She stumbled onto the main walkway like a rumor nobody wanted to believe. The campus fell into a brittle silence that sounded louder than any shout. Phones popped up like black flowers. Conversations snapped off. Students parted as if the path itself had become contaminated. Cora Boyer moved through them with one shoe gone, one sleeve torn, the collar of her dress ragged and dark with blood that was not hers to explain. Someone whispered, "Is that—" Another voice: "Oh my God." A video started. Then another. A dozen. The feeds would be full of her within minutes: shaky frames of her palms caked in grime, of her hair plastered to her jaw, of the red smear that marched down her forearm. A thousand comments would arrive—sympathy, cruelty, speculation—and none of them would know what had happened in the junkyard outside Harbor City the night before. None of them would know the hours of scraping metal and laughter, the promises broken into bones. None of them would know the word Molly used when she stepped back and let the others do the rest. Cora kept moving. Her legs were a collection of protests. Each step sent a sharp stitch through her left side. She wanted to collapse, to let herself be washed away on the cool stones, to fall into any pocket of anonymity. But she kept moving because standing still would mean reliving the last thing she heard—Gustaf's laugh as someone called her a lesson