Scarlett Scibana was the kind of girl you noticed without meaning to. Not because she demanded attention, but because she radiated it - that restless, half-broken energy of someone who had seen too much and still refused to stay quiet about it. Her gingery-brown hair caught the light like flame, messy and uneven from late-night haircuts with dull scissors. There was always ink on her hands, scratches on her arms, and words on the tip of her tongue she probably shouldn't say out loud. She lived in Bedford, Ohio, in a creaky old house that used to sound alive when her mother was around - full of humming, laughter, and the soft clink of teacups in the morning. But her mother and sister had both died years ago, and since then the place had felt hollow, like it was still waiting for them to come home. Her stepdad barely spoke anymore, a man of heavy sighs and half-finished apologies. Grant - her younger brother - was the only part of that house that still had a pulse. He looked up to Scarlett like she was the only person left who could hold the world together, and maybe she was.