Thea could hear the nearing of footsteps despite the low drum of the music trailing from Bourbon Street. The vibrant, chaotic symphony of the city, usually a backdrop to her carefully constructed silence, now felt like a taunt.

She picked up her pace, her worn sneakers barely making a sound on the grimy pavement as she moved through the dimly lit alleyways. The air grew heavier with the scent of stale beer and damp stone.

Then, the distinct echo of footsteps quickened behind her, a sharp, unwelcome rhythm against the city's hum.

Her heart raced, a frantic drum against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to turn, to confront, to defend. But she resisted, biting back the urge, the terrible, potent urge to look back.