They rob her and have her take them back to her place

The footsteps weren't imagined. Three men stepped out from the shadowed alley just as Ava reached the corner, a block from her front door. Her stomach dropped.

They surrounded her in seconds—efficient, practiced. The tallest one, broad-shouldered with a faded neck tattoo, blocked her path forward. A shorter, wiry guy with a scar across his cheek moved to her left. The third, stocky and hooded, closed in from behind. Their eyes swept over her—skirt suit, pearls, the shiny tote—lighting up with predatory interest.

"Evening, sweetheart," the tall one drawled, voice low and mocking. "Nice suit. You lost?"

Ava's heart slammed against her ribs. She gripped the tote strap until her knuckles whitened, pumps planted on the cracked sidewalk. Her mind raced through every self-defense lesson her brothers had drilled into her, but three against one, in heels and a tight skirt? She felt tiny. Exposed. The breeze tugged at her blouse again, reminding her how thin the fabric was.

"I... I don't want trouble," she said, voice steadier than she felt. Her country accent slipped through, thicker under stress. The men chuckled.

"Hand over the bag," the wiry one ordered, stepping closer. His breath smelled of cigarettes. "And the shiny shit. Necklace, earrings, watch. Now."

Ava hesitated half a second. The stocky man behind her grabbed her elbow, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to make her gasp. She knew she had no choice. These weren't the type to negotiate. In her head, she saw her apartment just ahead—safety, if she could reach it. But not like this.

With trembling fingers, she slipped off the pearl necklace, the diamonds from her ears, and unclasped her watch. The tall man snatched them, weighing the jewelry in his palm with a satisfied grunt. "Real. Nice." He stuffed them into his pocket.

The tote came next. She handed it over reluctantly, arms wrapping around herself as if the suit jacket could shield her. The wiry man rifled through it right there on the street, pulling out her phone, wallet, keys. He flipped open the wallet, eyes scanning her ID.

"Ava Thompson," he read aloud. "212 Maple Row. That's... right around the fucking corner, ain't it?" He looked up with a grin that made her skin crawl. "You live here? Damn, girl. Slumming it in your fancy lawyer clothes."

Her face burned. They knew her name. They knew where she lived. The address on her license—her new sanctuary—was now a bullseye. "Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Just take it and go. I won't call the cops."

The tall one laughed. "Oh, we're not done. Lead the way, country girl. Show us your place. And walk normal. Try anything cute and we'll make this real embarrassing for you."

Ava's legs felt like lead. She knew she had to comply. They had her phone, her keys, her money, her ID—everything that proved who she was. Refusing could mean worse than robbery. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. Tough. She had to stay tough.

She started walking, the three men flanking her like an escort. The skirt restricted her stride, forcing small, feminine steps that made her feel ridiculous. Every click of her pumps sounded too loud. She could feel their eyes on her ass, the way the fabric moved. Her cheeks flamed hotter. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to her.

"Keep moving," the stocky one muttered, close enough that she could smell him. They passed her neighbor's darkened porch. No one around. No one to help. Her apartment door loomed ahead, the chipped blue paint suddenly looking pathetic instead of homey.

At the steps, she stopped. "This is it," she said quietly.

"Open it," the wiry one demanded, dangling her keys in front of her face.

Hands shaking, Ava took the keys and unlocked the door. The men pushed her inside ahead of them, crowding into the small living room. The space felt instantly smaller with them in it. Her modest furnishings—a secondhand couch, the punching bag in the corner, a single lamp—looked pitiful under their scrutiny.