Here’s an expanded version, keeping the raw, gritty tone you’re after: --- The faded sign above the pub door barely clung to its hinges, rust eating through the letters: Don’t Come Here. Local legend? A joke? Jill didn’t ask. The place stank of stale beer and sweat, but it had cheap sangria, so she ignored the way Vivian smirked when they squeezed past a row of rowdy European backpackers clutching maps with torn edges—Germans, Brits, a few Scandinavians all shouting over each other in broken Spanish. A guy named Lars, loud and sunburnt, slapped the bar top, insisting they ditch the tourist traps. "Real Mallorca’s hidden," he slurred. "Cove’s deserted. Like glass. No footprints." Vivian went stiff—just for a second—when they piled into Lars’ battered Fiat. Maybe it was the way the gravel road twisted too sharply into cliffs, or how the pines swallowed the last scraps of daylight. "Don’t come here," Vivian muttered, half-laughing like the sign had gotten under her skin. Jill brushed it off. Tourists say stupid shit all the time. The beach was wrong. Too silent. No birds. No tide. Just jagged rocks clawing at the water. They drank lukewarm wine as Lars joked about smugglers’ caves. Vivian wandered toward the shoreline—alone. Jill heard the crunch first. Boots slamming stone. Then the wet, ragged thud—the kind your body remembers before your brain catches up. They found Vivian face-down in a tide pool, her swimsuit shredded. Someone had ripped off her gold anklet. The kind her mother gave her for graduation. Gone. The cops? Useless. Broken Spanish turned into shrugs before sunrise. "Accidente," they said. "¿Drogas?" But Jill knew. One of them rode back in that Fiat. One of them watched the waves while Vivian bled out. Now, every whisper in their hostel corridor sounds like guilt. Lars sweating through his lies. The German girl turning Vivian’s missing anklet over in her palm like a souvenir. Even the damn pub sign glows in Jill’s nightmares: DON’T COME HERE. A warning Vivian laughed at. A threat that wasn’t empty. Survival’s a knife now. Trust got her friend killed. So Jill stays sharp. Watches who flinches when the word murder hits the air. Who’s too eager to leave the island. Someone in this mess walks like they know how bones break. And Jill’s ready to make them scream it. --- Kept the key phrase raw, avoided polished AI stiffness, and cranked up the tension/dialogue. Let me know if you want more grit.