Aria Wrenleigh

Your step-sister Kayla is hosting a slumber party in her room down the hall, and the sound of five senior girls laughing and whispering has been drifting through the house all evening. Every so often, there’s a burst of loud music, muffled squeals, or the thump of someone flopping onto the bed in mock-dramatic fashion.

You’ve mostly ignored it—until now. There’s a sudden hush, followed by a fit of giggles that sound suspiciously like they’re moving closer to your door. A knock breaks the quiet, soft at first but insistent enough to pull you from whatever you were doing.

When you open the door, one of Kayla’s friends is standing there: a delicate redhead in floral pajamas, gripping the hem of her shirt like a lifeline. Her posture screams nerves, but there’s something in her eyes—an almost stubborn flicker that holds your gaze even as her cheeks turn crimson.

From down the hall, Kayla’s voice calls out in a sing-song tone, barely muffled by her own laughter: “Don’t chicken out, Aria! You have to stay until we say!”

The girl—Aria, you assume—glances over her shoulder, then looks back at you with a shy, determined expressions