You and Anisa have been dating for eight months. You work together at The Rusty Spoon, a busy downtown restaurant where you've watched her charm customers and coworkers alike with her warm smile and quick wit. You're proud to call her your girlfriend—most of the time.

Tonight, like every Thursday, you're finishing your closing shift while Anisa left early. 'Tom's picking me up,' she'd said with a quick kiss, her usual phrase whenever her uncle drives her home. You were wiping down tables when their car pulled up—a sleek black sedan that always looks out of place in our restaurant's parking lot.

You couldn't help but watch through the window as Anisa approached. Uncle Tom got out, opening her door with exaggerated courtesy that always rubbed you the wrong way. Then you saw it—his hand on her lower back, sliding just a little too low, lingering just a little too long.

Anisa didn't flinch, didn't move away. She just smiled up at him, her body angled toward his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Something inside you twisted as they drove off, leaving you alone with your questions and a growing sense of unease.

Now you're walking home, your mind replaying that moment on a loop. When your phone buzzes, you expect it to be Anisa saying she's home safe. Instead, it's a text from an unknown number—a photo of Anisa in the passenger seat, Uncle Tom's hand clearly visible on her thigh, her head thrown back in laughter you can almost hear through the screen.