Inside, the usual rot of meat grease, rust, and sour wood greeted her like a slap. The flickering ceiling light buzzed faintly overhead. Mavis didn’t flinch anymore; routine dulled fear. She moved through the prep station, her hands finding their rhythm—stack the crates, rinse the knives, mop the floor—until a low, unfamiliar sound broke the silence.

A muffled giggle. Then a thud. Another.

She froze.

Peeking from behind a rack of canned vegetables, she saw him—Mr. Grubb Heishenwood, his greasy hands gripping the arm of a woman. She wore too much red lipstick, stockings torn at the thigh. Her hair was matted from the rain.

The door to the back storage slammed shut behind them.

Mavis stood still, the chill in her bones deepening. The rhythmic thump against the wall was unmistakable. Grubb’s grunts bled through the thin walls, then a sharp slap then another. The woman’s moans turned to cries. Something crashed. Mavis took a step back, heart galloping, breath catching in her throat.

Then suddenly the door burst open.

The woman stumbled out barefoot, lipstick smeared, cheek bruised, blouse torn open. She ran like a hunted thing, clutching her side, eyes wild with fear.

Mavis ducked behind the shelves, her body trembling.

Grubb appeared in the doorway, belt loose, breathing heavy. He didn’t chase the woman. He didn’t need to.

He scanned the room and saw her.

Their eyes locked.

Mavis didn’t blink.

“You saw nothin’,” he said. His voice was low, even, and full of something worse than anger. “Nothin’, Valtor. Keep your head down and your mouth shut… if you know what’s good for you.”

Then he turned, spat on the floor, and disappeared back into the storage room.

The silence that followed felt like a scream.

Mavis stood there for a long time, the cold mop handle still in her grip, her breath shallow. She wanted to be sick. But there was no time.

She finished her shift in silence, her hands moving automatically—scrubbing the tiles, rinsing the knives, wiping the cold counters. Every sound felt sharper. Every second stretched thin.

When she finally stepped back outside, the rain had turned to a drizzle. Gray light seeped through the clouds, painting Ashenbrook in dull ash and shadow. Her shoes splashed through puddles as she walked, head down, mind racing.

Then she saw her.

The woman, the prostitute curled at the bus stop bench. Her red lipstick was gone, washed away by the rain. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. One eye was nearly swollen shut. She held her knees to her chest, crying softly, too weak or too broken to hide it anymore.

Mavis stopped.

She stared, lips parted, throat dry.

The woman didn’t look up.

No words came. What was there to say?

Mavis turned her gaze to the road ahead.

Her fists clenched.

And she ran.

By the time Mavis reached Blackwood High, the rain had soaked her down to the bone. Her uniform clung to her skin like cold rags, her red hair dripping in stringy strands down her face. Her shoes squelched with every step, leaving muddy prints along the polished hallway floor.

The bell had rung long ago.

She hesitated outside the classroom door, Room 14, Psychology then pushed it open, heart pounding.

The room fell silent.

Every head turned.

Mrs. Luminari stood at the front of the class, chalk in hand, mid-sentence. Her eyes widened, mouth parting in stunned silence.

Mavis stood in the doorway, dripping.

Her shoulders were tense, her arms tight at her sides, her eyes vacant. Rainwater pooled at her feet.

And then came the laughter.

Snickering from the back of the room. Hushed at first, then louder. Ravenna leaned into Sasha, whispering something behind her hand. Ruby Ryder didn’t bother with subtlety.

“Well, well,” Ruby called out with a smirk, “Didn’t know we were letting sewer rats in today.”

More laughter. Someone stifled a cough.

Mavis said nothing.

Mrs. Luminari snapped back to life.

“Enough,” she said sharply, the edge in her voice slicing through the room. “Miss Valtor come in. You’re late.”

Mavis stepped forward, water dripping in her wake. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Her desk, in the third row by the window, had never felt farther away.

“Sit,” Mrs. Luminari instructed, softer now. “We’ll speak after class.”

As Mavis slid into her seat, her soaked clothes made a faint squish against the wood. The damp hem of her skirt stuck to the edge of the bench. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled her notebook from her bag, the pages already warped from rain.

From behind her, Ruby whispered just loud enough, “Someone should’ve told her drowning doesn’t count as a fashion statement.”

More giggles.

Mavis stared straight ahead.

The chalk scraped the board again as Mrs. Luminari resumed her lesson on moral development and human behavior, her voice calm but distant.

None of it landed.

Mavis wasn’t in that room. Not really.

Her mind was still at The Gourmet Garage.

The sound of fists on skin. The cry of the woman. Grubb’s eyes.

The rain had washed her face, but it hadn’t taken anything away.