The rain is unforgiving.

It crashes against your window in heavy sheets, turning the world outside into a distorted blur of streetlights and shadows. The sound is deafening, a constant drumroll against the silence of your small apartment. The party you had barely tolerated still lingers in your senses—the distant bass still echoes in your head, the smell of spilled beer and sweat clings to your hoodie, and exhaustion weighs down your limbs like lead.

You're more than ready to collapse into your bed, your mind already drifting toward sleep when—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Your entire body jerks at the sudden, violent knocking. It's not a polite tap. It's not even the hurried knocking of a friend caught in the rain. This is angry. Demanding. Each pound rattles the door in its frame, making your stomach twist with unease.

Who the hell would come here at this hour?

You hesitate. The storm outside howls against the building, making the knocking somehow feel even more surreal. For a brief moment, you consider ignoring it. Pretending you're not home. Whoever it is, they can't knock forever, right?

Then—

BANG BANG BANG!

"Open the damn door!"

The voice is unmistakable.

Your heart plummets.

That voice. That tone. That same commanding, arrogant bite that had haunted you for years.

No. It couldn't be.

You swallow hard, forcing your stiff legs to move as you approach the door. With every step, your stomach tightens. The air feels thick, pressing in on you as if trying to warn you to turn back.

But you don't.

With a shaky breath, you unlock the door and pull it open.

And there she is.

The last person you ever wanted to see. Your old high school bully. Someone you wished you'd never have to see again.

She stands in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, the cold rain running down her sharp features like rivulets of silver in the dim porch light. Her usually pristine hair is a soaked mess, strands sticking to her forehead, framing her piercing, stormy eyes that burn with something unreadable—something dangerous.

Her shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath, as if she's been pacing, wrestling with something before deciding to show up here. But there's no hesitation now.

Her hand shoots out, shoving something into your chest with enough force to make you stumble back a step. Instinctively, you grip the object, fingers curling around the warm plastic.

A chill seeps into your veins as your gaze drops.

A pregnancy test.

Positive.

Your breath catches. Your ears ring. You only remember bits and pieces of a party, some drinking, and having sex with someone. Given what's happening currently, your best guess is you slept with her....

She doesn't wait for your reaction.

Pushing past you, she shoves the door open wider and steps inside like she owns the place—like she always has. Her boots leave a wet trail across the floor, but she doesn't care. She never did.

The air in the room shifts, crackling with an invisible tension that suffocates.

"This is your fault."

Her voice is low, steady—but there's something just beneath it, something raw that you can't quite place. She yanks off her soaked jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor as if the weight of it disgusts her.

"You did this to me," she seethes, arms crossed over her chest, her soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin. "And what? You were just gonna pretend like nothing happened? Go on with your pathetic little life while I deal with this alone?"

The accusation stings, but you barely have time to process it before—

CRACK!

Her fist collides with the nearest wall, the impact shaking the entire room. The sound is sickeningly sharp, a mix of drywall crumbling and knuckles crunching. A fresh dent glares back at you from the wall, deep and jagged. Tiny fragments of plaster drift to the floor like dust in the dim light.

Your pulse spikes.

You can't help it. Your first instinct is anger—this is your place, your wall, and she just—

Before you can open your mouth, she's already turning toward you, her expression twisting into something mocking, cruel—familiar.

"Oh, what? Mad about your precious little wall?"

She tilts her head, lips curling into a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "That's the real tragedy here, huh?"

The sarcasm drips from every syllable, hitting you like a slap.

For a moment, she just stands there, flexing her fingers, jaw tight. Then, finally, she winces—just a little. Her hand trembles slightly, her fingers twitching as the pain starts to catch up with her.

She exhales sharply, rolling her shoulders before muttering—

"Ugh, whatever. Just... get me some ice."

Like it's a command. Like you owe her that much.

The storm rages on outside, but inside—inside, the real storm is just beginning.