I hesitated before taking the croissant, but hunger won. “Thanks,” I muttered.

Ethan nodded. “So, Mrs. Wilkins?”

My eyes shot up. “How do you know about her?”

He sighed, pulling something from his jacket — a faded photo. “That’s my sister. Lila. She answered that same ad a year ago. She never made it out.”

My heart dropped.

“We tried the police, but there was never enough evidence. People disappear, especially girls like us — broke, desperate, easy to forget.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “There was a rule list… twelve items. The last one said ‘reserved for later.’”

Ethan clenched his jaw. “Lila was number twelve.”

I gripped the bench, my legs shaking. “I could’ve been—”

“But you weren’t,” he cut in gently. “You trusted your gut and ran. That instinct saved you.”

I looked back toward the street, where Mrs. Wilkins’s house sat just out of sight, calm and quiet — like a trap waiting to spring again.

Ethan stood. “You coming? We’ve got stories to tell. And someone to stop.”

I stood, determination replacing fear.

Because sometimes, the scariest monsters don’t hide under beds. They serve you soup.

Moral: Always trust your instincts — they may save your life.