared.

He’d come for them anyway.

And no one around them—not a single person on this picture-perfect street—knew what that meant.

But Max would.

She had to.

Because if this was happening here?

Everything had changed.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Couldn’t tell if it was from the running, the adrenaline, or the weight of what he’d just carried—who he’d just carried—through the woods like the whole goddamn world was on fire behind them. Probably all of it. Probably more.

His arms felt like they were still holding her, even after he set her down. Muscles twitching. Hands clenched so tight his fingers ached. His lungs burned, throat raw, heart pounding so loud it was almost disorienting. Like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that they’d made it.

Made it where, though?

Sunnyvale wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not under these streetlights. Not in this quiet, glowing downtown. Not with Alice bleeding on a bench under a lamppost that flickered like something out of a horror movie parody.

He looked around, expecting—hoping—someone would move.

Help. Ask. See them.

But they didn’t.

They just watched.

Blank stares. Shrinking glances. Pretending it was someone else’s nightmare bleeding out under a light dusting of fairy lights.

And Caleb?

He wanted to scream.

Because Alice was right. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not in their town. Not in her town. The curse didn’t come with cobblestone sidewalks and overpriced cupcakes and garden benches with commemorative plaques.

It stayed in Shadyside. It was supposed to stay in Shadyside.

But now?

Now Tommy Slater had crossed the line.

And everything they’d ever been told—about the boundary, the safety, the lie of the zip code—was crumbling.

“Alice—” he started, his voice hoarse, already digging into his jacket for his phone. He could barely feel his fingers. They weren’t listening to him.

But she was.

She grabbed his wrist—grabbed it—with a kind of strength that didn’t come from muscles. It came from will. From survival. From the girl who’d just limped through hell and still had the clarity to say what needed to be said.

“Call Max. Right now.”

And he did.

He didn’t hesitate.

Because if Alice Mae—sharp, stubborn, saw-through-everything Alice—sounded scared? Then it was already worse than bad.

His thumb hovered just a second too long on Max’s contact before he hit Call. The ring buzzed in his ear, and he looked around again—really looked.

At the couple pretending not to see them.

At the kid biking faster, like if he didn’t look back, it wouldn’t matter.

At the town that told them this wasn’t possible.

Caleb turned his back on all of them.

Kneeling in front of Alice, he curled one hand around her uninjured ankle, grounding her, grounding himself as the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Please, Max. Pick up.

Because the curse didn’t just knock tonight.

It kicked the fucking door in.