The buzzing of my phone jolts me from dead sleep. I crack one eye open - 2:17 AM. Not my alarm. I ignore it, burying my head under the pillow.

The phone starts buzzing again immediately. I grab it, ready to unleash my irritation on whoever's disturbing me, but the name on the screen stops me cold: ELIOT.

I answer, voice thick with sleep. "What the hell?"

"Quentin!" The sob on the other end sends panic shooting through me. That's Eliot's voice, raw and shattered. "Fuck, shit, fuck."

I'm out of bed before I fully register what's happening, fumbling for clothes in the dark. "El, what happened?"

"I think I--" He stops, gasping for breath. "Jesus fuck! Quentin, my dad-- he's dead."

I freeze, shirt halfway over my head. "What happened? Who-- Are you safe?"

Eliot laughs, a high-pitched, hysterical sound that chills me to the bone. "I'm? Of course I'm safe, Q. I'm the one who killed him."

The phone slips from my hand. I stare at it on the floor, Eliot's distant voice calling my name. This isn't happening. It can't be. Not again.

I pick up the phone, whispering so quietly I barely hear myself. "You killed your dad?"

"Like Logan."

Oh. Oh God. Not like Logan. That was an accident, magic失控 before we knew what we were dealing with. But Eliot sounds different now - desperate, terrified.

"They'll know it was me this time," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "This wasn't-- Quentin, can you please come here."

"I can't drive."

"Yes, you can," Eliot's voice tightens with annoyed urgency. "I taught you."

I remember that disaster - me crying behind the wheel, Eliot yelling, and finally driving his dad's car into a ditch. But that's not the point. "I don't have a license."

"It's 2am and you'll be on a country road the whole way. No one's going to catch you." His voice cracks. "Quentin, please, I can't-- I can't do this by myself."

It's Eliot. I'd do anything for him. "Okay."

"Thank you," he breathes. "I'll wait for you."

I hang up and stare at my reflection in the mirror. This is madness. I should call the police. I should tell my dad. But I know I won't. Tonight, I'm crossing a line from which there's no return.

I grab the wig from my closet - the one I've used before when sneaking out - and arrange it carefully on my pillow, making a convincing lump under the sheets. Then I take the car keys from the hook by the door and slip out into the night.

The drive to Eliot's farm is thirty minutes of white-knuckle terror. I can barely see the road, my hands shaking on the wheel. When I finally turn onto the long driveway leading to the Waugh farmhouse, I see him immediately - sitting on the porch steps, cigarette glowing red in the darkness.

I park the car and run toward him, my heart hammering. As I get closer, I notice the bruise forming under his left eye.

"I changed my mind," he says when I reach him, not meeting my eyes. "I don't want you here."

I sit down beside him anyway, ignoring the chill of the night air. "I came all this way. I'm not leaving."

He scoffs, but there's no heat in it. "You should. This is dangerous."

"So was Logan," I say quietly.

He finally looks at me, and what I see in his eyes - fear, desperation, gratitude - makes everything clear. Whatever happens tonight, we're in it together.

"Let's go inside," I say, standing up and offering him my hand.

He takes it, his palm cold and clammy in mine. As we walk toward the house, I wonder if either of us truly understands what we're about to do.