Now enrolling for 2025/26 school year. K4 through 8th grade.
She ran out through a side door into the back lot, rain searing her face like pins. The intruder pursued, purposeful and not terribly slow. Ashley’s mind calculated escape routes without thinking: the maintenance stairs, the delivery trucks, the high fence with a coil of barbed wire she could scale if she had to. Behind her, a metallic shout echoed—he'd alerted the guard.
On the final night, a shot rang out two blocks from the motel. They both froze. It was a reminder: lies could buy time, but only truth could end the chase.
The rain had been coming down in gray sheets for hours, turning the city’s neon into smeared watercolor. In a narrow alley behind PKF Studios, a single fluorescent bulb hummed over a dumpster, casting sickly light on a concrete stage that smelled of oil and old coffee. Ashley Lane moved through it like she belonged to the shadows—lean, alert, and breathing with a careful rhythm that kept her pulse from announcing her presence.
“I know more than a studio tech should,” she said. “Someone tried to take your files. Someone’s killing for them.”
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