By the time the ride share drops me at Barriage's front gate, the California sun is a bright slap I'm pretending not to feel. It's just after 2:00 in the afternoon. I tug my hoodie sleeves down over my hands, grab my carry-on, and stand there for a second with the whole campus spread out in front of me, glass, brick, trees, and way too many people who already look like they belong.

Okay, we're doing this. I slip my phone out, flip the camera to selfie mode, and frame the shot. Me, the big stone Bay University arch behind my head, a slice of blue sky. "Hey, night people," I say, and my influencer voice drops into place like muscle memory. "It's Ava. New city, new campus, same chaotic brain. First day at Bayage after a very normal and totally boring transfer situation." I smile like it's a joke. "Media major, kind of terrified, trying not to get sunburnt. Wish me luck."

I stop recording at 10 seconds. Short, punchy. I save it to drafts instead of posting. My followers can meet Barage when I understand it better than too bright and full of strangers.

The gate security barely glances at my ID. The main lobby is cool and loud and smells like coffee and cleaning supplies. A long table is set up with a hand-painted "Welcome Transfers" banner drooping over it. A student worker sits behind stacks of envelopes looking like he's been doing this since dawn.

"Name?" he asks.

"Avare."

He riffles through envelopes, finds one, and slides it across to me. It's got my ID card, a crumpled map, and a printed schedule stapled to the back.

"Media major, right?" he says. "Yeah, classes started 2 weeks ago," he adds, sympathetic. "You're jumping onto a moving train."

"Story of my life," I say.

He smiles faintly. "Elevators straight ahead, atrium to the left. If you get lost, look for someone more lost. That's usually a good sign."

"Thanks." I step out of the line and off to the side. People flow around me in small knots, all already plugged into something. Group chats, inside jokes, quick hugs. I unfold the map. It's a full-color maze. Humanities, liberal arts, arts complex, quad, cafe, residence halls, an entire patch of dark green labeled redwood reserve that hugs the back of the campus. My first class is at 4, LA204, Intro to Media Theory. I've got time. I also have no idea where LA204 is.

"Okay, you and me," I mutter to the map. "We can be friends."

"Or enemies," someone says cheerfully. I look up. A girl with a messy bun, gold hoops, and a backpack drowning in pins grins at me. Her eyeliner is sharp enough to kill. "You've got the 'I just realized the map is not to scale' face," she says.

"That obvious?"

"Painfully." She sticks out a hand. "I'm Tessa, sophomore, theater minor, chaos major. You?"

I take her hand. "Ava, transfer media major. Map hater."

"Nice." Her eyes brighten. "You got socials?"

"Uh, yeah." I tell her my handle. Her thumbs are already moving. My phone buzzes a second later.

*Tessa added you to BG Media. Jobs.*

*Tessa added you to BAG Night Owls.*

"And now," she says, "you officially know more people here than I did my entire first semester."

"That is a blatant lie," I say.

She laughs. "Okay, maybe. But now you have at least one goblin. You need help finding anything?"

"LA204 for later," I say. "For now, I'm just trying not to walk into a wall."

"Valid goal. Atrium that way. Cafe that way. And the bathrooms are wherever you're not when you desperately need them," Tessa says, pointing in three different directions. "Text me if you get totally lost. Send a picture of a weird statue or a hallway, and I'll verbally GPS you."

"That's weirdly comforting."

"You're welcome." She backs away, walking backwards. "Don't let the film dudes talk you into doing just one free edit. They never mean one." Then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd.

I take a breath and head into the atrium. It's huge. Glass all the way up. Sunlight slanting in. Banners for clubs and events draped from the second-floor railings. Voices layer over each other. Someone's rehearsing lines at one end. Someone else is arguing about microphones on the other. On the far wall, there's a notice board buried in flyers. Right in the middle, someone in a black Bay Events t-shirt is pinning up a crisp new poster over a wrinkled one. He's tall, sleeves shoved up, clipboard under his arm. His expression is half concentration, half mild annoyance.

"Put the safety notes high enough they can't peel them off for scrapbook collages," he tells the girl handing him tape.

"Yes, Cole," she says. She sounds both exasperated and fond.

He steps back and I see his face clearly for the first time. Strong jaw, dark hair, clean lines. The kind of face that would go viral if he ever sat in good lighting and looked directly into a camera. He doesn't. He looks at the rig diagram taped to his clipboard. I shouldn't stare. I absolutely stare.

Someone brushes against my shoulder. I step aside and nearly collide with the girl from the door, the one who caught it for me earlier. She's up close now, dark hair braided back, tank top under an open flannel, a silver ring on one thumb.

"Sorry," I say.

She catches the edge of the atrium door with one hand so it doesn't smack a freshman in the face. "You're good." She glances at the envelope in my hand, clocks the transfer label, and her gaze softens by a degree. "First day?" she asks.

"Is it that obvious?" I say again.

She huffs. Maybe a laugh. "You're holding the map like it might sprout teeth." She nods at it. "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing yet," I say. "Just exploring."

She opens the door with her hip, holds it for a group coming in, and then for me. "The campus will still be here tomorrow," she says. "Don't try to memorize it all at once."

"Good advice," I say. "I'm Ava."

"Sasha," she replies. No handshake, just a name. Then she's moving again, fast and efficient, like she's got five places to be and knows the exact number of steps to each. I tuck the name away with a strange sense of comfort. Someone here moves like my parents do, like they know where the shadows are.

At 10 to 3, a subtle shift ripples through the hallway. It starts as background noise, the screech of chairs, backpack zippers, people packing up early, but it's more organized than the usual end-of-class exodus. A whole cluster of students, maybe 15 mixed ages, sling their bags and peel away from the direction of the quad, heading toward the glass doors at the far side of the atrium. They move quick, intent. No one calls after them. No teacher leans out to say, "Where are you going?" It's just like they're allowed.

Curiosity pricks the back of my neck. "Don't," I tell myself. I go. I hang back just enough that it looks casual. Phone in my hand like I'm checking messages, which, fine, I am. My thumb hovers near the camera icon.

They push through the doors and onto a narrow path that leads past manicured lawns and then dips into the redwoods. The moment we're under the trees, the temperature drops. The sunlight breaks into thinner strips through the branches. My shoulders loosen without my permission. The group doesn't slow down. They follow a well-worn dirt and gravel track that curves deeper between trunks. I count them. 17, 18, trying to focus on shoes and strides instead of the way the shade feels like a blessing.

The path ends at a squat concrete building half swallowed by the trees. No windows, just a heavy metal door set into a frame etched with fine looping lines. Spellwork, real old, humming through the metal like a low chord. The hairs at the back of my neck stand up. My fangs nudge just a little, like they want to be part of the conversation. The first student in the group taps her badge to a matte plate beside the door. The carved lines flare faintly, then settle. The seam of the door unhooks itself, the metal parting silently and sliding back into the frame. Cold air spills out, cooler even than the redwood shade, carrying the faint copper prick of magic. They vanish inside in twos and threes. The door starts to close.

"What are you?" I think. I take one step closer just to feel the ward hum on my skin.

"Students aren't allowed back here." The voice behind me is smooth and mild and makes me jump a little.

"Anyway," I turn. A man in a dark button-up and faculty badge stands on the path as if he's been there the whole time. 30s, maybe. Neat beard, sharp features. His eyes flick from me to the door and back like a camera adjusting focus.

"Sorry," I say. "I was just exploring the grounds."

He looks at my envelope, at the transfer sticker. "MS Rays," I say. "Ava."

He glances at my ID, then taps his own name tag. "Prof. Ashwood." The D hangs there like a dare.

"This section of campus is restricted," he says. "Maintenance and specialized facilities beyond this point."

"Specialized? Sure. I didn't know. I was following," I say.

His gaze sharpens. "I thought it might be a path around to humanities," I correct. "My map and I are still in a fight."

One corner of his mouth lifts. "Yes, the map is optimistic." He steps closer to the door, but not close enough to kiss the frame. "Regardless, this wing is off-limits without proper access."

The ward hum presses behind my eyes. I want to ask what's inside. I want to demand he stop pretending I didn't just watch 18 students walk through a magic door in broad daylight. Instead, I take a breath.

"I heard Barage was good with night students," I say quietly. "People who need extra control. Is that true?"

His eyes flicker just once. "Barage has several programs."

"I'm a vampire," I say, because screw it, we're here now. "I transferred because I need help learning how to manage that, and I'm fine," I add quickly. "I've been managing, but I want formal training. If there's some kind of night track or whatever, I want to be in it."

He studies me for a long beat. My heartbeat is steady. My pupils stay normal. My fangs are tucked. I let him look.

Finally, he says, "The night program is by sponsorship only."

"Sponsorship?" I repeat.

"A vetted student or faculty member in good standing vouches for your control," he says. "Until you have one, you stay on the standard track."

"How do I?" I start.

"Not by skulking around restricted doors on your first day," he says, and the half-smile turns a fraction cooler.

"I wasn't skulking," I protest. "I was observing vigorously."

"Back to the central quad, Ms. Rays," he says, voice mild again. "Find your classrooms first. You can worry about specialized programs later."

The ward hum spikes just enough to make my teeth buzz. I step back on instinct. "Right," I say. "Sorry, I'll go."

"Welcome to Barriage," he adds, like a formality.

I walk away, resisting the urge to look back too many times. When I'm far enough down the path that the concrete building is out of sight, I pull my phone out and record a 10-second draft to my private folder. I whisper, "Location: Redwood path behind main campus. Not-so-secret magic door that definitely isn't on the map, teacher who talks about sponsorship, and a program I'm apparently not invited to." I swallow, glance at the sun strip between the trees yet. I save it. Not for the channel, for me.

By the time I find my way back to civilization, I've taken three wrong turns and almost walked into a custodial closet. A janitor takes pity on me and points me toward the liberal arts building with a mop. "Thank you," I tell him, clutching my schedule. Inside, the hallways are fluorescent-lit and bland, which is honestly a relief after the redwoods and the wards and Prof. Ashwood's eyes.

At a water fountain, I pause to splash my face with cold water, then take a picture of the nearest building map and send it to Tessa.

*Me: help, Tessa.*

*Tessa: OMG, you went to the wrong lib arts. Tessa, you're one floor up and one wing over. Tessa, go past the wolf mural. W the coffee cup. Take a left, then follow the smell of academic despair.*

"Follow the wolf," I mutter, and start walking. The mural is actually kind of cute. A stylized wolf curled around a takeaway coffee cup, done in chalk pastels. I smirk and take a quick picture for later.

I'm still 15 minutes early for class and somehow still lost when a voice to my left says, "You look like that map owes you money." I stop. A guy leans against the wall near a bank of lockers, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other like this hallway is his living room. Dark hair, ridiculous cheekbones, navy joggers, black tee. There's an easy smile on his mouth that says he knows exactly how good-looking he is. He nods at the paper I'm holding in both hands.

"You doing okay there, Rays?"

I blink. "You already know my name."

He points at the envelope label peeking out of my bag. "Transfer sticker and I saw you at the welcome desk." His grin kicks up a notch. "I'm not a stalker. I just have eyes."

"Debatable," I say.

He laughs. It's annoyingly charming. "Jax," he says, pushing off the wall and offering his hand. "Jax Moro. Perpetually late, occasionally useful."

"Ava," I say, taking it. His grip is warm and easy. "Perpetually lost."

"Well, good news," he says. "I know where LA204 is."

"You do?" I say. "You're not going to send me to the basement to meet the boiler ghost, right?"

"Hm," he says thoughtfully. "Tempting, but no." He taps the corner of my map where LA204 is circled in highlighter. "You took the long way. Come on."

He walks at an easy pace, not too fast, not making me jog to keep up. He points out landmarks as we go. "That's a good vending machine," he says, nodding at one. "That one eats your cash and your dreams. The bathrooms on this floor always run out of soap after 2, so don't touch anything."

"Noted," I say.

We turn a corner and suddenly I recognize the hallway from the building map. LA204 is halfway down, door propped open. A handful of students already inside.

"Here we go," Jax says, pulling the door open wider and sweeping one arm out. "Welcome to Intro Media Theory. You owe me coffee."

"I just got here," I protest.

"And already you've racked up a debt," he says, eyes bright. "Tragic."

"I'll add it to my list of life mistakes," I say, stepping past him into the classroom. He chuckles and drops into a seat in the fourth row like he owns it. I take a spot in the back near the wall. The professor, a woman with cropped gray hair and a stack of note cards, glances up as I come in.

"New face," she says. "You're either very late to class or way too early to the wrong one." A couple of people laugh.

"I'm a transfer," I say, raising my hand. "A Rays."

"Well, Miss Ray," she says, "welcome to Introduction to Media Theory. You're only a little late to the semester. We'll do a quick overview at the end for you." Heat creeps up my neck, but it's survivable. I slide into my seat and fish my notebook out of my bag. The moment I flip it open, I realize I forgot one important thing. Pens. My pencil case is sitting on my desk at home, where it is absolutely no use to me. I'm staring at my empty page, weighing the social cost of asking the stranger next to me versus just memorizing everything, when a spiral notebook appears in the space between us. I look up. Sasha sits two seats over, her denim jacket draped over the chair back, arms folded. She nods once at the notebook.

"I had two," she murmurs just loud enough for me to hear.

"Thank you," I whisper, taking it.

She shrugs like it's nothing and looks back at the front. Her notes from the previous class are in neat, tight handwriting, margins clean. I flip to a blank page and start copying headers from the board.

Class slips by in a blur of terms and diagrams. I catch maybe half of it. I'm better at reading than listening when I'm anxious. And right now, my brain keeps flashing back to carved sigils and Prof. Ashwood saying "sponsorship" like a dare.

When the professor wraps up, she gives a quick run-through for my benefit, makes a joke about throwing a lot at me on day one, and dismisses us with a reminder about readings posted online. Chairs scrape, people stand. I clutch my borrowed notebook.

"Hey," I say to Sasha as she slides her jacket back on. "Thanks for this. I'll bring it tomorrow."

She eyes me for a second, then nods. "Keep it," she says. "Just bring it back when you're done."

"That's how borrowing works," I say before I can stop myself. One corner of her mouth bends like that amused her more than she wants to admit. Then she's gone, flowing into the hallway stream.

I pause to tuck the notebook carefully into my bag.

"See," Jax says from behind me. "You survived."

I turn. He leans in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder. "Barely," I say. "Also, I have it on good authority. I owe you coffee now."

"You do," he says. "I accept payment in the form of you not getting lost tomorrow." Here, he takes my schedule from my hand like it belongs to him and pulls a pen from behind his ear. He starts sketching on the back. Little lines for hallways, circles for good vending machines, stars for exits. "This shortcut gets you from the atrium to liberal arts without running into the campus preacher," he says, drawing. "This one saves 3 minutes if you're coming from the cafe. Do not go behind the stadium after 9 unless you want to see things. And there's a coffee cart here that will keep you barely alive."

"You should be charging for this," I say.

"I am," he says, "in coffee."

"Right, right," I say. "Debt noted." He caps his pen with a flourish and hands the schedule back. There's a little doodle of a panther in the corner for no reason.

"What's with the panther?" I ask.

"That's your guardian," he says. "He patrols for map errors. Very fierce."

I snort. "Thank you for my imaginary big cat."

"You're welcome." He takes a step back. "I've got a lab. Don't get kidnapped by the theater department. They're recruiting texts."

"I'll run," I say.

"Run toward the red food truck," he calls over his shoulder. "Best tacos." Then he's gone, swallowed by the hallway rush.

At the bookstore, I grab pens, a campus hoodie, and a pack of highlighters I don't really need, but feel emotionally attached to. As I'm paying, someone holds the door for me on the way out. Sasha again. We do a tiny door dance, me trying not to bump her, her stepping back to make space.

"Thanks," I say.

She nods. "You might want to avoid the main stairs. They're clogged." She points to a side hallway. I hadn't noticed. "Shortcut, something like that," she says. "If you go that way, you'll cut 5 minutes to the quad."

"Appreciated," I say. She gives me a quick, considering look, then nods once more and peels off toward the opposite direction.

The quad is a patchwork of grass, concrete, and stressed people pretending not to be stressed. Food trucks line one side, white tables scattered under trees. It smells like coffee, cilantro, and nerves.

"Ava!" Tessa waves me over to a long bench. She's already halfway through a burrito. Next to her, Sasha stands leaning against the rail. For a second, I wonder if I'm intruding on something. Then Tessa shoves over.

"Sit," she commands. "Tell us everything."

I sit. "There's not that much 'everything' yet," I say. "I got lost twice, met a janitor, didn't immediately burst into flames in the sun."

"Strong start," Tessa says. "Did you meet any of the local monsters?"

I almost choke. She grins. "I mean, emotionally, not, you know, unless you did, in which case, do not tell me. I am delicate. Right?"

"Emotionally," I say. "I met one chaos goblin and one very efficient door ninja."

"Jax," Tessa says immediately. "And Sasha."

Sasha arches one brow. "You have big door ninja energy," Tessa tells her. "It's a compliment." Sasha sips from a to-go cup, unbothered.

"Who's the chaos goblin?"

"Jax Moro," I say. "He rescued me from floor three."

Tessa presses a hand to her heart. "Ah, yes. Our resident flirt. Hot, infuriating, mildly addictive. Like spicy chips."

"You like spicy chips?"

"I guess," I say.

"You do now," she says. I laugh and unwrap the foil around the taco she pushes at me. It's messy and perfect.

People stream past, some in clumps, some alone. Cole goes by at one point, carrying a stack of rolled posters under one arm and talking to someone about lighting cues. A pair of girls watch him like he's the sun. He doesn't appear to notice. I look away before he glances over and catch Sasha watching me instead, expression unreadable. I shrug and focus on my food. We talk about nothing and everything. Classes, weird professors, which vending machines are cursed. The sun starts to slip lower, the light softening. My skin feels less like it's under attack.

"You commuting or living on campus?" Tessa asks.

"Home?" I say. "It's like 20 minutes away if the bus isn't dramatic."

"Nice built-in laundry," she says.

"Built-in parents," I say.

"My condolences."

Sasha glances at her phone. "I have to go," she says. "Night work."

"Boo," Tessa says. "Come suffer with us."

"Later," Sasha says. She looks at me. "If you're leaving soon, I'd go through the central path. The south path has a street lamp out."

I blink. "Okay, thanks."

She nods and heads off. "Door ninja," Tessa mutters fondly. "She's like that with everyone. It's not personal."

"It's a little personal," I say. "In a good way."

Tessa grins. "Stick with us and you won't die. Probably."

When the sky starts to pink, I gather my stuff. "I should go," I say. "First day commute and all that."

"We'll see you tomorrow," Tessa says. "Media goblins meet at 11:00. I'll send you the room."

"Okay," I say. "Thanks for adopting me."

She gasps. "We've imprinted. You can't get rid of us now."

I wave and head across the green. On the far side of the quad, Cole is up on a ladder tightening something on a rig while a tech holds it steady. He tests a cable, frowns, adjusts it himself. The thoroughness makes something in me relax. He has no idea I exist. It's fine. Good. Even less pressure.

At the bus stop, I answer Tessa's memes in the group chat and save a photo of Sasha's pinned safe route map to my favorites. My phone buzzes with a new notification.

*Unknown: Bayage hash orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

My thumb hovers. "If invited." Cute. The bus arrives. I tuck my phone away and climb on.

By the time I reach our apartment, it's fully dark. The porch light is on, warm against the evening. Mom opens the door before I can knock. She pulls me into a hug that smells like garlic and laundry soap.

"You're home late," she says into my shoulder.

"It's only 9," I say. "It's a college campus, not a vampire lair."

Dad snorts from the kitchen table. "Don't say 'vampire lair' like you don't know what that is." He's got his reading glasses down on his nose, a newspaper half-folded. The TV glows silent in the background.

"How was it?" Mom asks, pulling back to look at my face.

"Big," I say. "Loud. I didn't burst into flames, so that's a plus. I met a girl named Tessa who joined me to two group chats in 30 seconds. A girl named Sasha who keeps saving me from doors. And a guy named Jax who drew me an illegal map."

"Illegal?" Dad asks, suspicious.

"He put a panther on it," I say. "I think that violates some sort of zoning law."

Mom laughs. Dad just shakes his head.

"Any boys we should be worried about?" he adds too casually.

"Dad," I groan.

"It's a standard question," he says. "I'm required by law."

"They're people," I say, plural, "and I'm more likely to die of embarrassment than anything else."

He grunts, half satisfied. Mom pats my cheek. "Dinner," she says. "Sit. Tell us everything between bites." I leave out the redwood door and the wards and the word "sponsorship" for now.

Later in my room with the door mostly closed, I tack my class schedule above my desk, put my borrowed notebook carefully on the corner, and line my new pens up like a tiny army. My phone buzzes. Tessa sending a meme. Jax with a selfie of my map doodle and the caption, "Proof of life." I roll my eyes and send back, "You're ridiculous." He replies with three panther emojis. I set the phone down, open my camera, and record one last draft video just for me.

"Day one," I say quietly. "New campus, new people, suspicious magic doors, a teacher who doesn't want me near them, and a night program I'm apparently not ready for yet." I look at my reflection, eyes normal, no trace of fangs, and smile a little. "We'll see about that." I hit save, not post.

I'm halfway through setting my alarm when a new text pops up from an unknown number.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

The same wording as before, the same unknown sender. My pulse ticks up just a little. I don't reply. Not yet.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to the dark room. "Round two." I switch off the lamp and slip under the covers, listening to the faint hum of the city outside and the quieter hum of something else. Waiting behind a warded door under the trees.

I wake up with my phone under my pillow and the words "orientation. Night track tomorrow. If invited," burned into my brain for a second in that fuzzy space between sleep and awake. I think maybe I dreamed it. Then I unlock my screen and there it is in my notifications. Timestamped 11:48 p.m. Still no contact name. Still no reply from me.

"Creepy," I mutter.

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Yeah," I shout back. I shove the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants and drag myself out of bed. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast. Dad sits at the table in his faded cow state hoodie, newspaper open, glasses low on his nose. Mom flips pancakes in a pan like the domestic goddess she is.

"Morning," she says, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "How's our official college student after day one?"

"Unofficially overwhelmed," I say. "Officially not dead."

Dad glances up. "Low bar, kiddo." I snag a pancake and slide into the chair across from him. "I walked all over campus, got lost only three times, and didn't spontaneously combust in the sun. That's a win."

"Any new friends?" Mom asks in the same tone people use for "how's your blood pressure?"

I pour syrup. "A girl named Tessa. She strong-armed me into two group chats. Sasha, who keeps saving me from doors, and Jax, who drew me an illegal campus map."

"Illegal?" Dad asks, suspicious.

"He put a panther on it," I say. "I think that violates some sort of zoning law."

Mom laughs. Dad just shakes his head.

"Any boys we should be worried about?" he adds. "That didn't answer the question."

"Dad," I groan.

"It's a standard question," he says. "I'm required by law."

"They're people," I say, plural, "and I'm more likely to die of embarrassment than anything else."

He grunts, half satisfied. Mom pats my cheek. "Dinner," she says. "Sit. Tell us everything between bites." I leave out the redwood door and the wards and the word "sponsorship" for now.

After dinner, I tack my class schedule above my desk, put my borrowed notebook carefully on the corner, and line my new pens up like a tiny army. My phone buzzes. Tessa sending a meme. Jax with a selfie of my map doodle and the caption, "Proof of life." I roll my eyes and send back, "You're ridiculous." He replies with three panther emojis. I set the phone down, open my camera, and record one last draft video just for me.

I'm halfway through setting my alarm when a new text pops up from an unknown number.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

The same wording as before, the same unknown sender. My pulse ticks up just a little. I don't reply. Not yet.

"Creepy," I mutter.

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Morning," she says, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "How's our official college student after day one?"

"Unofficially overwhelmed," I say. "Officially not dead."

"Any new friends?" Mom asks in the same tone people use for "how's your blood pressure?"

I pour syrup. "A girl named Tessa. She strong-armed me into two group chats. Sasha, who keeps saving me from doors, and Jax, who drew me an illegal campus map."

"Illegal?" Dad asks, suspicious.

"He put a panther on it," I say. "I think that violates some sort of zoning law."

Mom laughs. Dad just shakes his head.

"Any boys we should be worried about?" he adds too casually.

"Dad," I groan.

"It's a standard question," he says. "I'm required by law."

"They're people," I say, plural, "and I'm more likely to die of embarrassment than anything else."

He grunts, half satisfied. Mom pats my cheek. "Dinner," she says. "Sit. Tell us everything between bites." I leave out the redwood door and the wards and the word "sponsorship" for now.

Bus, Dad asks. "Yeah," I say. "I'm going to leave early so I can get lost on purpose this time." He folds the newspaper. "Text if you're going to be late, not just when you remember we exist."

"I texted last night," I say.

"At 9," he says dryly. "Curfew is not a suggestion. Ava."

Mom nudges his shoulder. "She's 22."

"She's my 22," he counters. I finish breakfast, grab my bag, and kiss Mom's cheek. "See you tonight."

"I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

Dad points a finger at me. "Before 11."

"10:30." Mom compromises. "We're not wardens."

I salute. "10:30."

On the bus, I snag a window seat and watch the city slide by. I open my camera roll and rewatch yesterday's little draft videos, the gate intro, the whisper about the redwood door. My chest tightens in that weird mix of fear and impatience. I swipe to the unknown text again.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

I type, "Who is this?" then delete it. If this is tied to Prof. Ashwood and his sponsorship talk, texting back feels like stepping onto a trapdoor without checking the floor. I slip the phone away and focus on not missing my stop.

Bayage looks different in the morning light. The atrium buzz is softer, less frantic. People linger over coffee, scroll phones, talk in clusters.

"Took you long enough," Tessa says, materializing at my elbow like a gremlin. She grabs my wrist and inspects my hand. "Good. You didn't chew your nails off. Media goblins meet at 11:00, room LA312. Be there."

"Morning to you too," I say. She peers at my face. "Under eye circles at like a three. Did you sleep some?"

"Good enough," I say. "Also, Twitter says we had a minor lockdown last night in the science wing. I missed it because I was watching a drama, which is rude." She bumps my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just a weird text. I'll tell you later."

Her eyes gleam. "Secrets. Love that for us." Before I can elaborate, someone whistles low.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite lost cause." Jax saunters up, bag over one shoulder, hair artfully messy like he rolled out of bed into exactly this level of hot. He taps the corner of my schedule with two fingers. "Did my panther keep you safe?" he asks.

"He did his best," I say. "I only almost walked into a closet once."

"You did better than most freshmen," he says. "Coffee? You are relentless."

"I'm on a schedule," I say.

"I have class in 20," he says. "You owe me caffeine for services rendered."

"Go," Tessa hisses, poking my side. "I have to set up the goblin base anyway."

I sigh, defeated. "Fine, one coffee. Then I pretend to be a serious student."

"As if you're not already more prepared than half the people here," Tessa says. "Text me the tea later." She flits off toward the stairs. Jax falls into step beside me, leading us toward the cafe.

"So," he says, "day two. Still here. That's a good sign."

"Intent to stay announced," I say, "until they find out I have a mortal enemy relationship with maps."

"I solved that," he says, sounding offended. "My map is a work of art."

"Your map has a panther," I say. "That's not standard cartography."

"It adds character." He taps the corner of my schedule with two fingers. "Caramel mocha black. What's your poison?"

The word "poison" tickles the back of my throat. I swallow. "Caramel iced," I say.

"You black," he says, "like my soul and my GPA." We order. He pays without making a thing of it, which is annoying because now I owe him even more.

"I can Venmo you," I say.

He shakes his head. "You could, or you could accept that sometimes people do nice things and your only job is to say thank you and drink sugar." I narrow my eyes. "That sounds fake." He smirks, passes me my cup. Our fingers brush. It's nothing. It's not nothing.

"Thank you," I say.

"There you go," he says. "Character development." We wind up at a high table near the window. From here, I can see the quad, the walkway, and the general organized chaos that is campus morning. My shoulders unknot a little more.

"So, why media?" he asks, sipping his coffee.

"I like stories," I say. "And the way people use them. I like cameras, editing, sound. I like building a whole mood out of clips and music and silence."

"You," he says, "like not starving. Marketing major. Also, I've been yelled at enough on sets to know what not to do. Event management pays eventually."

"So, you're one of the people making sure the rig doesn't kill anyone," I say.

"Among other things," he says. I think of Cole up on the ladder yesterday, checking safety cables like his life depended on it. Maybe it kind of does.

"So," Jax says, "any classes with terrifying professors yet?"

"Not terrifying," I say. "Media theory is intense."

"Ah," he points at my chest. "Rays, LA204. You sat in the back by the wall. You talk with your hands when you're writing."

"You were in that class?" I ask.

He grins. "Fourth row center. I'm hard to miss."

"Wow," I say. "Conceited much?"

"Accurate self-assessment," he says. The bell chimes overhead. "Come on," he says, hopping off the stool. "If we're late, Dr. Harlo will eat us alive, and I don't want to die on a Wednesday."

We make it with 2 minutes to spare. Class is easier to follow today. I have a notebook now. Sasha sits in her usual seat, denim jacket over the chair, pen moving in neat lines. Jax slouches in the fourth row, spinning his pen between his fingers like a drumstick. Halfway through, a folded scrap of paper appears on the empty seat beside me. I glance over. Sasha flicks her eyes at it, then back to the front. I sneak it open.

*Next time, sit closer to the front. It's easier to ask questions.*

There's a tiny smiley face drawn in the corner, almost embarrassed of itself. I scribble "Working up to it" and slide it back. She reads it, the corner of her mouth tipping up for half a second.

By the time class ends, I feel almost normal. That lasts until the hallway. I'm heading toward the stairwell, brain full of readings and assignments and mental to-do lists, when I hear it.

"Hey, the transfer."

"Yeah, the influencer one." A girl's voice says. "She was filming in the lobby yesterday. My roommate follows her."

I drift closer without meaning to, the way you do when you hear your own name in a crowd. Two girls lean against a bank of lockers, phones in their hands, makeup perfect, nails glossy.

"I heard she tried to get into Nightfall," the second girl says. "Day one, like, chill. You just got here. She probably thinks being like a night person makes her special."

"Making air quotes," the first one says. "It's so cringe. We've been here for years. Imagine thirst-trapping your way into a restricted program."

The second one says, with a little snort, "Something tightens between my ribs." I keep walking. They don't even look at me as I pass. Maybe they didn't know I was there. Maybe they did. It doesn't matter. It still lands.

By the time I turn the corner, my hands are shaking a little. I duck into a quiet alcove and pull out my phone. There it is. A new comment on one of my older videos.

*OMG, I just saw her at Bay. She's so tiny. Earl Elmau. Bet she's faking half the vamp stuff for clout.*

The handle matches one of the girls' Instagram bios. Of course it does. My fangs nudge at my gums. I breathe in fours, out in fours. I've had worse comments. I've ignored worse. It still hits different when the person is 15 ft away and breathing the same air.

"Hey," someone says behind me. "You okay?"

I lock my phone so fast I almost drop it. Jax stands there, brow creased.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just catching up on doom scrolling."

"Looks like it's catching up on you," he says. "You look like you were about to punch the wall."

"I wasn't," I say.

He doesn't buy it. "Somebody giving you crap."

"No," I say automatically.

He doesn't push. He just leans against the wall beside me, shoulder a few inches from mine. "If you're going to lie," he says, "at least pick a different facial expression. You got 10 seconds to say 'drop it' before I start guessing."

I exhale. "Some people just don't like what I do online. It's not new."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, but they don't usually get to breathe your air at the same time. That part sucks."

I snort. "You're weirdly perceptive for someone who drew a panther on a map."

"I contain multitudes," he says. "Want me to shank them?"

I choke. "No."

"Metaphorically," he amends. "Probably."

"I don't need revenge," I say. "I just need to not let it get in my head."

He studies my face. "Okay," he says finally. "Then I'll just be here, existing nearby, not doing anything definitely absolutely unrelated later."

"That sounds suspicious," I say.

He grins all teeth. "I'm very normal." He pushes off the wall and heads down the hall.

I shake it off and hustle to the next class. Tessa's voice buzzing in the back of my mind about our "media goblins" meeting. Sasha catches my eye as I slide into the seat next to her in the little seminar room.

"You good?" she murmurs.

"I've been worse," I say.

She watches me for a second longer, then nods like she's filed that away. "Media goblins" is basically four people and a TA in a room with too few outlets. We swap ideas for projects and complain about file formats. For 40 minutes, I forget about warded doors and mean girls and weird texts.

At lunch, Tessa drags me to an outside table. Sasha joins us, quiet but present.

"Okay," Tessa says, pointing a fry at my face. "Tell me more about Jax."

"There's nothing to tell," I say. "He drew me a map. He talks a lot. That's it."

"He's hot," Tessa says. "He knows he's hot."

I count her. Sasha smirks faintly. "He's not the worst choice," she says.

"That's such a glowing review," I say.

"He's flirty," she says, "but he's not cruel. That's a start."

The girl from the locker comment walks past just then, laughing at something on her phone. Her gaze tugs at me, but she doesn't look our way. My appetite sours for a second. Tessa distracts me with a story about a professor who uses memes in slides. After lunch, she heads to rehearsal. Sasha to an on-campus job, and I to the library.

I work through a reading, then check the time. 1:55 p.m. The same time yesterday when I saw the cluster of students peeling off. I close my book and wander to the big upstairs window that overlooks the path toward the redwoods. The angle isn't great, but it's enough. At 2:03, there they are. Not all the same faces as yesterday, but the same pattern. Bags zipped, posture shifting, heading toward the back of campus where the redwoods start. This time, I don't follow. I just watch them disappear into the trees and feel the hum of the ward door in my memory.

"Sponsorship," Prof. Ashwood said. "Not you. Not yet."

My phone buzzes. Tessa sending a meme about media theory. I text back a thumbs up and force myself to go back to my reading.

By late afternoon, my eyeballs feel sandblasted. I pack up and head toward the atrium, brain humming. As I step into the main space, two girls in matching sorority sweatshirts cross the room, arms linked. One of them glances at me, then nudges the other. They whisper and laugh.

"The one from this morning," I think. "She's probably been at this school for years. She probably knows every shortcut, every professor, every unspoken rule. She probably thinks I'm ridiculous for wanting into a program she takes for granted."

"Hey, Rays," someone calls. I turn. Jax hangs halfway up the wide staircase, one hand on the rail.

"Come on," he says. "You're about to witness art."

I take the steps two at a time to catch up. "If this is one of those 'watch me skateboard down the banister' things, I'm going home."

"Please give me some credit," he says. "There are far more embarrassing ways to make a point." He leads me to the balcony overlooking the little stage area in the atrium where student groups make announcements. A mic stand is set up. A trio of girls, including my locker critic, stand near it, giggling and checking their hair.

"What did you do?" I ask under my breath.

"Nothing illegal," he says. "Just a light adjustment to the display loop in the backing track for educational purposes."

"Jax," I say warningly.

"Shh," he says. "Showtime."

One of the girls steps up to the mic, clears her throat, and launches into a pitch for some "Be the Change" kindness initiative. The big screen behind her flickers on. Instead of the sleek slideshow they were probably expecting, the screen shows a giant animated text bubble that reads, "Be kind." No, really. Start now. Underneath, in smaller letters: "If you can't be kind, be quiet." Every few seconds, the text bounces, blinks, and reappears in more obnoxious fonts. At first, the girl doesn't seem to notice. Then, she glances back mid-sentence and falters. A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd. Not mean, exactly, just uncontrollable. Someone claps, someone else whistles. The second girl fumbles with a tablet, clearly trying to fix the screen. The message persists.

"Maybe start by not trash-talking people to their face or online." Her cheeks go bright red. The laughter picks up. The girls cut their pitch short and scurry off the stage.

My stomach drops. "That was harsh," I say.

"Harsh?" Jack says. "It was practically PG." I give him a look. He sighs. "They'll survive. Maybe it'll even make them think."

I want to be mad. I do. But the part of me that remembers the comment on my video and the whispered "thirst-trapping" digs in its heels.

"They insulted your content," Jack says quietly, eyes on the stage and the thing under it. My throat tightens. "You didn't have to do anything."

"I know," he says. "I wanted to." He glances sideways at me, the usual cocky edge dialed way down. "If it's too much, I'll apologize," he says. "Seriously? You say the word."

I look down at the stage again. The girls have already merged back into the crowd, muttering, faces stormy. "It's a lot," I say honestly. "But you're right. They'll live."

"So, no apology?" he asks.

"Maybe just don't nuke anyone else in my honor," I say. "For a while."

His mouth curves. "Deal." We stand there for a second watching people filter out of the atrium. The air feels lighter somehow. My chest does too.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He shrugs, looking out over the rail. "Anytime." His hand is resting on the rail near mine. For half a heartbeat, the distance between our fingers feels like a thing I could close without thinking.

"I think instead I should go," I say. "If I miss the early bus, my dad will send a search party."

"Can't have that," he says. "Go. I'll cover the stairs so you don't trip and die. It would tarnish my reputation."

"What?" As a menace, I ask.

"As a local hero," he says. I snort.

"By Jax."

"By Rays," he says, and there's something in the way he says my name that curls under my skin.

On the way out, I nearly collide with Sasha again at the lower landing. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," she echoes. She glances between me and the balcony where Jax is still leaning, then back at me. Her mouth quirks. "You could do worse," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Text me if you get cornered by theater kids. I know the exits." She slips past me, heading up the stairs, leaving the words hanging in the air.

On the bus home, I scroll through my notifications. A few new followers, a couple of DMs from people who spotted me on campus. One apology DM from the girl who left the comment earlier.

*Hey, my friend showed me your older video about anxiety. I was being a jerk. Sorry.*

I stare at it for a long moment, then type back. "Thanks for saying that. Have a better day."

At home, Mom has pasta on the stove and the TV turned low. "How was today?" she asks as I drop my bag by the door.

"Less lost," I say. "More weirdly defended."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Defended how?"

"Some girls were mean online," I say. "A guy from my class made a very embarrassing slideshow happen in response."

Mom's lips twitch. "That sounds dramatic."

"It was effective," I admit.

Dad squints. "Was this the Jax from this morning or a new idiot?"

"Same idiot," I say. "He's not all bad."

"Mom, Dad," he says, "just remember there's a difference between a boy who defends you once and a man who shows up consistently."

I stab a piece of garlic bread. "I know, Dad."

After dinner, I do my readings, underline too aggressively, and text Tessa memes. Sasha sends me a pinned map of the safer paths home if I ever stay late. I save it. My phone buzzes once more around 9:00.

*Jax: you home.*

*Me: Yeah, you.*

*Jax: stuck at rehearsal. They made me lift a couch.*

*Me: Rip.*

*Jax: Worth it. Screen loop. Today was art.*

*Me: You're ridiculous.*

*Jax: And yet here I am. Night Rays.*

*Me: Night menace.*

I drop the phone on my pillow and flop back. The unknown text is still there, buried under newer messages.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

I'm halfway through setting my alarm when a new text pops up from an unknown number.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

The same wording as before, the same unknown sender. My pulse ticks up just a little. I don't reply. Not yet.

"Creepy," I mutter.

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Morning," she says, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "How's our official college student after day one?"

"Unofficially overwhelmed," I say. "Officially not dead."

"Any new friends?" Mom asks in the same tone people use for "how's your blood pressure?"

I pour syrup. "A girl named Tessa. She strong-armed me into two group chats. Sasha, who keeps saving me from doors, and Jax, who drew me an illegal campus map."

"Illegal?" Dad asks, suspicious.

"He put a panther on it," I say. "I think that violates some sort of zoning law."

Mom laughs. Dad just shakes his head.

"Any boys we should be worried about?" he adds too casually.

"Dad," I groan.

"It's a standard question," he says. "I'm required by law."

"They're people," I say, plural, "and I'm more likely to die of embarrassment than anything else."

He grunts, half satisfied. Mom pats my cheek. "Dinner," she says. "Sit. Tell us everything between bites." I leave out the redwood door and the wards and the word "sponsorship" for now.

Bus, Dad asks. "Yeah," I say. "I'm going to leave early so I can get lost on purpose this time." He folds the newspaper. "Text if you're going to be late, not just when you remember we exist."

"I texted last night," I say.

"At 9," he says dryly. "Curfew is not a suggestion. Ava."

Mom nudges his shoulder. "She's 22."

"She's my 22," he counters. I finish breakfast, grab my bag, and kiss Mom's cheek. "See you tonight."

"I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

Dad points a finger at me. "Before 11."

"10:30." Mom compromises. "We're not wardens."

I salute. "10:30."

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

Bayage looks different in the morning light. The atrium buzz is softer, less frantic. People linger over coffee, scroll phones, talk in clusters.

"Morning to you too," I say. She peers at my face. "Under eye circles at like a three. Did you sleep some?"

"Good enough," I say. "Also, Twitter says we had a minor lockdown last night in the science wing. I missed it because I was watching a drama, which is rude." She bumps my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just a weird text. I'll tell you later."

Her eyes gleam. "Secrets. Love that for us." Before I can elaborate, someone whistles low.

"He did his best," I say. "I only almost walked into a closet once."

"You did better than most freshmen," he says. "Coffee? You are relentless."

"I'm on a schedule," I say.

"I have class in 20," he says. "You owe me caffeine for services rendered."

"Go," Tessa hisses, poking my side. "I have to set up the goblin base anyway."

I sigh, defeated. "Fine, one coffee. Then I pretend to be a serious student."

"As if you're not already more prepared than half the people here," Tessa says. "Text me the tea later." She flits off toward the stairs. Jax falls into step beside me, leading us toward the cafe.

"So," he says, "day two. Still here. That's a good sign."

"Intent to stay announced," I say, "until they find out I have a mortal enemy relationship with maps."

"I solved that," he says, sounding offended. "My map is a work of art."

"Your map has a panther," I say. "That's not standard cartography."

"It adds character." He taps the corner of my schedule with two fingers. "Caramel mocha black. What's your poison?"

The word "poison" tickles the back of my throat. I swallow. "Caramel iced," I say.

"You black," he says, "like my soul and my GPA." We order. He pays without making a thing of it, which is annoying because now I owe him even more.

"I can Venmo you," I say.

"Thank you," I say.

"So, why media?" he asks, sipping his coffee.

"I like stories," I say. "And the way people use them. I like cameras, editing, sound. I like building a whole mood out of clips and music and silence."

"You," he says, "like not starving. Marketing major. Also, I've been yelled at enough on sets to know what not to do. Event management pays eventually."

"So, you're one of the people making sure the rig doesn't kill anyone," I say.

"Among other things," he says. I think of Cole up on the ladder yesterday, checking safety cables like his life depended on it. Maybe it kind of does.

"So," Jax says, "any classes with terrifying professors yet?"

"Not terrifying," I say. "Media theory is intense."

"Ah," he points at my chest. "Rays, LA204. You sat in the back by the wall. You talk with your hands when you're writing."

"You were in that class?" I ask.

He grins. "Fourth row center. I'm hard to miss."

"Wow," I say. "Conceited much?"

"Accurate self-assessment," he says. The bell chimes overhead. "Come on," he says, hopping off the stool. "If we're late, Dr. Harlo will eat us alive, and I don't want to die on a Wednesday."

*Next time, sit closer to the front. It's easier to ask questions.*

There's a tiny smiley face drawn in the corner, almost embarrassed of itself. I scribble "Working up to it" and slide it back. She reads it, the corner of her mouth tipping up for half a second.

By the time class ends, I feel almost normal. That lasts until the hallway. I'm heading toward the stairwell, brain full of readings and assignments and mental to-do lists, when I hear it.

"Hey, the transfer."

"Yeah, the influencer one." A girl's voice says. "She was filming in the lobby yesterday. My roommate follows her."

I drift closer without meaning to, the way you do when you hear your own name in a crowd. Two girls lean against a bank of lockers, phones in their hands, makeup perfect, nails glossy.

"I heard she tried to get into Nightfall," the second girl says. "Day one, like, chill. You just got here. She probably thinks being like a night person makes her special."

"Making air quotes," the first one says. "It's so cringe. We've been here for years. Imagine thirst-trapping your way into a restricted program."

By the time I turn the corner, my hands are shaking a little. I duck into a quiet alcove and pull out my phone. There it is. A new comment on one of my older videos.

*OMG, I just saw her at Bay. She's so tiny. Earl Elmau. Bet she's faking half the vamp stuff for clout.*

"Hey," someone says behind me. "You okay?"

I lock my phone so fast I almost drop it. Jax stands there, brow creased.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just catching up on doom scrolling."

"Looks like it's catching up on you," he says. "You look like you were about to punch the wall."

"I wasn't," I say.

He doesn't buy it. "Somebody giving you crap."

"No," I say automatically.

I exhale. "Some people just don't like what I do online. It's not new."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, but they don't usually get to breathe your air at the same time. That part sucks."

I snort. "You're weirdly perceptive for someone who drew a panther on a map."

"I contain multitudes," he says. "Want me to shank them?"

I choke. "No."

"Metaphorically," he amends. "Probably."

"I don't need revenge," I say. "I just need to not let it get in my head."

He studies my face. "Okay," he says finally. "Then I'll just be here, existing nearby, not doing anything definitely absolutely unrelated later."

"That sounds suspicious," I say.

He grins all teeth. "I'm very normal." He pushes off the wall and heads down the hall.

"You good?" she murmurs.

"I've been worse," I say.

At lunch, Tessa drags me to an outside table. Sasha joins us, quiet but present.

"Okay," Tessa says, pointing a fry at my face. "Tell me more about Jax."

"There's nothing to tell," I say. "He drew me a map. He talks a lot. That's it."

"He's hot," Tessa says. "He knows he's hot."

I count her. Sasha smirks faintly. "He's not the worst choice," she says.

"That's such a glowing review," I say.

"He's flirty," she says, "but he's not cruel. That's a start."

"Sponsorship," Prof. Ashwood said. "Not you. Not yet."

My phone buzzes. Tessa sending a meme about media theory. I text back a thumbs up and force myself to go back to my reading.

"Hey, Rays," someone calls. I turn. Jax hangs halfway up the wide staircase, one hand on the rail.

"Come on," he says. "You're about to witness art."

I take the steps two at a time to catch up. "If this is one of those 'watch me skateboard down the banister' things, I'm going home."

"What did you do?" I ask under my breath.

"Nothing illegal," he says. "Just a light adjustment to the display loop in the backing track for educational purposes."

"Jax," I say warningly.

"Shh," he says. "Showtime."

"Maybe start by not trash-talking people to their face or online." Her cheeks go bright red. The laughter picks up. The girls cut their pitch short and scurry off the stage.

My stomach drops. "That was harsh," I say.

"Harsh?" Jack says. "It was practically PG." I give him a look. He sighs. "They'll survive. Maybe it'll even make them think."

I want to be mad. I do. But the part of me that remembers the comment on my video and the whispered "thirst-trapping" digs in its heels.

"They insulted your content," Jack says quietly, eyes on the stage and the thing under it. My throat tightens. "You didn't have to do anything."

"I know," he says. "I wanted to." He glances sideways at me, the usual cocky edge dialed way down. "If it's too much, I'll apologize," he says. "Seriously? You say the word."

I look down at the stage again. The girls have already merged back into the crowd, muttering, faces stormy. "It's a lot," I say honestly. "But you're right. They'll live."

"So, no apology?" he asks.

"Maybe just don't nuke anyone else in my honor," I say. "For a while."

His mouth curves. "Deal." We stand there for a second watching people filter out of the atrium. The air feels lighter somehow. My chest does too.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He shrugs, looking out over the rail. "Anytime." His hand is resting on the rail near mine. For half a heartbeat, the distance between our fingers feels like a thing I could close without thinking.

"I think instead I should go," I say. "If I miss the early bus, my dad will send a search party."

"Can't have that," he says. "Go. I'll cover the stairs so you don't trip and die. It would tarnish my reputation."

"What?" As a menace, I ask.

"As a local hero," he says. I snort.

"By Jax."

"By Rays," he says, and there's something in the way he says my name that curls under my skin.

On the way out, I nearly collide with Sasha again at the lower landing. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," she echoes. She glances between me and the balcony where Jax is still leaning, then back at me. Her mouth quirks. "You could do worse," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Text me if you get cornered by theater kids. I know the exits." She slips past me, heading up the stairs, leaving the words hanging in the air.

On the bus home, I scroll through my notifications. A few new followers, a couple of DMs from people who spotted me on campus. One apology DM from the girl who left the comment earlier.

*Hey, my friend showed me your older video about anxiety. I was being a jerk. Sorry.*

I stare at it for a long moment, then type back. "Thanks for saying that. Have a better day."

At home, Mom has pasta on the stove and the TV turned low. "How was today?" she asks as I drop my bag by the door.

"Less lost," I say. "More weirdly defended."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Defended how?"

"Some girls were mean online," I say. "A guy from my class made a very embarrassing slideshow happen in response."

Mom's lips twitch. "That sounds dramatic."

"It was effective," I admit.

Dad squints. "Was this the Jax from this morning or a new idiot?"

"Same idiot," I say. "He's not all bad."

"Mom, Dad," he says, "just remember there's a difference between a boy who defends you once and a man who shows up consistently."

I stab a piece of garlic bread. "I know, Dad."

*Jax: you home.*

*Me: Yeah, you.*

*Jax: stuck at rehearsal. They made me lift a couch.*

*Me: Rip.*

*Jax: Worth it. Screen loop. Today was art.*

*Me: You're ridiculous.*

*Jax: And yet here I am. Night Rays.*

*Me: Night menace.*

I drop the phone on my pillow and flop back. The unknown text is still there, buried under newer messages.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

I'm halfway through setting my alarm when a new text pops up from an unknown number.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

The same wording as before, the same unknown sender. My pulse ticks up just a little. I don't reply. Not yet.

"Creepy," I mutter.

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Morning," she says, leaning over to kiss my forehead. "How's our official college student after day one?"

"Unofficially overwhelmed," I say. "Officially not dead."

"Any new friends?" Mom asks in the same tone people use for "how's your blood pressure?"

I pour syrup. "A girl named Tessa. She strong-armed me into two group chats. Sasha, who keeps saving me from doors, and Jax, who drew me an illegal campus map."

"Illegal?" Dad asks, suspicious.

"He put a panther on it," I say. "I think that violates some sort of zoning law."

Mom laughs. Dad just shakes his head.

"Any boys we should be worried about?" he adds too casually.

"Dad," I groan.

"It's a standard question," he says. "I'm required by law."

"They're people," I say, plural, "and I'm more likely to die of embarrassment than anything else."

He grunts, half satisfied. Mom pats my cheek. "Dinner," she says. "Sit. Tell us everything between bites." I leave out the redwood door and the wards and the word "sponsorship" for now.

Bus, Dad asks. "Yeah," I say. "I'm going to leave early so I can get lost on purpose this time." He folds the newspaper. "Text if you're going to be late, not just when you remember we exist."

"I texted last night," I say.

"At 9," he says dryly. "Curfew is not a suggestion. Ava."

Mom nudges his shoulder. "She's 22."

"She's my 22," he counters. I finish breakfast, grab my bag, and kiss Mom's cheek. "See you tonight."

"I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

Dad points a finger at me. "Before 11."

"10:30." Mom compromises. "We're not wardens."

I salute. "10:30."

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

Bayage looks different in the morning light. The atrium buzz is softer, less frantic. People linger over coffee, scroll phones, talk in clusters.

"Morning to you too," I say. She peers at my face. "Under eye circles at like a three. Did you sleep some?"

"Good enough," I say. "Also, Twitter says we had a minor lockdown last night in the science wing. I missed it because I was watching a drama, which is rude." She bumps my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just a weird text. I'll tell you later."

Her eyes gleam. "Secrets. Love that for us." Before I can elaborate, someone whistles low.

"He did his best," I say. "I only almost walked into a closet once."

"You did better than most freshmen," he says. "Coffee? You are relentless."

"I'm on a schedule," I say.

"I have class in 20," he says. "You owe me caffeine for services rendered."

"Go," Tessa hisses, poking my side. "I have to set up the goblin base anyway."

I sigh, defeated. "Fine, one coffee. Then I pretend to be a serious student."

"As if you're not already more prepared than half the people here," Tessa says. "Text me the tea later." She flits off toward the stairs. Jax falls into step beside me, leading us toward the cafe.

"So," he says, "day two. Still here. That's a good sign."

"Intent to stay announced," I say, "until they find out I have a mortal enemy relationship with maps."

"I solved that," he says, sounding offended. "My map is a work of art."

"Your map has a panther," I say. "That's not standard cartography."

"It adds character." He taps the corner of my schedule with two fingers. "Caramel mocha black. What's your poison?"

The word "poison" tickles the back of my throat. I swallow. "Caramel iced," I say.

"You black," he says, "like my soul and my GPA." We order. He pays without making a thing of it, which is annoying because now I owe him even more.

"I can Venmo you," I say.

"Thank you," I say.

"So, why media?" he asks, sipping his coffee.

"I like stories," I say. "And the way people use them. I like cameras, editing, sound. I like building a whole mood out of clips and music and silence."

"You," he says, "like not starving. Marketing major. Also, I've been yelled at enough on sets to know what not to do. Event management pays eventually."

"So, you're one of the people making sure the rig doesn't kill anyone," I say.

"Among other things," he says. I think of Cole up on the ladder yesterday, checking safety cables like his life depended on it. Maybe it kind of does.

"So," Jax says, "any classes with terrifying professors yet?"

"Not terrifying," I say. "Media theory is intense."

"Ah," he points at my chest. "Rays, LA204. You sat in the back by the wall. You talk with your hands when you're writing."

"You were in that class?" I ask.

He grins. "Fourth row center. I'm hard to miss."

"Wow," I say. "Conceited much?"

"Accurate self-assessment," he says. The bell chimes overhead. "Come on," he says, hopping off the stool. "If we're late, Dr. Harlo will eat us alive, and I don't want to die on a Wednesday."

*Next time, sit closer to the front. It's easier to ask questions.*

There's a tiny smiley face drawn in the corner, almost embarrassed of itself. I scribble "Working up to it" and slide it back. She reads it, the corner of her mouth tipping up for half a second.

By the time class ends, I feel almost normal. That lasts until the hallway. I'm heading toward the stairwell, brain full of readings and assignments and mental to-do lists, when I hear it.

"Hey, the transfer."

"Yeah, the influencer one." A girl's voice says. "She was filming in the lobby yesterday. My roommate follows her."

I drift closer without meaning to, the way you do when you hear your own name in a crowd. Two girls lean against a bank of lockers, phones in their hands, makeup perfect, nails glossy.

"I heard she tried to get into Nightfall," the second girl says. "Day one, like, chill. You just got here. She probably thinks being like a night person makes her special."

"Making air quotes," the first one says. "It's so cringe. We've been here for years. Imagine thirst-trapping your way into a restricted program."

By the time I turn the corner, my hands are shaking a little. I duck into a quiet alcove and pull out my phone. There it is. A new comment on one of my older videos.

*OMG, I just saw her at Bay. She's so tiny. Earl Elmau. Bet she's faking half the vamp stuff for clout.*

"Hey," someone says behind me. "You okay?"

I lock my phone so fast I almost drop it. Jax stands there, brow creased.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just catching up on doom scrolling."

"Looks like it's catching up on you," he says. "You look like you were about to punch the wall."

"I wasn't," I say.

He doesn't buy it. "Somebody giving you crap."

"No," I say automatically.

I exhale. "Some people just don't like what I do online. It's not new."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, but they don't usually get to breathe your air at the same time. That part sucks."

I snort. "You're weirdly perceptive for someone who drew a panther on a map."

"I contain multitudes," he says. "Want me to shank them?"

I choke. "No."

"Metaphorically," he amends. "Probably."

"I don't need revenge," I say. "I just need to not let it get in my head."

He studies my face. "Okay," he says finally. "Then I'll just be here, existing nearby, not doing anything definitely absolutely unrelated later."

"That sounds suspicious," I say.

He grins all teeth. "I'm very normal." He pushes off the wall and heads down the hall.

"You good?" she murmurs.

"I've been worse," I say.

At lunch, Tessa drags me to an outside table. Sasha joins us, quiet but present.

"Okay," Tessa says, pointing a fry at my face. "Tell me more about Jax."

"There's nothing to tell," I say. "He drew me a map. He talks a lot. That's it."

"He's hot," Tessa says. "He knows he's hot."

I count her. Sasha smirks faintly. "He's not the worst choice," she says.

"That's such a glowing review," I say.

"He's flirty," she says, "but he's not cruel. That's a start."

"Sponsorship," Prof. Ashwood said. "Not you. Not yet."

My phone buzzes. Tessa sending a meme about media theory. I text back a thumbs up and force myself to go back to my reading.

"Hey, Rays," someone calls. I turn. Jax hangs halfway up the wide staircase, one hand on the rail.

"Come on," he says. "You're about to witness art."

I take the steps two at a time to catch up. "If this is one of those 'watch me skateboard down the banister' things, I'm going home."

"What did you do?" I ask under my breath.

"Nothing illegal," he says. "Just a light adjustment to the display loop in the backing track for educational purposes."

"Jax," I say warningly.

"Shh," he says. "Showtime."

"Maybe start by not trash-talking people to their face or online." Her cheeks go bright red. The laughter picks up. The girls cut their pitch short and scurry off the stage.

My stomach drops. "That was harsh," I say.

"Harsh?" Jack says. "It was practically PG." I give him a look. He sighs. "They'll survive. Maybe it'll even make them think."

I want to be mad. I do. But the part of me that remembers the comment on my video and the whispered "thirst-trapping" digs in its heels.

"They insulted your content," Jack says quietly, eyes on the stage and the thing under it. My throat tightens. "You didn't have to do anything."

"I know," he says. "I wanted to." He glances sideways at me, the usual cocky edge dialed way down. "If it's too much, I'll apologize," he says. "Seriously? You say the word."

I look down at the stage again. The girls have already merged back into the crowd, muttering, faces stormy. "It's a lot," I say honestly. "But you're right. They'll live."

"So, no apology?" he asks.

"Maybe just don't nuke anyone else in my honor," I say. "For a while."

His mouth curves. "Deal." We stand there for a second watching people filter out of the atrium. The air feels lighter somehow. My chest does too.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He shrugs, looking out over the rail. "Anytime." His hand is resting on the rail near mine. For half a heartbeat, the distance between our fingers feels like a thing I could close without thinking.

"I think instead I should go," I say. "If I miss the early bus, my dad will send a search party."

"Can't have that," he says. "Go. I'll cover the stairs so you don't trip and die. It would tarnish my reputation."

"What?" As a menace, I ask.

"As a local hero," he says. I snort.

"By Jax."

"By Rays," he says, and there's something in the way he says my name that curls under my skin.

On the way out, I nearly collide with Sasha again at the lower landing. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," she echoes. She glances between me and the balcony where Jax is still leaning, then back at me. Her mouth quirks. "You could do worse," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Text me if you get cornered by theater kids. I know the exits." She slips past me, heading up the stairs, leaving the words hanging in the air.

On the bus home, I scroll through my notifications. A few new followers, a couple of DMs from people who spotted me on campus. One apology DM from the girl who left the comment earlier.

*Hey, my friend showed me your older video about anxiety. I was being a jerk. Sorry.*

I stare at it for a long moment, then type back. "Thanks for saying that. Have a better day."

At home, Mom has pasta on the stove and the TV turned low. "How was today?" she asks as I drop my bag by the door.

"Less lost," I say. "More weirdly defended."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Defended how?"

"Some girls were mean online," I say. "A guy from my class made a very embarrassing slideshow happen in response."

Mom's lips twitch. "That sounds dramatic."

"It was effective," I admit.

Dad squints. "Was this the Jax from this morning or a new idiot?"

"Same idiot," I say. "He's not all bad."

"Mom, Dad," he says, "just remember there's a difference between a boy who defends you once and a man who shows up consistently."

I stab a piece of garlic bread. "I know, Dad."

*Jax: you home.*

*Me: Yeah, you.*

*Jax: stuck at rehearsal. They made me lift a couch.*

*Me: Rip.*

*Jax: Worth it. Screen loop. Today was art.*

*Me: You're ridiculous.*

*Jax: And yet here I am. Night Rays.*

*Me: Night menace.*

I drop the phone on my pillow and flop back. The unknown text is still there, buried under newer messages.

*Orientation night track tomorrow if invited.*

Tomorrow, if invited. Tomorrow is closer now. Whatever "if invited" means, the campus is already humming with currents I don't understand yet. I close my eyes and see carved sigils. The redwood door breathing cool air. Prof Ashwood's flat smile. Jack's grinning at me from a balcony. Sasha's calm, steady eyes. Cole on a ladder checking cables. "Okay," I whisper to the ceiling. "I'm here. Come on then." Nobody answers, obviously. But somewhere under the trees at the edge of campus, I swear I can feel something shift.

The morning starts with my alarm screaming and my brain replaying yesterday's balcony moment in a loop. "Be kind," I mutter at my phone, silencing it to me. I check my notifications before I even sit up. Bad habit, whatever. There's a DM from the girl who apologized yesterday. "TA checks for replying. Saw your older vid about panic attacks. That hit s again for being a dick." And below that, still sitting like a landmine: "Orientation night track tomorrow if invited." No new info, no sender. Just that.

Mom calls. "Breakfast coming." I shove the phone under my pillow, drag on jeans and a clean tee, and head for the kitchen. Dad's at the table, still in his hoodie, paper spread out. Mom's flipping tortillas on the stove, making breakfast tacos because she loves me. "Morning," I say, kissing her cheek. "Morning, Mija," she eyes me. "You look less like a ghost today." "High praise," I say, grabbing a plate. Dad glances up. "How's Jax?" I almost dropped the spatula. "How do you know who Jax is?" "You told us yesterday," Mom says amused. "Jack's the flirt. Cole the safety guy. Sasha the door ninja." "Door ninja," Dad repeats. "I still like that one." "Does she have brothers?" Dad? I groan. He folds the paper. "Any of them trying to date you yet?" I shove egg onto a tortilla. "It's been 2 days." "That's not a no," he says. Mom glares at him. "She has class and a life, and we talked about not interrogating her." "I'm not interrogating," he says. "I'm establishing expectations." I bite into my taco. "Expectation noted. Also, nobody is trying to date me. People here actually have things to do." Dad makes a skeptical noise. "Boys always have time to do stupid things." "Big talk from someone who married his college lab partner," Mom says sweetly. He opens his mouth, realizes she's right, and shuts it. I smirk into my breakfast. "Just be careful," he says after a second. "Flirty is fun until it is." "I know," I say quietly. Which is why I'm not going to think about the way Jax's fingers brushed mine yesterday when he handed me coffee, or the way he looked almost serious when he asked if he should apologize to those girls. I finish eating, grab my bag, and down half a glass of orange juice to preempt any faintness. Not sunlight, not hunger, just nerves. "Bus?" Mom asks. "Bus," I say. "Media goblins at 11:00, doom at 4." Dad points a finger at me. "Home by 10:30." "I remember," I say, texting if I'm late. "No hitchhiking, no joining cults." "Got it." He eyes me like maybe the cult thing isn't a joke. I hug Mom, pat Dad's shoulder, and head out.

The bus ride is the same as always. Too many people, stale air, that weird hum of 20 phones all quietly glowing at once. I grab a window seat and edit yesterday's tiny draft vlog from the quad. Just a 7-second clip of Barriage's glass atrium and the caption, "Day two." I didn't get lost much. I post it with my usual hashtag pile and slide my phone face down. Let the comments do whatever they want.

By the time I hit campus, the sun is high, but I know where the shade is now. Small victory. "Took you long enough," Tessa says, popping up like a raccoon from behind the welcome table. She's wearing a sweatshirt that says "chaotic good," which feels accurate. "Do you sleep here?" I ask. "Don't be ridiculous," she says. "I haunt the theater wing. Come on, goblins at 11:00." She presses a granola bar into my hand. "For not dying in class." "You're very invested in my survival," I say. "Content source," she replies. "Plus, I like you."

Before I can answer, a voice behind me says, "Move, goblin. You're blocking the sunshine." Tessa flips him off without looking. "Die in a ditch, MNO." I turn. Jax leans on the other side of the table, smirking. Black tee, jeans, a necklace I didn't notice before peeking out from his collar. He looks annoyingly awake. "Good morning to you, too," he says to Tessa. Then to me, "Raise menace, I say." His grin widens. "You remembered." "How could I forget?" I say. "You committed war crimes with a projector." He clutches his chest. "It was a gentle nudge toward self-reflection." "Sure," I say. "So, what are you doing up this early?" "Some of us have 9 a.m.s," he says, "unlike certain transfer princesses who roll in at 10:00." "Wow," I say. "That's a lot of words for 'I missed you.'" Tessa snorts so hard she chokes on her coffee. Jax laughs. "See that right there is why I like you. You're mean." "Thank you," I say. He taps the schedule in my hand. "You sorted for class law 212 at 11." "Media goblins," Tessa corrects. "It's a film club, not a class." "It's chaos," he says. "Anyway, Ray, you got notes from last week yet?" I hesitate. "Not really. The online stuff is dense." "I'll send you my media theory notes," he says. "Harlo talks fast. You'll drown without them." "Is this a trick?" I ask. "Are they all like doodles of cats with sunglasses?" "Those are only on the econ notes," he says. He pulls his phone out, thumb flying. Then my phone buzzes. "Jax, enjoy my genius." "Jacks and my handwriting, which is a work of art." I open the file. His notes are actually good, messy, but detailed. Little arrows, underlines, side comments. "Okay, I admit that's helpful." "Careful, you'll ruin my reputation," he says. "Come on, I'll walk you to goblins. I have to go past there anyway." "That's a lie," Tessa says. "It's a white lie." "For friendship," he says. He falls into step beside me as we head toward the stairs. "So," he says, "have you decided what you're doing for your first project? Please tell me it's not a day in the life vlog." "I would never," I say. "I was thinking something on campus myths. You know, what's really going on after dark stuff." He glances at me. "That's so..." "There's a whole Redwood Reserve nobody talks about," I say. "Feels like good content." His expression doesn't change, but his shoulders do. A tiny tightness. "Campus loves a good legend," he says. "Just don't go getting eaten by a cougar out there." "Is that a thing?" I ask. "Everything is a thing if you're stupid enough," he says. "Here, your stop, Rays." He gestures at LA 312. The door is propped open. I can see the TA setting up a projector inside. "You're not coming?" I ask. "I'm not a goblin," he says. "I'm goblin adjacent. I've got a lab. Catch you at lunch." My stomach flips at how casual that sounds. "I have readings," I say. "So do I," he says. "That wasn't the question." I roll my eyes. "We'll see." He backs away down the hall, walking backwards for a few steps like yesterday. "That's a yes," he calls. "Shut up," I say, and slip into the classroom before he can see me smiling.

Media Goblins is a little bigger today. Tessa, the TA, a couple of quiet film kids, and Sasha sitting near the back like she's there by accident. "You joined?" I ask, sliding into the seat next to her. She shrugs. "We need someone who can actually hold a camera steady," she says. "And someone to tackle you if you try to edit for 8 hours without eating." "Hey, I that was one time." "Two," she says. "You forget I stalked your channel before we met." "Rude." She smirks. The TA has us pitch tiny project ideas. When it's my turn, I stand. Palms a little sweaty. "I was thinking something like Bayage myths," I say. "Urban legends about campus. Things people say happen after dark. True or false? Quick cuts, interviews, maybe some staged dramatizations." "That's fun," the TA says. "You could crowdsource stories." "I know like six," Tessa says. "One of them involves the theater prop closet and a ghost who only steals left shoes." "Of course it does," I say. Sasha leans over. "You really want to poke at night legends?" she murmurs. "You telling me to avoid content?" I whisper back. "That doesn't sound like you." She gives me a look. "Just be careful which stories you chase. Some of them bite back." My fangs twinge just a little, like they agree.

After goblins, Sasha walks with me toward the quad. "You and Jack seem close," she says, like she's commenting on the weather. "Close is a strong word," I say. "He waited around to walk you to club," she points out. "And he doesn't share notes with just anyone." "Do you know his notes sharing policy personally?" I ask. "I know his everything sharing policy," she says. "He likes attention. He's not subtle." "That tracks," I say. "He's not bad," she adds. "He just doesn't always remember that other people have hearts." "That's comforting," I say dryly. She bumps my shoulder. "You could do worse as a first campus crush," she says. "Just don't make him your whole world." "I don't even know if I like him like that," I lie. She snorts softly. "Sure."

I'm midscroll trying to decide between the taco truck and the sandwich line when a shadow falls across my tray. "Rays," Jax says, "taco truck non-negotiable." "Bossy," I say. "Correct," he replies. "Come on." We end up at a picnic table under a jacaranda tree, purple petals drifting down like confetti. He orders way too much food and insists I take an extra taco. "If you're going to survive afternoon classes, you need fuel," he says. "You like feeding people," I say. "I like not watching people faint." He says the cafeteria is haunted enough. We eat. He asks about my channel, not in the fake "tell me your subscriber count" way, but in a real "what do you like to make" way. I tell him about my old anxiety video series, he tells me about getting stuck in a lighting booth overnight during a campus lock-in and turning it into a time-lapse art project. "You turned a breakdown into content," he says. "That's dedication." "You turned sleep deprivation into content," I say. "We're both unwell." He grins. There's a smudge of salsa at the corner of his mouth. Before I can overthink it, I reach out and swipe it away with my thumb. His eyes flick from my hand to my face, amused. "Careful," he says. "That's flirting." "I know," I say, surprising myself. He laughs, delighted. "Okay, raise. We talk until my phone buzzes with a reminder about my next class. As we stand, he leans in close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw. My pulse hops. "Thanks for lunch," I say. "You're messing with my debt ledger." "I like messing with your ledger," he says. "See you after." "Maybe," I say. He walks backward again, hands in his pockets, watching me go. I refuse to look back. I absolutely sneak one glance over my shoulder. He catches it, of course. He winks.

The afternoon blurs. Lecture notes. Sasha's calm presence at my side. Around 1:55, I feel the same shift as yesterday. That invisible current tugging through the hallway. I glance out the second-floor window between slides. The cluster is there again. Different mix of faces, but same movement. Bags, badges, purposeful steps toward the redwoods. I track them until they disappear under the trees. The unknown text in my pocket might as well be a physical weight. "Ms. Rays," the professor says. I jolt. "Sorry." "Try to keep your head in this building at least until the bell," she says. "Riley." "Yes, ma'am." Sasha nudges my knee under the desk like she's reminding me I'm seen.

After class, I'm in the hallway juggling my notebook, phone, and a badly timed sip of water when Jax appears out of nowhere and plucks the cup from my hand before I can spill it on myself. "Coordination zero," he says. "Style 10." I make a face. "You're want to talk." He falls into step beside me. "You headed to the library?" "Yeah," I say. "I have like 80 pages to read." "Tragic," he says. "Walk with me first." "Do you ever actually go to class?" I ask. "I was there," he protests. "Fourth row center. You're just too busy staring out windows." I feel my cheeks warm. "That's what they all say," he teases. We reach the stairwell landing. People stream past us, voices bouncing off concrete. He stops in the little alcove beside the window where the light slants in soft and gold. "Hey," he says. "What?" I ask, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we're standing. "You've been off today," he says, quieter. "Maybe I'm tired," I say. "Maybe," he says. There's a beat where we just look at each other. His eyes are more serious than his mouth. Then gently, he leans in and kisses my cheek. It's quick, soft, the barest press at the edge of my cheekbone. My heart stops anyway. He pulls back, eyes searching my face like he's checking if he overstepped. I don't think I just move. I catch his jaw with my hand and kiss him on the mouth. For a heartbeat, he's surprised, body still, lips parted. Then he kisses me back, warm and sure, one hand barely touching my waist like he's afraid to push. The world narrows to the point where our mouths meet. His breath tastes like cilantro and coffee and something that is just him. We break at the same time, a fraction apart like we rehearsed it. "Okay," he says, a little breathless. "So that happened." "Yep," I say. My pulse is a drum in my ears. He grins, softer than I've seen it. "You always do that." "Do what?" I ask. "Act like you're not paying attention and then absolutely blindside me," he says. "Maybe," I say. He laughs. "I have to go," he says. "Professor will murder me if I'm late again." "Go," I say. He steps back, then leans in and presses his forehead to mine for half a second. "See you later, Rays," he murmurs. "See you," I say. Then he's gone, swallowed by the hallway tide, and I'm left with my back against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe.

I don't make it to the library right away. My feet take me outside instead to a quiet bench under a tree near the edge of the quad. Sasha finds me there 20 minutes later. Because of course she does. "You looked like you were about to vibrate out of your skin when you left class," she says, sitting beside me. "So what happened?" I stare at my hands for a second, then blurt. "I kissed Jax." Her eyebrows climb. "He finally did it." "He kissed my cheek," I say. "Then I kissed him on purpose." She lets out a low whistle. "Wow. Wow. Good or wow terrible?" I ask. "Wow, inevitable," she says. "How do you feel?" "Like my stomach is doing choreography," I say. "And like I should maybe not tell my father." She snorts. "Definitely don't tell your father." I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Is this stupid?" "Stupid question," she says. "You like him. He obviously likes you. You're allowed to kiss people you like." "But you said he's a flirt." "He is," she says. "He's also not cruel. That matters." She hesitates. "Just don't build your entire emotional house on him. Okay? Keep a room for yourself." I huff a laugh. "You're very poetic today." "I had coffee," she says. Then gently, "If he hurts you, I'll help you bury him." "Wow," I say. "Remind me never to get on your bad side." She smiles, small but fierce. "Don't worry, you're firmly on the good side." The warmth that blooms in my chest at that is different than Jax's flutter, steadier. We sit there for a while, watching people cross the quad. My lips tingle. I press my fingers to them when she's not looking.

I have a reading block reserved in the library, but on the way there, I swing by the vending machines near the theater wing. The good ones. Voices drift from around the corner, laughing low and close. "I said I'd make it up to you," a familiar voice says. Jax. I stop. "I'm not mad." "You're just always busy." "I'm very in demand," he teases. "It's a burden." They're just out of sight around the bend. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. I take one silent step forward and peek. He's leaning against the wall, head bent down toward a girl in a cropped hoodie and high ponytail. Her hand is on his chest. Their faces are inches apart. "Maybe you should prove it," she says, tilting her head. He laughs low, bossy. She tugs his shirt. He kisses her. Not a chaste peck either. Slow, familiar, his fingers threading into her hair like he's done it a hundred times. Her hand curls in his shirt. She makes a soft sound. My stomach drops. I flatten back against the wall, heart pounding. My cheeks burn, but my skin feels cold. It's not like he promised me anything, I tell myself. It's been 3 days. I kissed him once. That doesn't mean. "Stop," I whisper soundlessly. The girl giggles. "You're going to be late." "I'm always late," he says, playful. "Worth it." I don't wait to hear more. I turn and walk away, careful, measured steps, until I'm around the corner and down the hall, and then I'm half running toward the nearest bathroom. Inside, I grip the sink, breathing hard. My reflection looks pale, eyes too bright. "Idiot," I tell myself. I'm not sure if I mean him or me. Probably both. I splash water on my face. It doesn't help. My phone buzzes. Jax. "Hey, you alive?" "Jax, got stuck talking to someone. Be at the library in 10 if you want study company." A bitter laugh catches in my throat. I type, then delete, then type again. Me: I've got stuff to finish at home. Rain check. Dots appear, then vanish. No reply. I shove the phone into my pocket and head for the door. Sasha is leaning against the hallway wall outside, arms folded. Her expression softens when she sees me. "You looked wrecked when you blew past the quad," she says. "What happened?" I hesitate. "I saw him," I say finally. "Jack's kissing someone else." Her jaw tightens. "Who?" "I don't know," I say. "Does it matter?" "No," she says. And yes, she pushes off the wall. "Come on. I'm not letting you ride the bus like this. We'll walk." We don't go far, just to a quiet corner near the edge of campus where a low stone wall circles a patch of trees and the noise from the main paths fades. I sit on the wall. She stands in front of me, arms still folded. "I told you he flirts," she says, not unkindly. "I know," I say. "I knew it still hurt, which is stupid." "It's not stupid," she says. "You kissed him once," I say. "Apparently, that doesn't even rate as a blip." "He's an idiot," she says. "He likes being liked. He likes collecting moments. That doesn't mean those moments aren't real. It just means he doesn't always think about what happens after." I stare at my hands. "I don't want to cry over someone I've known for 3 days." "Then don't," she says softly. "Cry because you wanted something and it stung to realize it doesn't look the way you thought." That lands. I blink hard. She steps closer between my knees like she's done a dozen times when we've been joking or reviewing notes. It feels different now. Closer. "You're not stupid," she says. "You're not overreacting. You were honest and he wasn't ready to be. That's on him." "I didn't even give him the chance," I say. "I just walked away." "If he wanted to be worth your time, he wouldn't have put you in that position," she says. "We're close enough now that I can see the flecks of green in her brown eyes. Her breath smells like mint and coffee." "Thanks," I say, "for this." She searches my face. Something raw and open flickers there, then steadies. "Ava," she says. "Yeah." "Can I try something?" she asks quietly. My heart stutters. "What thing?" "You can say no," she says quickly. "And I'll stop and we'll never talk about it again." "Okay. Okay," I say, throat tight. She lifts a hand, slow, telegraphed, and cups my jaw, thumb light against my cheekbone. It's gentle, careful, not like Jax's impulsive grin, not like the girl in the hallway pulling him down. She leans in and presses her lips to my cheek. It's soft, almost chaste. My chest aches with the tenderness of it more than anything. She starts to angle toward my mouth so slow I could stop at any time. I do. I turn so her second kiss lands at the corner of my lips and cheek, half-missed. My hand comes up around her wrist. "Sasha," I whisper. She freezes, eyes searching mine. "I'm not." I start, then stop. "I like guys," I think mostly. "I don't know what I am exactly, but I know I don't want to lead you on." Her face goes still. For a horrible second, I think I've ruined everything. Then she exhales, steps back half a pace, and nods. "Okay," she says. Her voice is steady, but her eyes are bright. "Thank you for not just letting it happen and pretending." "I'm sorry," I say. "Don't be sorry," she says. "Just don't disappear on me, okay? I can handle." "No, I can't handle ghosting." "You're my friend," I say. "I don't want to lose that." A small, painful smile tugs at her mouth. "Good," she says, "because you're stuck with me." She glances at the sky. "You need to catch your bus." "Yeah," I say. We walk back in silence. At the gate, she stops. "Text me when you get home," she says. "I will," I say. She taps two fingers against her chest, then at me. "Don't let him make you smaller," she says. "Any of them." "I'll try," I say. "Not good enough," she says. "Do." I nod. She watches until I'm on the bus, hands tucked into her pockets, shoulders squared.

At home, Mom is on the couch with a blanket and a drama. Dad at the table with his laptop. "You're home early," he says, surprised. "Yeah," I say. "Library was loud." Mom looks up. "You okay?" "I'm fine," I lie. Dad squints. "Boy trouble." I stiffen. "Not everything is about boys." "Didn't say it was," he says. "Just asking." "Well, don't," I snap. Silence drops. Mom's eyebrows climb. Dad's mouth goes flat. "Sorry," I say quickly. "Long day." Dad closes his laptop. "You're allowed to have long days," he says. "You're not allowed to bite our heads off for caring." The word "bite" lands wrong. I flinch. "I didn't." I rub my eyes. "I know. I'm sorry." Mom pats the cushion next to her. "Come here." I drop onto the couch. She wraps the blanket around both of us. "College is a lot," she says. "New people, weird schedules, expectations, feelings. You don't have to tell us everything, but you're not alone." "Okay, I know," I say, voice thick. Dad softens. "If some boy is being an idiot, I can also go have a stern conversation with him," he adds. "Legally, without violence." A laugh bubbles out of me against my will. "You'd hate him," I say. "Then he has terrible taste," Dad says. Mom swats his arm. "You're not helping." He shrugs, but the edge is gone.

Later in my room, I scroll past Jax's name in my messages more times than I count. He hasn't texted again. There's a DM from Tessa. "Tessa goblin roll call. Green heart. You alive." "Me alive. Long day boy. Dumb." "Tessa." "Which one?" "Me guess." Tessa sending memes. "Do not cry over pretty chaos." She floods my screen with cursed images until I snort laugh. It helps. I text Sasha home. She replies with a simple tick. The unknown text lurks further down. "Orientation night track tomorrow if invited." "I swear if this is some prank," I mutter. I open my camera, record a tiny draft video, no makeup, just me and my hoodie sitting on my bed. "Day three," I say quietly. "Kissed a boy, saw him kiss someone else, didn't burst into flames, did want to learn that feelings don't care how logical you think you are." I hesitate, then add, "Also, someone who shouldn't have to was very kind to me. I need to not break that." I save it private. As I turn off the lamp, my phone buzzes one last time. Unknown. "Invitation status pending." My fangs twinge. "Tomorrow then," I whisper to the dark. "We're doing this on my terms." Sleep takes a while to come, but when it does, it's full of trees and doors and two sets of eyes. One chaotic brown, one steady dark, watching to see which way I'll turn.

My day starts with my phone buzzing before my alarm. For one groggy, hopeful second, my brain whispers: Jax. It's not unknown. "Orientation lists updated. Status pending. No sponsor on file." I stare at the message. Sleep gone. "Morning to you, too," I mutter. The words, "no sponsor on file," sit in my chest like a stone. My fangs twinge, subtle and irritated. "Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "Up." "Yeah." I shove the phone under my pillow and roll out of bed before she can come in and psychoanalyze my face. The kitchen smells like coffee and onions. Mom making eggs. Dad sits at the table scrolling on his laptop. "You're up early," Mom says, flipping an omelette. "Insomnia or responsibility." "Bit of both," I say, dropping into a chair. "Morning." Dad glances over his screen. "Still going to this school, I see." "Until they kick me out," I say, reaching for an apple slice. His gaze sharpens. "Is there a reason they'd kick you out?" "No," I say quickly. "That was a joke." Mom arches a brow. "You sound wound. Everything okay?" "Just a lot of reading," I say. "And some campus politics." Dad snorts already. "Nothing big," I lie. "Just, you know, people who have been there forever acting like they own it." He leans back, assessing me. "Any of these people named Jax?" I choke on my apple. "Why are you like this?" "Because I was young once," he says. "And also because you came home last night looking like someone took your favorite playlist and set it on fire." Mom gives him a look. "We agreed not to interrogate." "We agreed not to interrogate," he says. "This is light prodding." I stab at my eggs. "Can we not?" Mom slides her hand over mine, gentle. "You know, if someone's hurting you, you can tell us, right?" "It's nothing that dramatic," I say. "Really, just people being people. Flaky and confusing. I can handle it." Dad exhales through his nose, unconvinced. "Fine," he says finally. "Handle it. But don't let anyone make you feel like you're lucky they're paying attention to you. You're the prize, not them." I blink. "That's unexpectedly sweet. Wow." "Who are you and what have you done with my father?" I say. He shrugs, embarrassed. "Eat your breakfast. You're going to miss your bus." I eat. I don't talk about kissing Jax or watching him kiss someone else. I definitely don't mention the text about a night program I'm apparently unworthy of. On the bus, I put my earbuds in and let a playlist fill my head with someone else's feelings. The unknown number sits in my notifications like a blinking red light. "No sponsor on file." I press my forehead to the window and watch the city blur by. If I want in, I need someone on the inside. Not Jax. He's obviously not the reliable type. I need someone who already lives in rules and cables and safety protocols. The image of Cole up on the ladder flashes behind my eyes, focused on rigging, not on the girls fluttering around him. "Slow down," I tell myself. "You barely know him." Still, it's a thought.

Bayage at mid-morning is a half-awake beast. Students trail, holding coffees like IV bags. Flyers flap on the bulletin board. Security guards swap shifts at the door. Tessa finds me in the atrium because of course she does. "Goblin," she says, slapping a high five into my palm before I can dodge. "You look like you didn't sleep." "I slept," I say badly. "Did Jax do something?" she asks. "If he did, I'm stealing his shoes." I hesitate. "He did a thing yesterday." "Oh no," she says, eyes gleaming. "We're walking and talking. I need steps. Spill." We walk. I give her the PG-13 recap. Jax's kiss. My kiss. And then finding him kissing another girl like it was nothing. Her expression goes from intrigued to pissed in under 30 seconds. "He really did that," she says. "What a dumbass." "It's not like we're together," I say quickly. "It's been 3 days. I have no claim. I'm not." "That doesn't matter," she says. "You don't have to be exclusive for something to hurt. He should know better." "I knew what he's like," I say. "I just hoped I was wrong." Tessa bumps my shoulder. "You're allowed to hope. He's the one screwing it up." "I don't want to make it a whole thing," I say. "I just need to recalibrate." "Code for ice him out," she says, "which I fully support." "I still have to see him," I remind her. "We share classes." "Actually," she says, fishing in her bag. "You share notes, too. Give." She snatches my phone, scrolls to Jax's contact, and changes his name to "do not kiss this idiot." "Wow," I say. "Subtle visual aid," she says. "You can change it back when he earns it." "How does he earn it?" I ask. "Consistency," she says. "And groveling and probably snacks." A laugh slips out of me despite myself. "You're dangerous." "I'm practical," she says. "Come on, goblins in 10."

Sasha is already in the media room when I get there, textbook open, pen in hand. Her spine goes a little straighter when she sees me, like she's bracing. "Hey," I say, hovering in the doorway for a second. "Hey," she echoes. We stand there in an awkward bubble for a beat. Tessa breezes past us, dropping into a chair and immediately starting an argument with the TA about aspect ratios, which buys us cover. "I'm sorry about yesterday," I say quietly, sliding into the seat next to Sasha. "If I made things weird." "You didn't make things weird," she says. "I did." "We both did," I say. "And I meant what I said. I don't want to hurt you. I just don't know what I'm doing." Her fingers tap once on the desk. "You were honest," she says finally. "I can work with honest." Relief loosens my shoulders. "So, we're okay." "We're okay," she says. Then, after a beat, "Did he do something?" "That he doesn't need a name." "Yeah," I say, "but I'll live." Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't push. "Let me know if I need to hide a body," she murmurs. "That seems to be a running theme," I say weakly. "Then maybe you should take the hint," she replies. I huff a breath that isn't quite a laugh and open my notebook. We spend the next 40 minutes watching sample shorts and ripping them apart in a constructive way. It helps. Stories I can handle. People are messier.

I managed to avoid Jax all morning. It's not entirely on purpose. Our schedules just don't line up until lunch. But when I spot him across the quad, halfway up the grassy slope, surrounded by two girls and a guy, my steps stutter. He's laughing, head tipped back, hands moving as he tells some story I can't hear. One of the girls squeezes his arm and presses her shoulder against his. He doesn't move away. My chest tightens. Tessa's contact name edit flashes in my head. "Do not kiss this idiot." I pivot and head for the food truck on the far side of the lawn instead. The line is blessedly long. I scroll my phone mindlessly, letting the noise around me wash over. New comment on my barriage video. "I saw you in the atrium. You look so confident. OMG goals." I almost laugh. If only they knew. By the time I get my food, the quad cluster has dissolved. Jax is nowhere in sight. Sasha appears, balancing a salad and an energy drink. "There you are," she says. "I thought you'd been devoured by the theater kids." "Not yet," I say. "That's next week." We eat under a tree. She talks about a paper. I half listen, grateful for the boring, grounded sound of someone complaining about citations. Halfway through, my phone buzzes. "Jax, hey, you good?" I stare at the screen. Three letters, a tiny crack in my resolve. Sasha glances at my face. "Is that him?" "Yeah," I admit. She chews slowly. "Do you want to answer?" "Not right now," I say. "Then don't," she says simply. I lock my phone.

Afternoon classes blur. The only interesting thing is a rumor floating around the back row. Someone mentioning an orientation night that happened yesterday for special tracks. "They had to sign a million NDAs," a guy whispers. "You should have seen the wards. It was wild." I pretend not to listen, but the words sink hooks into me. Night track orientation without me. No sponsor on file. By the time my last class lets out, my mood is a weird mix of hurt and determination. If they think I'm going to just shrug and stay on the kitty track forever, they have another thing coming. Tessa texts that she has rehearsal. Sasha has a shift at the campus clinic. For once, nobody is walking me to the bus stop. I don't mind. It's nice in theory to be alone with my thoughts. In practice, my thoughts are idiots. I cut through a side street off campus to save time. A little alley that runs between a coffee shop and a tutoring center, lined with dumpsters and posters peeling off brick. It's still light out, but the shadows are longer here. Halfway down, I hear it. A sharp, panicked "Let go of me!" I freeze. The voice is female, mid-range, edged with real fear. Not the performative kind you hear in prank videos. Real. "Come on," a deeper voice says. "Just a little fun." There's a scrape, a yelp, the thud of something hitting a wall. My body moves before my brain finishes the thought. I jog the last few steps and round the corner. Three figures. One girl pressed up against the brick, backpack half off, ponytail askew, a guy in a hoodie looming over her, hand on her wrist, another guy hanging back, nervy and wide-eyed. "Hey!" I shout. All three heads snapped toward me. For a fraction of a second, everything looks normal. Two jerks hassling a girl behind a coffee shop. Then the air shifts. The guy in the hoodie's eyes flicker, iris darkening, pupils blown wide. His lip curls, and I catch a glimpse of teeth that aren't quite human. The scent hits me a second later. Sharp, feral, wrong. Not human. My fangs flash down involuntarily. I bite them back into place, hard enough to hurt. "Get out of here," I tell the girl, forcing my voice steady. "Now." She's about my height, maybe a little shorter, with soft features and chipped black nail polish. There's a faint scar along her jaw. Her eyes widen when she sees me. "Ava," she says, startled. I blink. "Do I know you?" "It's Bunny," she says. "We had media lab tour together, remember?" Vaguely, I recall a girl who complimented my nails and asked about my camera rig. Great, perfect. Jax would probably remember her better. "Bunny, move," I say. Hoodie guy bares his teeth. The air around him ripples, reality bending like heat haze. "Look at the hero," he sneers, his voice has an edge of growl. "You should mind your own business, little girl." My heart is pounding, but a weird calm slides over it. I know this dance. Feral edge, loss of control. I've been on the wrong side of it. "Yeah, see, no," I say. "Not today." He lunges. I don't think I just dodge. His hand slams into the brick where my head was a second before. Cracking mortar. The other boy yelps and stumbles back. "Hands up," I snap. "You brought a friend to your assault. What? You needed moral support." Up close, Hoodiey's face is shifting, cheekbones sharpening, eyes glowing faint gold. His fingers curl like claws when he swings at me again. I sidestep fast, letting my own body cheat a little. Not full vamp speed, just enough that in the shadowy alley, it looks like I'm lucky, not supernatural. He clips my shoulder anyway. Pain flares. "Bunny, run," I say. Now she bolts. Hoodie snarls and goes to grab her. He doesn't get the chance. Something hits him from the side hard. A blur of motion, a grunt, the sound of two bodies slamming into concrete. "Back off," another voice snaps. Sharp. Familiar. Jax. Of course. He's on Hoodie before the guy can fully reform. Forearm across his chest. Knee dug into his ribs. Hoodie's face shifts more. Wolfish, eyes glowing, teeth snapping. "Seriously," Jax growls in broad daylight behind a coffee shop. "You're an idiot." He doesn't look like he's shifting. Not exactly, but there's a tension in his muscles, a steadiness in the way he holds the struggling, half-changed boy that isn't normal. "Get your friend out of here," he barks at the second guy. "And if I see either of you near her again, we will have a problem. Do you understand me?" The other boy nods frantically, face gone white. "Why? Yeah, yeah, sorry. Go," Jack snaps. The boy bolts. Hoodie snarls, trying to buck Jax off. His claws rake at Jax's arm. Jax takes it, hissing through his teeth. "Shift down," Jax says, voice low and dangerous. "Right now, or I'll drag your half-baked ass to the dean myself." For a moment, Hoodie looks like he might go fully rogue. Then something in Jax's tone, or the pressure of his grip, or the fact that I'm standing there glaring with my own barely caged monster under my skin gets through. The glow fades from his eyes. The claws retract. His breathing evens. "Pathetic," Jax mutters, shoving off him. Hoodie staggers to his feet, clutching his chest where Jax's forearm pressed. He shoots me a look that is half fury, half shame. "This isn't over," he spits. "Wrong," I say. "It is." Jack steps forward just enough that his shadow covers me. Hoodie falters, then turns and bolts down the alley.

Silence crashes down after them. My heart is still thudding. My shoulder aches where Hoodie clipped me. The smell of warped magic and cheap cologne hangs in the air. Jax turns to me. "Are you okay?" he asks. Of all the things he could say, that's the one that gets me. "I'm fine," I say. "You?" He flexes his arm, rolls his shoulder. There's a shallow scratch along his bicep, already beading blood. "Been worse," he says. "Jax." Bunny reappears at the mouth of the alley, breathless, eyes huge. She runs to him without seeming to see me, throws her arms around his neck. "Oh my god," she gasps. "I thought..." "Thank you," he says. He hugs her back, careful to keep his scratched arm out of the way. "Are you okay?" he asks, hands on her shoulders, scanning her face. She nods, tears welling. "I'm fine, he just he grabbed me and then..." "It's okay," he says, voice softening in a way I haven't heard before. "You're safe now. I've got you." He glances at me over her head. For once, there's no smirk, no easy joke, no flirt in his eyes. Just a serious, steady look that says, "I see you. Thank you." I look away first. "I should," I gesture toward the street. "Thus, parents' curfew." "Raise," he says. I stop. "Thank you," he says. "For stepping in." "You didn't have to." "Yes, I did," I say. "So did you." Something flickers in his expression. Pride, maybe, or relief. Still, he says, "You okay to get home?" "I'll take the main route," I say. "Text me if you need." "I've got her," he says, glancing at Bunny, who is clinging to his uninjured arm like a lifeline. "I'll walk her to the clinic." "Okay," I say. Our eyes meet again. In his, I see none of the cocky boy from the balcony. Just a guy who threw himself between a monster and someone who needed help. "See you tomorrow," I say quietly. "Yeah," he says. "Tomorrow." I leave them in the alley, him studying her, her shaking, both of them breathing the same tense air.

The bus ride home is a blur. My brain replays the scene on loop. Hoodie's half-shifted face, Bunny's panic, Jax's voice going hard and cold as he called the guy an idiot and made him stand down. He didn't do it for attention. There was no audience, no chance to go viral. He just did it because he was there and it was the right thing to do. He may be flaky and chaotic and stupid with hearts, but he's not cruel. That shouldn't matter as much as it does. It still does.

At home, Dad is packing by the window. "You're late," he says before I've even fully opened the door. "It's not even 8:00," I protest. "We said 10:30," Mom says calmly from the couch. "He's just worrying early." Dad glares at me anyway. "You didn't text." "I got delayed," I say. "Delayed by what?" he demands. "Boys' parties. A guy tried to maul a girl behind the coffee shop," I snap before I can stop myself. "I stayed until it was handled. Sorry I didn't pause to send you a selfie." Mom's face drains of color. "What? Ava?" Dad says, voice going quiet in that scary way. "Explain now." I sag against the door, suddenly exhausted. "It was some guy who thought grabbing a girl in an alley was a good idea," I say, sanding the supernatural details off. "I yelled. He got in my face. A guy from campus showed up and pulled him off. We scared him off. Everybody's okay. I'm okay." Dad scrubs a hand over his face. "And you didn't think to call campus security or the police." "There wasn't time," I say. "He was already on her." "You cannot keep throwing yourself into danger like that," he says, voice rising. "You are not a cop, Ava." "You're not human." The word slips out sharper than I mean it. He flinches. Mom steps between us, eyes flashing. "Enough," she says. "Both of you." She looks at me first. "I am proud that you helped someone," she says. "I am also terrified. Please, next time, if there is a next time, and I hope there isn't, call someone while you're doing it. Text us after. We're not asking to keep you in a box. We just want to know you're alive." Guilt crawls up my spine. "I know," I say. "I'm sorry." Dad exhales, some of the anger leaking out. "I don't want to bury my kid," he mutters. "You're not going to," I say quietly. "I promise." He shakes his head, but he doesn't push it further. "Go shower," Mom says. "You smell like the bus." "Love you, too," I say weakly. "Always," she replies.

In my room, under the hot spray, the adrenaline finally ebbs. My shoulder throbs, bruised where Hoodie hit it, if he'd fully shifted, if Jax hadn't shown up. I push the what-ifs away. After wrapped in a hoodie and shorts, I sit on my bed and open my camera app. My hair is damp, my eyes tired, but I hit record anyway. "Today," I say softly, "I watched a boy I like be exactly the reckless idiot everyone warned me he was, and I also watched him do the right thing when it counted." I twist the hem of my sleeve between my fingers. "People are complicated," I say. "He hurt me. I'm not going to pretend he didn't, but he also stepped in hard. He didn't have to. Nobody was watching. He did it anyway." I exhale. "I don't know what that means yet," I admit. "I just know I can't file him under villain and move on, which would be so much easier." By the way, I almost mentioned Bunny. "Then don't," I say. "That's her story to tell." And there's still this, I add, flipping the camera to show my screen. The unknown text thread stares back at me. "Status pending no sponsor on file." "They're having orientations without me," I say. "There's a whole door in the woods and a program I'm locked out of, but I'm not going to stay locked out forever. If I have to drag a sponsor out of the events department by his safety cables, I will." I stop recording and save the video to my private folder. My phone buzzes. Not unknown this time. Bunny. "Hey, it's Bunny. Jax gave me number. Bunny. Tai for earlier. He said you were there first. Bunny, can I talk to you sometime about him and stuff?" My heart squeezes. I type back. "Me? Yeah, anytime." "Me tomorrow." Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. "Bunny, tomorrow, quad 12." "Me, see you there." Another buzz. A second later. Jax. "Hey, heard you were in the alley, too. You okay?" I stare at the message for a long moment. Then I type. "Me? I'm fine. Bunny said you took care of it. Ty." His reply is almost instant. "Jax, you took care of it first." "Jax, I just finished the job." "Jax night rays." I don't answer. Instead, I change his contact name from "do not kiss this idiot" to "J" and toss my phone onto the pillow. Not forgiven, not forgotten, but not simple either. Outside, a siren wails somewhere far away. Inside, the apartment hums steady. Mom laughs at something on TV. Dad mutters about the news. I turn off my lamp, lie back, and stare at the ceiling. "No sponsor on file. Not yet." "Soon," I whisper to the dark. The night doesn't answer, but the part of me that's sharp and hungry and tired of being locked out bears its teeth in a silent smile.

I wake up to sunlight stabbing through the gap in my curtains, and my alarm playing the worst pop song I've ever loved. For a few blissful seconds, I lie there, listening, not thinking. Then my phone buzzes with a new notification, and reality catches up. I grab it off the nightstand, thumbs smearing across the screen. Unknown number. No, just Tessa sending a meme of a raccoon clutching coffee. "Tessa, Rise, Goblin." "Tessa, we..."

Have content to create. I smile despite myself. No new messages from the night track number. No new ones from Jax either. Our chat sits there with his last night rays glowing up at me.

I toss the phone back onto the pillow and drag myself up. In the kitchen, mom is already dressed for work. Hair in a bun, apron over her dress. Dad's in his usual hoodie at the table, coffee in hand.

"Morning," Mom says. "You look less like something that crawled out from under the bed."

"I'll take it," I say, heading for the fridge. Dad eyes me over his mug.

"You doing okay?"

I pour juice. "Define okay."

"Not crying over idiots. Not getting into fights. Not joining occult clubs," he says.

"Wow. I say that's a very specific list."

"Experience," he says. "There were three of us in college. One of us survived with a diploma."

Mom snorts. "Don't listen to him. He was worse than you."

I lean on the counter. "I'm fine," I say. "I have class and goblins and probably a mountain of reading. That's enough drama for today."

He considers me a beat longer, then nods once. "Text if you stay late," he says. "You know the drill."

"Yes, Dad," I say. He points his mug at me. "And if this Jack's clown is giving you mixed signals, tell him you're not a traffic light."

I choke on my orange juice. "I am absolutely not discussing signals with you."

Mom pats my shoulder. "Ignore him. But also, he's not wrong."

"I hate it here," I say, grabbing my bag.

"You love it here," she corrects. "Now go before you miss your bus."

The bus is half empty. I snag a window seat and watch the city smear by. Concrete, murals, palm trees, people who don't know there's a magic door tucked in the woods behind my campus. I scroll through my drafts and watch last night's private video. Me talking softly about Jacks in my hoodie, about how people are complicated, about doing the right thing when no one's watching. I don't watch the part where my eyes go shiny. I skip past it and close the app.

At Barriage, the morning air is cooler than usual. The sky is a little overcast, which my skin appreciates. I'm crossing the atrium, mentally organizing my day when I see her. Sasha's leaning against a pillar near the stairs, arms folded, backpack at her feet. She's not on her way anywhere. She's waiting for me. My stomach does a weird little flip of nerves.

She spots me, pushes off the pillar, and comes toward me like she's walking into an appointment she's decided not to reschedule.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," she echoes. We stand there amid the swirl of other people, everyone else flowing around us like we're an island.

"Do you have a minute?" she asks. "Before your first class."

"Yeah," I say. "Sure." She jerks her chin toward a quieter corner by the vending machines. We move there out of direct traffic. I lean against the wall. She faces me, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," she starts then pauses, frowns properly. "For the other day, for kissing you and then making it your problem."

"You already apologized," I say.

"Not like this," she says. She takes a breath. "You were honest with me. You didn't let me go too far and then pretend it was nothing. You were clear. And I didn't listen to that as well as I should have because I wanted you to like me back the same way. That's on me, not you."

My throat closes up a little. "I like you," I say.

"Just," she cuts in gently. "You like me as a person, as a friend, as someone whose eyebrows you admire."

"They're very powerful," I say.

She huffs a laugh, then so. "I just want you to know I'm not going to keep trying to push it. I can't say I don't feel what I feel, but I can promise I won't let it mess with you more than it already has."

"You don't have to promise anything," I say. "You're allowed to feel what you feel, too."

"I know," she says. "But I also know what it's like to have someone keep pushing when you're confused. And I swore I'd never be that person." So she lifts her shoulders. "If all I get is being your actual friend, then I want that. No pressure, no weirdness. Just can we be that?"

Something loosens in my ribs. I hadn't realized how tense I've been around her since the almost kiss.

"Yeah," I say. "I'd like that a lot."

She nods, relief flickering over her face so quickly I almost miss it. "Okay," she says. "Friends." She sticks her hand out like it's a business deal. I take it. Her grip is firm, warm. We shake solemnly, and the stupid ceremony of it makes me grin.

"Plus," she adds, dropping my hand. "Now I have full license to be brutally honest when you're being an idiot about boys."

"I was an idiot about a boy for like 12 hours," I protest.

"Give it time," she says. "And speaking of idiots." Her gaze flicks past my shoulder. I don't have to turn to know who she means. I can feel the shift in the air like someone turned the charisma up two notches behind me.

"Raise," Jax's voice says. "Morning."

I turn. He looks annoyingly good again. Black joggers, gray tee, hair a little damp like he showered 5 minutes ago and ran here. There's a faint bruise darkening on his forearm where Hoodie Boy's claw raked him yesterday. He hasn't bothered to cover it.

"Morning," I say. My voice comes out neutral.

"Good." His eyes flick between me and Sasha, taking in our proximity, our joined hands from a second ago. Something tightens in his jaw, then smooths out. "You okay?" he asks me. "After yesterday, I mean."

"I'm fine," I say. "Bruise, that's all." He nods. "Bunny texted me like 12 times last night. She's still freaked, but she's okay. She wanted me to tell you thanks again."

"She did," I say. "She also got my number. We're meeting at lunch."

"Good," he says. "She could use someone in her corner who isn't me." He rakes a hand through his hair, suddenly awkward. "Also, um, about the other stuff before that..." My stomach tries to climb into my mouth.

Sasha's eyes sharpen. "What other stuff?" she asks, voice mild and absolutely not mild.

Jax looks like he'd prefer to be anywhere else. "Can we talk later?" he asks me.

"Maybe," I say. It's not a yes, it's also not a no. His shoulders drop half a centimeter in a mix of relief and frustration. "Okay," he says. "I'll be around." He nods at Sasha. "Sasha, Jax," she says in a tone that could freeze water. He winces and peels off, swallowed by the crowd.

"I exhale. You do not owe him closure on his timeline," Sasha says quietly.

"I know," I say. "He also literally helped save a girl yesterday, so I can't exactly put him in the trash and walk away."

"You can put part of him in the trash," she says. "The kiss part. Keep the alley part. People are not one thing."

I smile weakly. "You're very wise for someone who once forgot their own birthday."

She narrows her eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Tessa," I say.

"I'm going to delete her Instagram," she mutters. The bell chimes overhead. "Come on," she says. "If we're late, we'll miss the part where Harlo roasts the guy who never does the reading."

Media theory is mercifully straightforward. Jax sits in his usual row, but for once, he doesn't spin around to make some smart comment at me. He just listens, scribbling notes with his good arm, jaw tense. I take notes. I do not look at him much.

After class, Sasha and I head to Goblins. Tessa barrels in 10 minutes late, claiming printer sabotage, and we spend an hour reviewing shot lists and arguing about which campus myths are filmable.

"The Redwood door is a no-go unless we want to get expelled," Sasha says.

"I can suggest things from a purely hypothetical standpoint," I say.

The TA assesses me over the laptop. "If we do anything near the redwoods, it needs to be daytime and framed as rumor, not fact," she says. "I like my scholarship, thanks."

"Cowards," Tessa mutters.

After goblins, Sasha and I split up for different classes. I'm sliding my notebook into my bag outside the lecture hall when my phone buzzes. Bunny.

*Hey, still good 412 in the quad.*

*Me?*

*Yes, see you there. Wear armor if you want.*

*Bunny.*

*Elmo.*

The quad is bright but bearable. A few clouds keep the worst of the sun off. I park myself at a table near a tree, half in shade, and unwrap a sandwich. Bunny spots me and hurries over, clutching her tote bag strap like a lifeline. Up close in daylight, she looks younger than me by a couple of years. Soft features, dark curls, a tiny stud in her nose. There's a bruise blooming under her jaw where Hoodie grabbed her.

"Hey," I say, standing. "You made it."

"Yeah," she says, her smile is shaky. "I brought muffins as tribute." She plunks down a bakery bag.

"You didn't have to," I say.

"I wanted to," she says. "Can I sit?"

"Please," I say. We sit. For a moment, she just twists her napkin between her fingers like she's not sure where to start.

"Thank you," she blurts. "For yesterday, for showing up, for shouting, for not just walking past."

"You're welcome," I say softly. "Anyone decent would have."

Her mouth twists. "You'd be surprised." We talk around it at first. Our shared class, her major psych, my transfer. Then slowly the conversation drifts back to Jax.

"You knew him before?" I ask.

Tessa said your name like she expected me to. Bunny tucks a curl behind her ear. "We dated," she says. "Last semester into the summer." My pulse kicks, but I keep my face neutral.

"How was that?"

"Intense," she says, half laughing. "Fun, messy. He's a lot."

"Yeah," I say. "I've noticed."

"He's not malicious," she says quickly, like she's defending him and herself at the same time. "He doesn't set out to hurt people. He just doesn't know how to slow down or say no when someone wants his attention. He likes being liked. Then he realizes too late that people think he promised them more than he actually did."

"Did he do that with you?" I ask.

"Sort of," she says. "He was clear we weren't exclusive. I thought I was okay with that. Then I found out I wasn't. It was on me to know my limits, but he didn't exactly help. And now?"

"And now he's Jax," she says with a wry smile. "He walked me to the clinic yesterday and waited through the whole exam, even though we broke up months ago and I've barely talked to him since. He made three stupid jokes about the first aid kit to get me to stop shaking. He also forgot my birthday when we were together and double booked two dates in the same night once. Both those things can be true."

I let that sink in. "I kissed him," I say quietly. "Earlier this week, then saw him kissing someone else the same day."

"Ouch," she winces. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

"It hurt," I admit. "I knew what he was like, and it still hurt."

"You're allowed to let it hurt," she says. "You're also allowed to decide you don't want to try to be the exception."

I pick at the edge of my napkin. "I don't know what I want yet," I say. "I just know I can't pretend the alley didn't happen. It changed something in him, too."

"I think," she says, "he texted me after you left, asked if I was mad. I told him to focus on keeping his claws to himself and maybe stop kissing girls he doesn't have the attention span for."

I snort. "Brutal."

"Best thing I can do for him," she says. "He listens to blunt better than soft." We finish our food. I write down the name of a campus counselor she can see if she wants. She writes down a bakery wreck for me. When we part, I feel not better exactly, but clearer. Jax isn't a monster. He's also not a safe place for my heart. Not like this. He's a guy still figuring himself out, and I am not his training wheels.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful in a normal way. Classes, notes, a surprise quiz. The current that usually tugs students toward the redwoods at the 2:00 mark is still there, but I'm not close enough to see it today.

By early evening, the campus feels different. There's an energy building around the auditorium. The big fancy one, not the little stage in the atrium. Lights, cables, scaffolding, a tech rehearsal for some joint event. Part concert, part forum, part please donate money to the arts spectacle.

Tessa texts me at 6.

*Tessa, help.*

*Tessa, they need warm bodies to run fog machines and clap on Q.*

*Tessa, free pizza.*

*Me, you had me at free.*

*Me? Where?*

*Tessa, main auditorium. Door by the loading dock. Bring her soul to sacrifice.*

I clear it with my parents over text. On campus, event rehearsal, home by 10:00 and head over.

Inside the auditorium is a controlled disaster. Cables snake across the floor. Metal trusses rise over the stage, bristling with lights. A cluster of techs hovers around a console, arguing about cues. On stage, Cole is there, of course. He's in a plain black tee and dark jeans, clipboard in hand, headset slung around his neck. He moves with a kind of contained intensity, checking rigging points, talking to the crew, testing winches. He looks even more in his element than he did at the atrium notice board.

Tessa waves me over to the second row. "You're on applause duty," she says. "Clap when they say clap, laugh when they say laugh."

"So, I'm a trained seal," I say.

"Exactly." She says, "Come on, it'll be fun and we can judge everyone's stage presence." We sit. A couple more volunteers filter in. Some theater majors, a guy from Goblins, Sasha, who slides into the seat on my other side like this was always the plan.

"Wow," I say, "peer pressure from both sides."

"You love it," Tessa says.

Onay. A girl with a bright blazer and a stack of note cards practices the event opening. She's good, polished, funny, clearly used to performing. Cole watches from the wing, giving the occasional cue to the lighting op. The first run-through goes fine. We clap. We laugh in the right places. The fog machine belches theathetically on cue.

During a short break, a tall guy in glasses climbs the ladder to the upstage truss to adjust a moving light. Cole checks his notes, gestures, calls up to him.

"Make sure the safety is double clipped," he says. "I don't want anything dropping even in rehearsal."

"Got it," the guy calls back.

They reset positions. The host goes back to the podium. The band and the back tunes. The second run starts. The first segment is uneventful. Then, as the host walks to the other side of the stage, there's a screech of metal, a high, wrong sound, and something shifts overhead. I feel it before I see it. A change in air pressure, a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision. Then, a metal bar from one of the smaller lighting rigs jerks, slips its track, and swings down toward the stage. The girl at the podium doesn't see it. She's reading her lines, smiling, oblivious.

Cole moves. He's a blur, sprinting from the wing, grabbing her around the waist, yanking her back. The rigging cable snaps taut, then gives. The bar swings, catches him high on the shoulder instead of her skull, and jerks them both sideways. The sound it makes when it hits him is horrible, meaty, wrong. He goes down, dragging the host with him behind the podium. The bar clatters, swinging limp for half a second. The entire auditorium is silent. Then everyone starts talking at once.

"Kill power!" someone yells. "Are they okay?"

A girl behind me gasps. My body snaps into motion. Blood hits the air. Sharp, hot, metallic. I smell it over the dust and the fog juice and my fangs slam against my lower lip hard enough to sting. Not now. I shove myself to my feet, almost tripping over Tessa's bag.

"Medkit!" I yell to no one and everyone. "Do we have a medkit?"

"Backstage," someone calls. "I'll get Poppy." Another voice says.

Sasha catches my arm for a split second. "You good?"

"Yes," I lie. My throat burns. "Watch the rig." I sprint down the aisle and around the side toward the wing. The host is sitting up, dazed, but talking. Cole is half sitting, half leaning against the step. One hand clamped over his upper arm where the bar clipped him. Blood snakes between his fingers. Not a gush, more than a scratch. Enough.

"Don't look at it," I tell myself under my breath. "Medkit," I say out loud. "Where?"

"Left wing by the fire extinguisher," a stagehand says, pale. I grab the red plastic box, yank it open, and shove it at Cole.

"That for you?" he asks the host, teeth gritted, but voice weirdly calm.

"For you, genius," I snap. "You just tried to tackle a light bar with your shoulder."

He gives me a faint, strained smile. "Looked like it was going to win."

There's a blur of movement as another girl jogs in—a petite brunette in scrubs pants and a Bayage Health windbreaker. Her hair is up in a messy knot. A campus ID badge swings at her chest.

"Poppy told you not to break my actors," she says to no one in particular, dropping to her knees beside Cole. "Let me see." He peels his hand away. The gash is ugly but not catastrophic. Deep enough to bleed, not deep enough to see bone. The smell makes my vision sharpen. I swallow it down, focusing on Poppy's hands. Efficient, steady, gloved.

"Pressure," she orders. "Ava, right? Hold there. Not too hard, just enough." She positions my fingers at the edges of the wound, not directly on it. I press. Warmth seeps into the gauze, into the pads of my fingers. My fangs throb. "Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth." I coach myself silently. You're not hungry. You had a packet before you left. This is a person, not food.

Cole hisses through his teeth, but he doesn't flinch away. "I told you to double clip the safety," he grinds out between breaths.

"And he did," Poppy says. "We'll figure out what went wrong later. Focus on not passing out on my stage."

"I'm not going to pass out," he says. "We need to check the other bars. Make sure none of them..." He shifts to push himself up and winces hard.

"Stay down," I say, sharper than I mean to. "You don't need to impress the beams. They're not watching." He actually huffs a laugh, which feels like a win.

Poppy cleans the cut. Her movements brisk but careful. "You're going to need stitches," she says. "But I can glue you enough to get you to the clinic without getting blood everywhere."

"I can walk," he says.

"Good, because I'm not carrying you," she says. "Hold still." She glances at me. "You okay?"

"Fine," I say, even though my jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "I've got him." We work together. Poppy doing actual medical magic. Me being an extra pair of hands and a calming voice. Somewhere above us, Sasha and a couple of techs are already securing the broken rig, checking other clips.

When Poppy finishes the temporary patch, she tapes fresh gauze over the gash and helps Cole to his feet. "You," she tells him, "are coming with me to the clinic." He opens his mouth to argue. She levels a look at him. "You can either walk there or I can call a cart and strap you down. Pick one." He closes his mouth. "Walk," he says. She nods, satisfied, and looks at me. "You coming?"

I glance toward the auditorium seats. Tessa gives me two thumbs up and a go motion.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll help."

The walk to the campus clinic is short but feels longer. Cole moves stiffly, but he doesn't complain. "Careful over the cables," I say once. "Step, not trip."

"I'm not totally helpless," he mutters.

"I just watched you intercept a light bar with your body," I say. "You're not exactly making your case." Poppy snorts.

At the clinic, they whisk Cole into a room. Poppy disappears with him. A nurse at the desk hands me a clipboard. "Since you seem to be his responsible adult."

"I'm not," I start then stop. "Fine." I fill out his name and student ID from his badge, check the event rehearsal box, and sit on a plastic chair in the hallway, bouncing my leg. 15 minutes later, Poppy emerges, tugging off her gloves.

"He's fine," she says before I can ask. "Five stitches, adhesive, lecture about not using his shoulder as a crash mat." Relief hits me like a wave. I sag back in the chair. "Okay, good." She eyes me. "You okay?"

"I'm," I start then stop. "Honesty, right. The blood was a lot," I say, "but I didn't freak out or anything." She looks at me for a beat longer than feels normal, like she sees more than I'm saying. Then she nods. "Good," she says simply. "You kept your head. That helped." She glances back at the door. "He's asking if you're still here."

My stomach does a weird swoop. "I can go," I say quickly. "He doesn't. He probably has people."

"You helped patch him and do his paperwork," she says. "You're people enough. Come say hi so he doesn't try to walk back to the auditorium to look for you."

I snort. "That sounds exactly like something he'd do."

"Exactly." She says, "Come on."

The clinic room is small and smells like antiseptic. Cole sits on the exam table, shirt off, new bandage stark white against his tanned skin. The bruise blooming around it is ugly and already spreading. My fangs nudge again. I clamp down on the feeling and focus on his face instead. He looks up when we come in.

"Raise," he says. "You didn't have to wait."

"I was already here," I say. "It would have been weird to leave you half glued."

A corner of his mouth lifts. "Thanks," he says, forgetting Poppy and not panicking.

"She's better than you deserve," Poppy says, leaning against the door frame. "Don't be nice to him or he'll start expecting it," she adds to me. I smile, noted.

Cole shifts, winces. "How bad?" he asks Poppy.

"You'll live," she says. "No heavy lifting for a week, which means no climbing, rigging, and no just adjusting any fixtures. You can point at things and boss people around from the floor only."

He grimaces. "They're going to screw it up."

"Then you'll teach them without doing it yourself," she says. "Or I'll personally sedate you." He sighs, but he doesn't argue. That tells me more about him than all his safety lectures.

"Thank you," he says to her. It's quite sincere. She pats the door with the back of her hand. "Don't make it a habit," she says, and disappears down the hall.

For a moment, it's just me and him.

"Seriously," he says, "you were calm. Most people freeze when stuff like that happens."

"Most people don't have a dad who made them do emergency drills for everything," I say lightly. "Fire, earthquake, active shooter, rogue raccoon."

One eyebrow ticks up. "Rogue raccoon?"

"Long story," I say. "The point is, I didn't really have time to freak out." His gaze lingers on my face for a second, like he's trying to reconcile the quiet girl in the back row with the one barking orders backstage.

"You did good," he says.

"Thank you." The praise warms my chest more than it should. "You uh saved someone from a light bar," I say. "That was not nothing."

He shrugs, then immediately regrets it. "She was right under it," he says. "I was closest. You can say you're welcome."

"You know," I say. He huffs a breath that is almost a laugh. "You're welcome."

"Raise," I say, matching his tone. We look at each other for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent light loud in the silence.

"I should get back," I say. "They're probably duct-taping everything together without you."

"You should go home," he counters. "It's late."

"Are you my dad now?" I ask.

"Do you want me to be?" he deadpans. I snort. "That's weird. Don't say that." He cracks a real smile. And for a second, the room feels smaller.

"Get out of here, Raise," he says softer. "Before your actual dad comes to drag you away by your ear."

"Too late for that," I say. "He'd be dragging me by my hoodie." I wave, backing toward the door. "Try not to wrestle any more light rigs tonight."

"No promises," he says.

Outside, the sky is a deepening blue. The event crew has mostly wrapped. The auditorium doors are propped open to let the smell of fog juice out. Tessa texts that she grabbed footage of the rig incident for training purposes, and that they're feeding everyone pizza backstage.

*Me, go home before they make you sign a waiver.*

*Tessa, never.*

Sasha finds me at the curb near the bus stop. "Hey," she says. "You good?"

"Yeah," I say. "Cole's getting his martyr badge at the clinic. Poppy lectured him. It was glorious."

She smiles, relieved. "I saw the bar swing," she says. "Thought we were going to need a priest."

"Just a healer," I say.

"You want company on the bus?" she asks. I hesitate. "Actually, do you want to come over? My parents will freak less if I show up with someone responsible looking."

She blinks, caught off guard. "You sure?"

"Yeah," I say. "You saved me a seat in class and then you threatened to help me bury boys. I think you qualify as safe." She snorts. "Okay, let me text my aunt."

We bust together, half talking, half staring out the window. Sasha asks a few gentle questions about the rig, about Cole's injury. I answer with the edited version. She doesn't push. At my stop, we hop off. The evening air is cool, the sky stripping into darker shades.

"Okay," I say, taking a breath at the foot of the stairs. "Prepare yourself. My dad is a lot."

"I can handle dads," she says.

"You say that now?" I mutter, unlocking the door. Mom answers, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She beams when she sees us.

"You brought a friend," she says. "Hi."

"Hi," Sasha says, instantly polite. "Thank you for having me."

"This is Sasha," I say. "She saved me from doors and bad layouts. Sasha, this is my mom."

"My dad is somewhere."

"Garage," Dad calls from down the hall, looking for the good hammer. Mom rolls her eyes. "Come in. Come in. I was just finishing dinner. There's plenty if you're hungry." Sasha glances at me. I nod. We ate pizza at the event, but that was mostly grease. "Real food would be great," I say.

Mom bustles us into the kitchen. The table is set. Pasta and garlic bread steam in serving dishes. Dad emerges a second later with a tool belt and a suspicious look.

"You're late," he says to me. Then he sees Sasha. His eyebrows go up. "And you brought someone."

"This is Sasha," I say again. "Friend, human. Very responsible. No criminal record that I know of."

"I jaywalked once," Sasha says. "I regret it." Dad snorts despite himself. "I'm Carlos," he says, offering a hand. "Her overprotective father."

"Sasha," she says, shaking it. "Her door ninja."

"Oh, you're the door ninja," he says. "I've heard about you."

"Only good things, I hope," she says.

"We'll see," he replies, but his eyes are softer. "Sit, eat. Tell me if she's actually doing her reading or just pretending."

"I'm sitting right here," I say.

"That's why we're saying it," Mom says.

Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. Sasha answers my parents' questions smoothly. What? She's studying biochem, who she lives with an aunt. Whether she likes Barriage, yes, but the coffee is overpriced. She dodges any supernatural landmines with practiced ease. Dad asks exactly one question about boys. Sasha glances at me, then says, "Ava can do better than most of them," which earns her a solid 10 points in his book.

After, Mom insists we take a plate of cookies to my room for studying. Dad hovers at the door. "Door open," he reminds us, nodding toward the hallway.

"Dad," I groan.

"I know, I know," he says. "Your adults humor me."

"We will," I say. "Promise." He finally retreats to the living room.

In my room, Sasha perches on the edge of my bed, taking it all in. The fairy lights around the window, the bulletin board with pinned photos, the ring light in the corner, my tripod.

"This is very," she says.

"Chaotic?" I ask.

"Cozy," she counters. "And a little chaotic." I flop onto the bed beside her. "Sorry about my dad," I say. "He thinks he's subtle."

"He's not the worst," she says. "He clearly loves you. That's more than some people get." I glance at her. "Your aunt."

She tries. Sasha says it's not the same. We talk for a while about classes, myths we might shoot for Goblins, whether Poppy secretly runs the campus. I show her a couple of drafts I haven't posted. She gives blunt but kind feedback. At some point, my head ends up resting against the headboard, my legs stretched out. Sasha slides down until she's half propped against my pillow. Then somehow, we're lying sideways, shoulders touching, the plate of cookies between us on the blanket.

"You're going to fall asleep," I tell her. "You always yawn exactly three times before you crash."

She yawns immediately. "No, I'm-" She yawns again, eyes watering.

"Fine. Sure," I say. Her arm ends up draped loosely over her stomach, elbow brushing my ribs. My body relaxes in increments I didn't know it needed. We put on some dumb drama on low volume. Subtitles doing most of the work and let the sound fill the spaces between sentences. I scroll my phone lazily. She scrolls hers. At some point, her hand slips, phone dropping onto her chest and her eyes close. She's out.

I should move. I should turn off the light, tuck a blanket around her, be a responsible adult. I don't. I watch her for a minute instead. Without the alertness she carries around campus, she looks softer, younger, almost. The frown line between her brows is gone. Her lashes rest dark against her cheeks. I noticed the tiny scar under her lip I hadn't seen before. There's a warm knot in my chest. Gratitude, affection, something else. I don't poke it too hard.

"Thank you," I whisper, even though she can't hear me. "For being here."

Impulse hits before reason can veto it. I lean in and press the lightest kiss to her lips. It's barely more than a brush, soft, almost nothing. The kind of thing I could easily pretend didn't happen. Her eyes snap open. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, our faces inches apart. Her pupils dilate. Her throat works as she swallows.

"Ava," she breathes.

"I," I start. "I shouldn't have."

She moves. Her hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair. She closes the tiny gap between us and kisses me. It's not frantic. It's not aggressive. It's a question and an answer at the same time. Gentle, steady, like she's giving me half a dozen chances to pull away. and I don't take any of them. My heart pounds. My brain is a tangle of static and warmth. Her lips are softer than I imagined. Her hand is warm at my nape. The world narrows to the points where we touch. The press of our mouths, the slide of our noses, the brush of her knee against my thigh. I kiss her back for a long moment. There's nothing else. No Jax, no secret doors, no unknown numbers. Just this. This impossible, quiet, right-feeling thing.

We break apart slowly, foreheads resting together.

"I thought you-" she starts.

"I still like guys," I say, voice shaky. "Mostly. Probably. I don't know. But I also like this. You." I wanted to know what it felt like without panicking.

She exhales. "And and it feels," I search for the word, "safe and good and like I might be very confused later."

She laughs, breath warm against my mouth. "We can be confused together," she says. "We don't have to name it yet." Relief loosens my chest. "Okay," I whisper.

We don't go further than that. No clothes come off. No hands wander past mutually understood no-go zones. We kiss again, slower, then end up curled around each other under the blanket, my head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped around my waist. The drama on my laptop plays to itself. The room dims as the fairy lights become the main source of glow.

At some point, my door clicks softly. "Ava," Dad's voice whispers, then louder. "Lights." I jolt upright, heart slamming. Sasha is fully awake in an instant, scooting back, putting a polite amount of space between us. I scramble for the remote, pause the drama, and flick off the main lamp, leaving only the fairy lights.

"Okay," I call off.

"Good night," he says through the door. His footsteps recede. My pulse slowly decelerates.

"We're teenagers," Sasha whispers. "This is so cliche."

"We're in our 20s," I whisper back, which makes it somehow worse. She snickers. "You can sleep," I say. "I'll set an alarm in case you need to bail early."

"Okay," she murmurs. We settle back down, this time with a little more deliberate distance, but still close enough that I can feel the heat of her. My eyelids grow heavy. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I stretch to grab it. Careful not to elbow Sasha. A new message. Not from the unknown number this time. From Cole.

*Cole, you handled chaos well today. Cole, most people freeze. You didn't.*

I stare at the screen. Warmth stirring in my chest. That has nothing to do with Sasha's arm under my hand. My thumbs hover then move.

*Me?*

*You saved a host from a light bar.*

*Me?*

*You're not allowed to be self-deprecating tonight.*

A moment passes.

*Cole noted.*

*Cole, get some sleep. Rays big campus to conquer tomorrow.*

I smile small and stupid in the dark.

*Me, you two try not to fight any more metal.*

No reply, but the little delivered check mark is enough. I put the phone face down, nestle closer to Sasha, and let my eyes close. Somewhere beyond our walls, the redwoods stand dark and patient. The door in the woods waits. The night track is still closed to me for now. But in this small, borrowed quiet, wrapped in soft blankets and soft breathing, and the memory of blood I didn't lose myself to. I feel the tiniest bit more like I might actually be ready when it opens.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and the weight of someone else's arm across my waist. For half a heartbeat, I think I'm still dreaming. Then my brain catches up. Sasha in my bed. My cheek still remembers the shape of her mouth. Her breathing is slow and even against the back of my neck. The fairy lights are still on, dim in the morning light leaking around my curtains. My phone is face down on the nightstand, mercifully silent. I lie there perfectly still, heart doing gymnastics. Last night wasn't a dream. I kissed her. She kissed me back. We curled around each other like we'd been doing it forever. And somewhere in there, between the soft heat and the quiet and my dad's lights knock, I fell asleep with my arm around her waist. She shifts behind me now, tightening her arm unconsciously, pulling me a fraction closer. My body melts before my brain can panic.

"Ava," she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. My mouth is dry. She blinks herself awake slowly. I roll onto my back so we're side by side, shoulders touching. Her hair's a mess, one braid half undone. It's weirdly adorable.

"Morning," she says.

"Hey," I say, suddenly shy. We just look at each other for a second. There's no immediate freakout, no "what did we do?" meltdown, just awareness and a flush climbing my neck.

"How's your disaster meter?" she asks quietly.

"Somewhere between mild and oh god, my dad is in this house," I say.

She huffs a tiny laugh. "Reasonable."

"Do you regret?" I start.

"No," she says before I can finish. "Do you?"

I search my chest. There's confusion. Sure. A tangle of feelings, but regret? No. "Also, no," I say.

"Okay," she says, letting out a breath. "Then we're fine."

"Fine and very confused," I add.

"We can multitask," she says, "confused and fine at the same time."

Footsteps creek in the hallway. We both jolt, scrambling a safe distance apart like teenagers in a sitcom. I grab my phone. She swipes at her hair. There's a knock on my door frame.

"Ava," Mom says, "You girls awake."

"Yeah," I call. "We're up." She pokes her head in, taking in the scene. Sasha sitting cross-legged on top of the covers. Me leaning against the headboard, both in t-shirts and sleep shorts, fairy lights glowing.

"Morning," Mom says warmly. "I'm making pancakes. There's time if you want some."

"Always time for pancakes," I say. "Your aunt texted," Mom adds to Sasha. "She says, 'Thank you for the photo and to tell you your cousin fed the cat the wrong food again.'"

Sasha groans. "Of course he did. I'll text her."

"You're both welcome at the table," Mom says. "Bring your faces before they get cold." When she disappears, I sag a little.

"You sent my mom a photo?" I ask.

"Evidence of parental supervision," Sasha says, "so she wouldn't worry. I do that sometimes."

"That's actually really cute," I say.

"Don't start," she warns, but she's smiling. We dress quickly. No eye contact while we pull on jeans and hoodies. Too dangerous. But our shoulders brush at the mirror and the warmth that shoots through me makes my knees wobble.

Downstairs, Dad is already at the table. His eyes flick from me to Sasha and back, assessing. "You survived the house," he says to her. "Good sign."

"Your wife fed me," Sasha says. "I'd survive almost anything for those cookies."

"She's manipulative like that," he says. Then to me, "You're on time. Miracles happen."

"I say, sitting. Mom slides a plate in front of me. "Eat," she says. "You both had a long day yesterday."

Dad looks at me. "So," he says, "You helped some guy in the theater almost get crushed and then brought home a very sensible girl. I'm cautiously approving."

"His name's Cole," I say before I can stop myself.

"Cole," Dad repeats. "Is he better than Jax?"

"Dad," I groan. Sasha chokes on her orange juice.

"I'm just cataloging," he says. "Door ninja, chaos goblin, safety guy. I need nicknames."

"I like safety guy," Mom says. "He sounds practical."

"He is," I say. Then realizing how that sounds, add quickly. "I mean, he cares about safety. That's his whole thing." Sasha hides a smile behind her fork.

Dad narrows his eyes at me like he's clocking something, but he lets it go. "I like this one," he says, nodding at Sasha. "Bring her around more. She eats her breakfast."

"We'll see if she stays after she meets your toolbox," I mutter.

After pancakes, Sasha calls a ride share. Her aunt needs her back for something. At the door, she squeezes my hand once, quick and hidden from my parents' view.

"I'll see you on campus," she says.

"Text me when you're there," I say.

"I will," she promises, then is gone, heading down the stairs. Mom looks at me, eyebrows up. "She's sweet," she says.

"Yeah," I say, feeling my cheeks warm. "She is."

Dad eyes me over his mug. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says. "Just good to see you have people who have got your back."

On the bus, I tuck my knees against the seat in front of me and scroll my phone.

*Sasha, home.*

*Aunt says, "Thank you for cookies. Also, she likes your mom's hair."*

*Me, tell her my mom says, "Thanks about the cat." Intel.*

*Sasha, see you later, Raise.*

The use of my last name from her lands differently than when Jax says it, softer, like an inside joke instead of a challenge. I flip to my unknown number thread. Nothing new. No sponsor on file. Still, I thumb over to Cole's chat instead. His last message from last night glows up at me.

*Cole, you handled chaos well today. Most people freeze. You didn't.*

My stomach flutters. I lock the screen and force myself to look out the window before I do something ridiculous like send him a selfie of my breakfast.

By the time I hit the atrium, campus already knows about the falling rig. Rumors buzz like flies. "Heard it almost split his shoulder open." "They had to glue him back together." "Some girl from media stepped in."

Tessa intercepts me near the stairs. Coffee in one hand, bag in the other. "There she is," she crows. "Our emergency goblin extraordinaire."

"Oh no," I say. "What did you do?"

She flashes her phone. There's a screenshot of a campus group chat with my handle tagged.

*@Tessa. Shout out to @nitava for not letting our events dude bleed out on stage.*

Nail polish under it. A string of reactions, heart emojis, clapping, a GIF of someone fainting.

"I didn't do anything heroic," I say. "I just carried a medkit and held pressure and didn't puke."

"Tessa says, "Do not underestimate your lack of puking." "How's your shoulder?"

"Bruised," I say. "Hers is fine." She squints. "You slept okay."

"Define okay," I say. Her eyes gleam. "You and Sasha disappeared together."

"She slept at my place," I say. "We watched dramas and ate cookies. Calm down."

"Uh-huh," she says, "did you, too?"

"Hi, Tessa," a voice cuts in smoothly. "Raise." I turn. Cole stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, bandage visible where his t-shirt sleeve doesn't quite hide it. He looks less pale than yesterday, more composed. But a tightness lingers around his eyes. Up close, the bruise is worse. Ugly purple-yellow spilling out from beneath the white gauze. My stomach tightens in sympathy.

"Hey," I say. "You're upright."

"Told you I wasn't going to pass out," he says.

"You almost got crushed by lighting," Tessa says cheerfully. "How's your brain, events god?"

"Intact," he says. "Mostly. You should see the other guy."

"The other guy was a piece of metal," I say.

"Exactly," he says. Tessa scans the air, senses the shift, and smiles like a cat. "I have to go make photocopies," she lies. "You two talk about whatever responsible people talk about, safety protocols and fonts." She vanishes.

Cole turns his attention fully to me. "Everyone's talking about you," he says. "You know that, right?"

"I noticed," I say. "I didn't do anything fancy."

"You were calm," he says. "That's not nothing."

"I was trying not to throw up," I say truthfully. "And not freak out about the blood." His gaze sharpens. "You afraid of blood?"

I force a casual shrug. "I don't love it in that amount on someone's arm when I'm not expecting it." He studies me for a second as if he's trying to line up this answer with whatever he saw in my face yesterday. "What do you do?" he asks. "To stay steady? I mean, most people's first instinct is to scream and freeze."

"My dad's a prepper," I say. "Not in the bunker way, in the 'we're going to practice earthquake drills in the kitchen' way. I've been doing emergency scenarios since I was like eight. It stuck."

"And you," I add, "you moved like you'd done that a hundred times."

"Hadn't," he says. "I've seen stuff fall before. Theater is chaos. But that was the first time a bar came loose like that in a rehearsal. I just knew if I didn't move, it would hit her."

"That's kind of the definition of heroism," I say.

He shakes his head. "Not heroism. Training," he says. "You do the reps so when something goes wrong, your body moves before your brain can panic." Something about the way he says training makes my skin prickle.

"You box or something?" I ask.

"Something," he says, evasive. I file that away. He glances at the clock over the atrium doors.

"You have class in 20," I say.

"Walk with me?" he asks. "Just to the quad. I owe you at least that for playing nurse."

"I didn't play nurse," I say. "I was more like Medkit Butler."

"Then let me buy you coffee, Medkit Butler," he says. I hesitate, thinking about Jax, about alleyways and jealousy and last week's kiss. Then I think about Cole's arm under my hands yesterday, blood and gauze and his steady voice, and about the part of me that is maybe very tired of choosing based on who might get mad.

"Okay," I say. "One coffee and I'm paying you back when my financial aid comes through."

"We'll fight about it," he says. We head toward the coffee cart. People glance our way, some openly, some out of the corners of their eyes. The rumor mill is apparently alive and well.

"So," he says, "media, right? What do you want to do with it?"

"Eternal fame," I say. "World domination. Also maybe documentaries." He huffs a laugh. "In that order?"

"Depends on the day," I say. "I like telling stories. I like taking chaos and cutting it into something that makes sense."

"You live in the right building, then," he says. "Student life is one long montage waiting to happen. What about you?" I ask. "What makes a person look at a lighting rig and go? 'Yes, this is my destiny. I will spend my life wrangling cables and yelling about safety clips.'"

He considers. "I like making sure things don't fall on people," he says. "And I like putting on shows that look effortless when I know exactly how much effort went into them."

"So, you like control," I say lightly.

He gives me a sideways look. "Don't you?" My mind flashes to redwood doors, to texts from unknown numbers, to fangs itching on my gums and alleys.

"Sometimes," I say at the cart. I start to pull out my wallet. He stops me with a look. "I said I was buying," he says. "Don't ruin my generous moment."

"I can ruin it later," I say. "Caramel iced, please." He orders, pays, ignores my glare. We move aside to wait for our drinks.

"Ava," someone calls from behind us. "You're cheating on our coffee debt." I close my eyes briefly. Jax, of course. He arrives in a rush of energy, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair shoved back, eyes skipping from my face to Cole's and back. "Wow," he says. "I leave you-"

Unsupervised for one morning, and you defect to team safety." Cole's expression doesn't change much, but his jaw flexes. "Morning, Jax."

Cole, Jack says, "Should you even be out of your bubble wrap?"

"I'm fine," Cole says evenly.

"You almost got impaled," Jack says. "Not fine. And mostly fine at best. I appreciate your expertise," Cole says. "Considering you were nowhere near the rig."

"I was working on a different stage," Jax shoots back. "Some of us have multiple gigs."

Their words are light, but the air between them crackles. The barista sets our drinks on the counter. Cole reaches for them.

"So," Jack says, leaning on the cart. "You stealing all of Ava's hero points now, buying her coffee and giving her emotional growth exercises?"

Cole's hand stills on the cup. "She was there," he says. "She stepped up. I'm thanking her."

"Yeah, but you get she's not a project, right?" Jack says. "You don't get to collect her like another rig to fix."

My spine stiffens. "I'm right here," I say.

Cole's eyes flick to mine, then back to Jack's. "I don't treat people like projects," he says quietly. "Maybe that's more your style."

"Oh, that's rich," Jack snaps. "Coming from the guy who organizes entire personality traits into spreadsheets."

"At least I don't treat feelings like optional plugins," Cole says.

The words land like a slap. Jax's face shudders. For a second, I see something raw there. People at nearby tables are definitely watching now, pretending not to.

"Nope," I say.

Both of them look at me. "Absolutely not," I say. "We're not doing this in front of the coffee cart like some kind of low-budget reality show."

"Ava," Jack starts.

"You're both being idiots," I say louder than I intend. "He is not my keeper, and you don't get to act like my jealousy bodyguard because you realize too late that actions have consequences."

Jax flinches. "And you?" I say to Cole. "Don't get to make judgments about feelings you weren't there to witness. You've known me for 5 minutes. Don't turn me into a tug-of-war rope."

Cole looks genuinely taken aback. "That's not—"

"I owe you both exactly nothing right now," I say, heart pounding. "Except this: grow up."

Silence hits like a wave. I grab my coffee off the counter, ignoring both their faces, and walk away. No one follows.

By the time I hit the quad, my hands are shaking. I find a patch of shade under a tree and sit, putting the cup down before I spill it. "That was intense," I mutter to myself.

"You think?"

I jump. Sasha drops down onto the grass beside me, cross-legged, expression somewhere between impressed and concerned. "Please tell me you didn't see that," I groan.

"I saw the part where you told them to grow up," she says. "It was spectacular."

I cover my face. "I didn't mean to do that in public."

"I mean, maybe don't fight in front of the barista," she says. "But they needed to hear it."

I peek at her through my fingers. "You're not going to tell me I should have picked a side."

She snorts. "You did. You picked your own."

Something in me unwinds at that. "I just got so mad," I say, like I'd gone from human being to prize to be won or, worse, homework assignment.

"You're not prize or homework," she says. "You're midterms."

I blink. "That sounds worse."

"You're essential," she says. "And you make people sweat, and if they half-ass you, they fail."

I laugh, startled. "That's the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten."

"You love it," she says.

I do, a little. We sit there for a minute, letting my adrenaline ebb. The campus hums around us like always, students moving in loose currents, the smell of coffee and grass and printer ink.

"How are you?" I ask, glancing at her.

"After last night, full of cookies," she says, then quieter. "Good. For the first time in a while."

Relief uncurls in my chest. "Me too," I say.

"And before you spiral," she adds, "Yes, I saw you talking to Cole. No, I'm not going to start keeping score. You're allowed to talk to people, even stupid boys. Even less stupid boys."

"Cole's not stupid," I say.

"I know," she says. "That's almost worse."

"You're terrifying," I tell her.

"Thank you," she says.

Afternoon classes are mercifully boring. I hide in notetaking, in the scratch of pen on paper, in the comfort of theory. The only real excitement is a campus-wide email from facilities about an unexpected equipment malfunction during last night's rehearsal and a temporary safety audit of all rigging.

At the 2:00 mark, I feel the now familiar tug of bodies peeling away toward the redwoods. I'm in the wrong building to see them this time, but the energy shift ripples through the hallways anyway. A thinning of the crowd. A change in the air.

My phone buzzes. Unknown. "Orientation lists finalized. Status: ineligible. Sponsor required." Heat flares in my chest. I duck into an empty stairwell and stare at the screen.

"Okay," I whisper. "You know what? No." I type back before I can overthink it. "Me? Stop texting me. Ineligible, like I'm a broken vending machine."

Me: If you want me in your program, tell me how to get a sponsor. If you don't, stop dangling it.

The message sits there for a long second as delivered. No dots appear. No reply. "Cowards," I mutter, shoving my phone away.

After classes, I hide in the library. I shoot a quick text to my parents, letting them know I'm studying a bit late. Mom gifts me a thumbs up and a reminder to eat something. Dad texts a knife emoji and "stab your homework."

By 6:00, my brain is fried. I pack up and head toward the bus stop. Near the atrium, someone falls into step beside me.

"I deserve that," Jack says, hands in his pockets. I don't pretend not to know who he is.

"Which part?" I ask.

"Most of it," he says. "Coffee cart smackdown was not my proudest moment."

"No," I say. "It was."

He's quiet for a beat. "I'm sorry," he says. "I was being an ass."

"You were being jealous," I say, "and trying to make it my problem."

He winces. "Yeah," he says. "That, too."

We keep walking. The sky is streaked over the buildings. "I don't know what I'm doing," he says finally. "With you. I keep wanting to be around you and then tripping over my own arrogance."

"That's a very poetic way of saying you kissed me and then kissed someone else 3 hours later," I say.

He flinches again. "I know," he says. "You have every right to be mad. I wasn't thinking about how it would land. That's not an excuse. It's just the truth. I don't want to be one of many."

"I say quiet. I don't care how chill you think everyone is. I'm not built for that."

"I know that now," he says. "Bunny yelled at me about it, too."

Good," I say.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. "I'm not asking you to forgive me," he says. "Or two, whatever, like me again. I just don't want you to think I was messing with you on purpose. You matter. That kiss mattered. I'm just bad at doing one thing at a time."

We reach the doors. The air outside is cooler, the light softer. "I believe you didn't mean to hurt me," I say. "That doesn't erase that you did."

"I know," he says.

We step out onto the path. "I'm trying to be less of a walking red flag," he adds. "It's slower work than I thought."

"It always is," I say.

He looks at me. There's no expectation in his eyes this time. No dare. Just a kind of tired hope. "I still want to be your friend," he says. "If you'll let me. Just friend. No flirting, no coffee debts, no panthers for now."

I think of Sasha's handshake friends this morning, of Bunny's brutal honesty. Of Cole's steady, "You did good at the clinic."

"You get one shot," I say. "One. You screw it up, I'm blocking your number and telling Tessa to shame you in group chat."

A real smile breaks over his face. Quick and bright. "Deal," he says. "I'll even behave at the coffee cart next time."

"I'd pay money to see that," I say.

He laughs. "I'm taking the bus," I say. "You going that way?"

"Nah," he says. "I've got a shift in the studio. Go text me when you get home as a friend," he adds quickly.

"We'll see," I say, but there's less bite to it. He salutes and peels off toward the arts building.

At home, Mom is on the couch. Drama paused, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Dad's at the table, highlighting something in an article with intense concentration.

"You're on time," he says. "Good. Proud of you for not getting maimed today," Mom says.

"Yet," I say, dropping my bag. "There's still tomorrow."

Dad grunts. "Any more falling equipment?"

"Facilities sent an email," I say. "They're auditing everything. Cole got glued together. He's on light duty."

"Light duty?" Dad says, like it's a pun he doesn't quite approve of.

"He was very impressed with your emergency prep obsession," I add.

Dad perks up. "Was he? Smart man."

Mom smiles. "You like this one, huh?"

"He's decent," I say, feeling my face heat. "And careful. And doesn't kiss random people in hallways."

"That's a low bar," Dad says. "But we'll take it."

Later in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed and open my camera. "Today," I say into the lens, "I told two boys to grow up while standing in front of a coffee cart. 10 out of 10 do not recommend as a regular activity, but also I don't regret it."

I twist a strand of hair around my finger. "I'm tired of feeling like I should be grateful for attention," I say. "I'm tired of being the prize. I'm a person, not an extra credit assignment."

I think of Sasha's hand in mine, of her apology and her acceptance, of Jax's earnest "I'm trying," of Cole's careful questions.

"I also realized," I add, "that people are allowed to exist in my life in pieces. I don't have to pick one person and stick with them forever on day five. I can have a friend who once kissed me and hurt me. I can have a girl who makes my chest feel weird and safe at the same time. I can have a guy who almost got crushed by a light and still worries about safety clips."

I smile small. "And I can still be me in the middle," I say. "Even if the night track thinks I'm ineligible for now, they don't get the final vote on who I'm allowed to become."

I save the video. My phone buzzes almost immediately after. Unknown. "Noted." I blink. "That's it? Just noted?" I type "who are you?" Then delete it. Instead, I send "Me: Good. Keep watching." No reply. But somewhere on campus, under trees I can't see from here, a door hums quietly. And for the first time since this started, I feel less like I'm begging to be let in and more like I'm walking toward it on my own terms.

She yanks out her phone and shows me a meme in the group chat. Me drawn as a chibi with a giant coffee cup as a shield. Two stick figures behind me labeled chaos and safety. "My legacy," I say. "Internet graffiti."

"People respect you," she says. "Also, they're terrified, which is good. Fear keeps the stupid down."

"Please stop talking before I start believing you," I say.

"Too late," she chirps. "Come on, goblin. Harlo will fry us if we're late." We start up the stairs. Halfway, Jax appears at the top like he's been waiting. He raises his hands in surrender. "Before you say anything, I'm on my best behavior," he says. "Scouts honor."

"You were probably never a scout," I say.

"Correct," he says. "But if I had been, they would have loved me." He falls into step on my other side, leaving me in the middle like some kind of human buffer.

"Morning rays," he says.

"Morning," I say cautiously.

"Just friend morning," he adds quickly. "No ulterior motives. I even brought this." He digs in his bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It's a revised version of his ridiculous campus map. Same doodled buildings, but the panther in the corner has been replaced by a tiny cartoon. Me holding a camera at the top in messy block letters. R E Y S R O U T Safe paths less weird S D A R S.

Despite myself, I smile. "You redid it."

"I added your usual haunt spots," he says. "Library goblins, the vending machines with the good chips, the shady bench you like near the quad, and I marked the alley as absolutely not tiny idiot. In case you forget, there's a little skull doodle over the alley entrance with tiny no arrows."

"Wow," I say. "Caring via cartoon. That's new."

"It's my growth arc," he says. "I told you I'm trying."

Tessa leans over my shoulder. "Oh my god," she says. "That's so cute. I want to vomit."

"Thank you for the feedback," Jack says unbothered. I fold the map and tuck it into my notebook. "It's useful," I say. "Thank you." He beams, but doesn't push it. No sly comments, no leaning too close. Just a quick salute before he veers toward his own classroom. Tessa watches him go, then whistles low. "You have that boy on a leash," she says. "Impressive."

"I don't have anyone on a leash," I say. "We made a deal. He gets one shot at being my friend. I'm giving him that."

"You're nicer than me," she says.

"Debatable," I say.

Media theory is almost soothing. Harlo lectures about narrative framing. I take notes, underline phrases. Sasha sits next to me, near a calm presence against mine under the table. We're fine, confused, but fine. After class, she waits while I stuff my notebook away.

"How's your disaster meter now?" she asks.

"Hovering around a six," I say. "The coffee cart rerun was unpleasant."

"I thought you did great," she says. "Nobody died. No coffee was spilled. You set boundaries. That's a win."

"Very low bar," I say. "Hey, we're still early in the semester."

"We can raise it later," she says.

We push out into the hallway together. Cole is waiting near the door. He's leaning against the wall, arms folded carefully so he doesn't jostle his bandaged shoulder. When he sees me, he straightens.

"Raise," he says.

"Sasha," "Safety guy," Sasha replies. He nods at her, accepting the nickname without comment, then looks at me. "Do you have a few minutes?" he asks. "I wanted to talk about something before my next meeting."

"Depends," I say. "Is it about falling metal or bad fonts?"

"Both, actually," he says. "We're redoing some layout for the event program, and I could use someone who actually knows how people read things online." He glances at Sasha. "If that's okay?"

Sasha looks between us, amusement and something sharper in her eyes. "I have lab," she says. "Go be useful, raise. I'll catch you at lunch." She squeezes my elbow as she passes and disappears into the crowd.

Cole pushes off the wall this way. We walk down the hallway toward a little side lounge with couches and low tables. It's quieter here, mostly empty. He drops into one corner of a couch, pulling a folder from his bag. I sit at the other end. He angles toward me, leaving space, but close enough that I can see the faint smudge of ink on his fingers.

"I didn't want to ambush you at the cart again," he says. "Or make your friends feel like I'm stealing you."

"Appreciated," I say. "The barista was probably ready to ban me."

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "For what it's worth, I didn't mean to turn that into a pissing contest."

"I know," I say. "You just poked a bruise."

He nods once, accepting that. He lays the program mock-ups on the table between us. "The student life office wants something dynamic and engaging," he says, making air quotes, "but also professional and donor friendly, which is code for please do the impossible and make everyone happy."

"So, they hired a miracle worker," I say.

He snorts. "They hired whoever would say yes. I'm just trying not to make anyone's grandma faint."

We lean over the pages together. He has good instincts, clean lines, clear sections, but some of the layouts are cluttered.

"You're cramming too much text into this panel," I say, tapping one. "People will glaze over. You need more white space."

"I like efficiency," he says. "I like people actually reading things," I counter.

We tweak headlines, shift boxes, add a QR code here and there. At one point, our hands reach for the same page. His fingers brush my knuckles. Heat sparks up my arm. He doesn't jerk away. He also doesn't make a joke. He just leaves his hand there for a beat, warm and steady, before shifting the page toward me.

"What about this part?" he asks, voice a little softer.

We talk about attention spans and placements and how long people will stand in line for free snacks. It's easy, comfortable, different from the banter with Jax. Less chaotic, more focused.

"You're very calm," he says at one point, studying the mockup. "Even when you're telling me I'm wrong."

"You're very convinced you're right," I say. "Even when you are."

His mouth curves. "Occupational hazard."

An alert flashes on his phone on the table. Just a quick vibration, screen lighting up with a calendar notification. He glances at it, face shuttering for half a second, then hits dismiss.

"Busy?" I ask.

"Always," he says. "But this is important, too." There's a tiny beat on the word "this" that my pulse notices before my brain does. I clear my throat.

"You said yesterday you train for emergencies," I say. "What does that mean?"

"Besides having Poppy on speed dial," he leans back thinking. "I grew up in a family where chaos is the default," he says. "We do a lot of physical stuff, drills, sparring, staying aware of exits, that kind of thing."

"Sounds intense."

"It is," he says. "It's also normal for us. I like the feeling of being ready even if nothing goes wrong."

A tiny piece clicks in my head. His easy reaction to the falling rig. The way he looked at the redwoods that day. I followed the students, the hinted something when I asked if he boxed.

"You ever get tired of being the one who has to be ready?" I ask quietly.

He looks at me, surprised by the question. Then slowly he shakes his head. "Tired? Sure," he says, "but not of being ready. If something's going to fall, I'd rather be under it than someone who doesn't know what to do."

That lands in a place I don't usually let people see. The part that is sat between my parents during fights, between friends online when drama blew up, between monsters and alleys. I swallow.

"Yeah," I say. "I get that."

He watches my face. I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting. "You're more than you look," he says. "It's not a line. It's an observation. Most people see influencer and think shallow. You're not."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Don't tell Instagram that," I say. "They'll revoke my filter privileges."

He smiles, small but real. His phone buzzes again. This time, he checks it and winces. "I have to go," he says, "now."

"Oh," I say. "That's okay."

"This isn't about you," he says quickly, as if he can see the spiral forming in my head. "Something came up. I just can't ignore it."

"Secret double life," I say, trying to make it light.

"Something like that," he says. He hesitates, then reaches out and touches my forearm. Brief but grounding. "I'm not playing with you," he says. The words are blunt, like they cost him something. "I don't start things I don't intend to finish."

My pulse stutters. "I didn't say you were," I say.

"You didn't have to," he replies. "I know what it looked like with the coffee with Jax. I'm not him."

I think about Jax in the hallway, about Bunny's bruised jaw, about coffee cart sniping and apologies. I think about Sasha in my bed, warm and solid and full of sharp honesty.

"I know," I say softly. "You're you. That's confusing enough."

A corner of his mouth lifts. "I'll text you," he says, "when I'm not whatever this is."

"Don't get crushed by anything," I say.

"No promises," he says. He grabs his bag and heads for the door. Just before he steps out, he glances back. There's a hundred unsaid things in that look. Then he's gone.

The bus ride home is a blur of street lights and reflections. I leaned my forehead against the glass and let my brain replay the almost-kiss on loop. The way he looked at me, the way I leaned in without meaning to. The way my stomach did that horrible, wonderful drop. The way I didn't want to pull back.

My phone buzzes. Sasha: Home. Me: Bus. Sasha: You good? Me: Tell me about it. Sasha: You good? I stare at the question. Am I me? I almost kissed Cole in a media lab. Might explode. Three dots, then. Sasha: Okay. How do you feel? Me: AB that. No jokes. I take a breath. Me: Like my stomach is on a roller coaster. Like I want it and like I might throw up. Sasha: Honest. Me: Good. Do you want it to happen? Sasha: Me? Yeah, I think so. Me: A long pause. Sasha: Then that's the answer. You don't owe me anything you didn't promise. Just don't lie to me. Me: Okay. My throat tightens. Me: I won't promise. Sasha: Then we're fine. And I'm allowed to hate his perfect eyebrows in peace. Me: Fair.

At home, Mom's watching a crime show. Dad scrolling on his phone. "You're quiet," Mom says as I dump my bag on a chair.

"I almost kissed someone in a media lab," I blurt.

Dad chokes on his drink. Mom blinks. "Not the way I expected that sentence to go," she says. "Which one?"

"Cole," I say, staring very hard at my socks.

Dad groans. "Of course," he mutters. "Safety guy."

"Did you actually kiss him?" Mom asks gently.

"No," I say. "His phone stopped us. The universe has jokes."

"How did that feel?" she asks.

I shrug, then laugh because there's no shrug big enough. "Terrifying," I say, "and like maybe my feelings are 15 different colors and none of them match."

She pats the couch. "Sit." I flop down beside her. Dad watches like he's observing a rare animal.

"You know you're allowed to be confused, right?" Mom says. "About all of it. Boys, girls, what you want, what you thought you wanted."

"I feel like I'm leading everyone on," I say quietly. "Jax, Sasha, now Cole. I don't want to be that person."

"What are you actually promising them?" she asks.

"I think that I'll be honest," I say. "That I'm trying, that I won't pretend I feel something I don't."

"Then you're doing okay," she says. "Messy, but okay."

Dad nods reluctantly. "Just don't let any of them decide who you are for you," he says. "You're not a prize to be won."

"I know," I say. "I told them that, actually."

He looks proud and horrified at the same time. "You yelled at them, didn't you?"

"At a coffee cart," I admit.

He sighs. "At least you're consistent."

Later in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed with my ring light dimmed and my phone propped on a stack of books. "Tonight," I tell the camera, "I almost kissed someone who makes me feel safe and seen and like I'm being quietly graded on my life choices." I laugh softly. "And I'm also kind of in something with a girl who makes my chest feel calm and my brain shut up when she holds me," I say. "And I have a flirty idiot trying very hard to be a better person in my peripheral vision."

I tilt my head. "I used to think I had to pick one box," I say. "One label, one type, one story. Now I'm realizing I'm more collage." And that scares me less than it used to. I think of the redwoods, of the door humming under my thoughts. "And somewhere out there, there's a whole other world that keeps telling me ineligible," I add. "But today, I watched it swallow people I care about, and I'm done waiting for it to decide I'm worthy. I'm going to find my own way in, sponsor or not."

I save the video. My phone buzzes. Unknown. "Progress noted. Access paths remain restricted. Sponsor still required." I stare at the words. My thumbs move. Me: Then maybe I'll stop asking permission. Me: And you can tell your bosses they're underestimating a girl who walks between worlds on her own already.

For a long moment, nothing. Then Unknown: Reckless. Unknown: Appropriate. My skin prickles. I put the phone down, turn off the light, and lie back. In a media lab, a boy with a bandaged shoulder is probably staring at his own screen, thinking about a girl who told him he's not like the others. In a tiny apartment across town, a girl with sharp eyes and a soft heart is scrolling her messages, giving me space and still holding a corner of my chaos. In a dorm, a flirty idiot is probably doodling panthers and trying not to text me. And in the woods beyond campus, the door waits. I'm not in yet, but for the first time, that feels like a challenge instead of a verdict.

I wake up with my face buried in my pillow and my phone vibrating somewhere under it. For a second, I think it's Sasha again, her arm around my waist, her breath warm against my neck. It's just cotton in my own messy hair. Right. She went home last night. We texted. We're something.

My phone buzzes again. I fish it out, squinting at the screen. Tessa: Arise, goblin. We must spin yesterday's chaos into clout. I snort. Text back: Give me coffee first. Sasha's chat is just above it. Sasha: Got home. Aunt says thank you again. Sleep. We'll figure out labels. Me: Never. Sasha: Deal. No unread messages from Jax. None from Cole. None from the unknown number. That last one makes something in my chest unclench. And tighten at the same time.

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Yeah," I shout back. I drag myself out of bed, pull on jeans and a hoodie, and tie my hair into something that might pass as intentional.

In the kitchen, Dad has claimed his usual corner, mug in hand, paper folded. Mom's at the stove making scrambled eggs. "You look awake," she says. "Progress."

"I had practice," I say, dropping into a chair. "Sasha's a good influence."

Dad glances up. "Door ninja stayed over again."

"Just the once," I say. "You saw her."

"She survived your interrogation," he grunts. "She's polite. I approve."

Mom smiles. "She's a sweetheart. You two seemed close."

I stab my eggs. "She's a good friend," I say. "It's nice having someone who gets the same classes and doesn't think I'm weird for filming in public."

Dad raises a brow. "And the boys."

"Why?" I ask.

"Are we like this?" "Because the boys are the ones most likely to drive you stupid," he says.

Mom gives him a look. "Not always," she says lightly.

I take a breath. Time to rip off that bandage. "Jax and I are friends," I say. "I told him no more flirting. No more coffee debts. He agreed. We'll see."

"Good," Dad says, like I just told him I decided not to juggle knives. "He's charming. I don't trust Charming."

"Charming saved a girl from getting mauled behind a coffee shop," I remind him.

"And I'm grateful," he says. "He can still be charming and irresponsible. Both things can be true."

I say quietly. Mom eyes me. "And the other one," she asks, "Cole."

My fork pauses. "He's the events guy," I say carefully. "He almost got flattened by a light bar. I helped with the med kit. He texted. Thank you."

"That's it?" "That's not it," Dad says.

"Carlos," Mom warns.

"What?" "He says she's blushing."

"I'm not blushing," I insist. Cheeks heating. He just shrugs. "Just remember," he says. "Crushes are like fire drills. Practice, but don't assume every alarm is the big one."

"That was almost wise," I say.

He looks pleased with himself. "I have my moments."

I finish my breakfast, grab my bag, kiss Mom's cheek and Dad's head, and head out to catch my bus. The morning air on campus has that just-washed smell, wet grass, coffee, the faint ozone tang of electronics booting up. The atrium buzz hits as soon as I walk in. Students orbiting tables, flyers multiplying on the walls overnight. Tessa pounces before I make it to the stairs.

"There she is," she announces, looping her arm through mine. "The girl who yelled at two hot idiots in public and lived to tell the tale."

"Oh my god," I groan. "It wasn't that dramatic."

"There was a coffee cart," she says. "It was cinematic." She yanks out her phone and shows me a meme in the group chat. Me drawn as a chibi with a giant coffee cup as a shield. Two stick figures behind me labeled chaos and safety. "My legacy," I say. "Internet graffiti."

"People respect you," she says. "Also, they're terrified, which is good. Fear keeps the stupid down."

"Please stop talking before I start believing you," I say.

"You were probably never a scout," I say.

"Correct," he says. "But if I had been, they would have loved me." He falls into step on my other side, leaving me in the middle like some kind of human buffer.

"Morning rays," he says.

"Morning," I say cautiously.

Despite myself, I smile. "You redid it."

"Wow," I say. "Caring via cartoon. That's new."

"It's my growth arc," he says. "I told you I'm trying."

Tessa leans over my shoulder. "Oh my god," she says. "That's so cute. I want to vomit."

"I don't have anyone on a leash," I say. "We made a deal. He gets one shot at being my friend. I'm giving him that."

"You're nicer than me," she says.

"Debatable," I say.

"How's your disaster meter now?" she asks.

"Hovering around a six," I say. "The coffee cart rerun was unpleasant."

"I thought you did great," she says. "Nobody died. No coffee was spilled. You set boundaries. That's a win."

"Very low bar," I say. "Hey, we're still early in the semester."

"We can raise it later," she says.

We push out into the hallway together. Cole is waiting near the door. He's leaning against the wall, arms folded carefully so he doesn't jostle his bandaged shoulder. When he sees me, he straightens.

"Raise," he says.

"Depends," I say. "Is it about falling metal or bad fonts?"

"Both, actually," he says. "We're redoing some layout for the event program, and I could use someone who actually knows how people read things online." He glances at Sasha. "If that's okay?"

"I didn't want to ambush you at the cart again," he says. "Or make your friends feel like I'm stealing you."

"Appreciated," I say. "The barista was probably ready to ban me."

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "For what it's worth, I didn't mean to turn that into a pissing contest."

"I know," I say. "You just poked a bruise."

"So, they hired a miracle worker," I say.

He snorts. "They hired whoever would say yes. I'm just trying not to make anyone's grandma faint."

We lean over the pages together. He has good instincts, clean lines, clear sections, but some of the layouts are cluttered.

"You're cramming too much text into this panel," I say, tapping one. "People will glaze over. You need more white space."

"I like efficiency," he says. "I like people actually reading things," I counter.

"What about this part?" he asks, voice a little softer.

We talk about attention spans and placements and how long people will stand in line for free snacks. It's easy, comfortable, different from the banter with Jax. Less chaotic, more focused.

"You're very calm," he says at one point, studying the mockup. "Even when you're telling me I'm wrong."

"You're very convinced you're right," I say. "Even when you are."

His mouth curves. "Occupational hazard."

An alert flashes on his phone on the table. Just a quick vibration, screen lighting up with a calendar notification. He glances at it, face shuttering for half a second, then hits dismiss.

"Busy?" I ask.

"Always," he says. "But this is important, too." There's a tiny beat on the word "this" that my pulse notices before my brain does. I clear my throat.

"You said yesterday you train for emergencies," I say. "What does that mean?"

"Sounds intense."

"It is," he says. "It's also normal for us. I like the feeling of being ready even if nothing goes wrong."

A tiny piece clicks in my head. His easy reaction to the falling rig. The way he looked at the redwoods that day. I followed the students, the hinted something when I asked if he boxed.

"You ever get tired of being the one who has to be ready?" I ask quietly.

That lands in a place I don't usually let people see. The part that is sat between my parents during fights, between friends online when drama blew up, between monsters and alleys. I swallow.

"Yeah," I say. "I get that."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Don't tell Instagram that," I say. "They'll revoke my filter privileges."

He smiles, small but real. His phone buzzes again. This time, he checks it and winces. "I have to go," he says, "now."

"Oh," I say. "That's okay."

"This isn't about you," he says quickly, as if he can see the spiral forming in my head. "Something came up. I just can't ignore it."

"Secret double life," I say, trying to make it light.

My pulse stutters. "I didn't say you were," I say.

"You didn't have to," he replies. "I know what it looked like with the coffee with Jax. I'm not him."

I think about Jax in the hallway, about Bunny's bruised jaw, about coffee cart sniping and apologies. I think about Sasha in my bed, warm and solid and full of sharp honesty.

"I know," I say softly. "You're you. That's confusing enough."

A corner of his mouth lifts. "I'll text you," he says, "when I'm not whatever this is."

"Don't get crushed by anything," I say.

"No promises," he says. He grabs his bag and heads for the door. Just before he steps out, he glances back. There's a hundred unsaid things in that look. Then he's gone.

At home, Mom's watching a crime show. Dad scrolling on his phone. "You're quiet," Mom says as I dump my bag on a chair.

"I almost kissed someone in a media lab," I blurt.

Dad chokes on his drink. Mom blinks. "Not the way I expected that sentence to go," she says. "Which one?"

"Cole," I say, staring very hard at my socks.

Dad groans. "Of course," he mutters. "Safety guy."

"Did you actually kiss him?" Mom asks gently.

"No," I say. "His phone stopped us. The universe has jokes."

"How did that feel?" she asks.

I shrug, then laugh because there's no shrug big enough. "Terrifying," I say, "and like maybe my feelings are 15 different colors and none of them match."

She pats the couch. "Sit." I flop down beside her. Dad watches like he's observing a rare animal.

"You know you're allowed to be confused, right?" Mom says. "About all of it. Boys, girls, what you want, what you thought you wanted."

"I feel like I'm leading everyone on," I say quietly. "Jax, Sasha, now Cole. I don't want to be that person."

"What are you actually promising them?" she asks.

"I think that I'll be honest," I say. "That I'm trying, that I won't pretend I feel something I don't."

"Then you're doing okay," she says. "Messy, but okay."

Dad nods reluctantly. "Just don't let any of them decide who you are for you," he says. "You're not a prize to be won."

"I know," I say. "I told them that, actually."

He looks proud and horrified at the same time. "You yelled at them, didn't you?"

"At a coffee cart," I admit.

He sighs. "At least you're consistent."

"Ava," Mom calls from the kitchen. "You up?"

"Yeah," I shout back. I drag myself out of bed, pull on jeans and a hoodie, and tie my hair into something that might pass as intentional.

In the kitchen, Dad has claimed his usual corner, mug in hand, paper folded. Mom's at the stove making scrambled eggs. "You look awake," she says. "Progress."

"I had practice," I say, dropping into a chair. "Sasha's a good influence."

Dad glances up. "Door ninja stayed over again."

"Just the once," I say. "You saw her."

"She survived your interrogation," he grunts. "She's polite. I approve."

Mom smiles. "She's a sweetheart. You two seemed close."

I stab my eggs. "She's a good friend," I say. "It's nice having someone who gets the same classes and doesn't think I'm weird for filming in public."

Dad raises a brow. "And the boys."

"Why?" I ask.

"Are we like this?" "Because the boys are the ones most likely to drive you stupid," he says.

Mom gives him a look. "Not always," she says lightly.

I take a breath. Time to rip off that bandage. "Jax and I are friends," I say. "I told him no more flirting. No more coffee debts. He agreed. We'll see."

"Good," Dad says, like I just told him I decided not to juggle knives. "He's charming. I don't trust Charming."

"Charming saved a girl from getting mauled behind a coffee shop," I remind him.

"And I'm grateful," he says. "He can still be charming and irresponsible. Both things can be true."

I say quietly. Mom eyes me. "And the other one," she asks, "Cole."

My fork pauses. "He's the events guy," I say carefully. "He almost got flattened by a light bar. I helped with the med kit. He texted. Thank you."

"That's it?" "That's not it," Dad says.

"Carlos," Mom warns.

"What?" "He says she's blushing."

"I'm not blushing," I insist. Cheeks heating. He just shrugs. "Just remember," he says. "Crushes are like fire drills. Practice, but don't assume every alarm is the big one."

"That was almost wise," I say.

He looks pleased with himself. "I have my moments."

"There she is," she announces, looping her arm through mine. "The girl who yelled at two hot idiots in public and lived to tell the tale."

"Oh my god," I groan. "It wasn't that dramatic."

"People respect you," she says. "Also, they're terrified, which is good. Fear keeps the stupid down."

"Please stop talking before I start believing you," I say.

"You were probably never a scout," I say.

"Correct," he says. "But if I had been, they would have loved me." He falls into step on my other side, leaving me in the middle like some kind of human buffer.

"Morning rays," he says.

"Morning," I say cautiously.

Despite myself, I smile. "You redid it."

"Wow," I say. "Caring via cartoon. That's new."

"It's my growth arc," he says. "I told you I'm trying."

Tessa leans over my shoulder. "Oh my god," she says. "That's so cute. I want to vomit."

"I don't have anyone on a leash," I say. "We made a deal. He gets one shot at being my friend. I'm giving him that."

"You're nicer than me," she says.

"Debatable," I say.

"How's your disaster meter now?" she asks.

"Hovering around a six," I say. "The coffee cart rerun was unpleasant."

"I thought you did great," she says. "Nobody died. No coffee was spilled. You set boundaries. That's a win."

"Very low bar," I say. "Hey, we're still early in the semester."

"We can raise it later," she says.

We push out into the hallway together. Cole is waiting near the door. He's leaning against the wall, arms folded carefully so he doesn't jostle his bandaged shoulder. When he sees me, he straightens.

"Raise," he says.

"Depends," I say. "Is it about falling metal or bad fonts?"

"Both, actually," he says. "We're redoing some layout for the event program, and I could use someone who actually knows how people read things online." He glances at Sasha. "If that's okay?"

"I didn't want to ambush you at the cart again," he says. "Or make your friends feel like I'm stealing you."

"Appreciated," I say. "The barista was probably ready to ban me."

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "For what it's worth, I didn't mean to turn that into a pissing contest."

"I know," I say. "You just poked a bruise."

"So, they hired a miracle worker," I say.

He snorts. "They hired whoever would say yes. I'm just trying not to make anyone's grandma faint."

We lean over the pages together. He has good instincts, clean lines, clear sections, but some of the layouts are cluttered.

"You're cramming too much text into this panel," I say, tapping one. "People will glaze over. You need more white space."

"I like efficiency," he says. "I like people actually reading things," I counter.

"What about this part?" he asks, voice a little softer.

We talk about attention spans and placements and how long people will stand in line for free snacks. It's easy, comfortable, different from the banter with Jax. Less chaotic, more focused.

"You're very calm," he says at one point, studying the mockup. "Even when you're telling me I'm wrong."

"You're very convinced you're right," I say. "Even when you are."

His mouth curves. "Occupational hazard."

An alert flashes on his phone on the table. Just a quick vibration, screen lighting up with a calendar notification. He glances at it, face shuttering for half a second, then hits dismiss.

"Busy?" I ask.

"Always," he says. "But this is important, too." There's a tiny beat on the word "this" that my pulse notices before my brain does. I clear my throat.

"You said yesterday you train for emergencies," I say. "What does that mean?"

"Sounds intense."

"It is," he says. "It's also normal for us. I like the feeling of being ready even if nothing goes wrong."

A tiny piece clicks in my head. His easy reaction to the falling rig. The way he looked at the redwoods that day. I followed the students, the hinted something when I asked if he boxed.

"You ever get tired of being the one who has to be ready?" I ask quietly.

That lands in a place I don't usually let people see. The part that is sat between my parents during fights, between friends online when drama blew up, between monsters and alleys. I swallow.

"Yeah," I say. "I get that."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Don't tell Instagram that," I say. "They'll revoke my filter privileges."

He smiles, small but real. His phone buzzes again. This time, he checks it and winces. "I have to go," he says, "now."

"Oh," I say. "That's okay."

"This isn't about you," he says quickly, as if he can see the spiral forming in my head. "Something came up. I just can't ignore it."

"Secret double life," I say, trying to make it light.

My pulse stutters. "I didn't say you were," I say.

"You didn't have to," he replies. "I know what it looked like with the coffee with Jax. I'm not him."

I think about Jax in the hallway, about Bunny's bruised jaw, about coffee cart sniping and apologies. I think about Sasha in my bed, warm and solid and full of sharp honesty.

"I know," I say softly. "You're you. That's confusing enough."

A corner of his mouth lifts. "I'll text you," he says, "when I'm not whatever this is."

"Don't get crushed by anything," I say.

"No promises," he says. He grabs his bag and heads for the door. Just before he steps out, he glances back. There's a hundred unsaid things in that look. Then he's gone.

At home, Mom's watching a crime show. Dad scrolling on his phone. "You're quiet," Mom says as I dump my bag on a chair.

"I almost kissed someone in a media lab," I blurt.

Dad chokes on his drink. Mom blinks. "Not the way I expected that sentence to go," she says. "Which one?"

"Cole," I say, staring very hard at my socks.

Dad groans. "Of course," he mutters. "Safety guy."

"Did you actually kiss him?" Mom asks gently.

"No," I say. "His phone stopped us. The universe has jokes."

"How did that feel?" she asks.

I shrug, then laugh because there's no shrug big enough. "Terrifying," I say, "and like maybe my feelings are 15 different colors and none of them match."

She pats the couch. "Sit." I flop down beside her. Dad watches like he's observing a rare animal.

"You know you're allowed to be confused, right?" Mom says. "About all of it. Boys, girls, what you want, what you thought you wanted."

"I feel like I'm leading everyone on," I say quietly. "Jax, Sasha, now Cole. I don't want to be that person."

"What are you actually promising them?" she asks.

"I think that I'll be honest," I say. "That I'm trying, that I won't pretend I feel something I don't."

"Then you're doing okay," she says. "Messy, but okay."

Dad nods reluctantly. "Just don't let any of them decide who you are for you," he says. "You're not a prize to be won."

"I know," I say. "I told them that, actually."

He looks proud and horrified at the same time. "You yelled at them, didn't you?"

"At a coffee cart," I admit.

He sighs. "At least you're consistent."

creeps up my neck. Don't tell Instagram that. I say they'll revoke my filter privileges. He smiles, small but real. His phone buzzes again. This time he checks it and winces. "I have to go," he says. "We're doing a sight inspection out near the upper trails." My heart stutters. "Near the redwoods?" I ask too casually. "General area," he says. "There are some jurisdictional things we have to keep an eye on." Jurisdictional. Cute word for magic school in the woods. "I won't let you in. You always disappear around the same time," I say lightly. "Secret double life." He meets my gaze for a beat too long. "You could say that," he says. "I'll tell you more when I can. It's not nothing. It's also not enough." "Good luck with your sight inspecting," I say. "Don't walk under any unsecured rigs." "I make no promises," he says. "I say." He gathers his papers, stands, and hesitates like he wants to say something else, then just nods. "Thanks again," he says, "for your brain and your everything yesterday." "You're welcome," I say. He leaves, moving with that contained, purposeful stride. At the end of the hall, he checks his watch like he has somewhere very specific to be. I watch him go, a knot tightening under my ribs.

By lunch, the campus feels like a beehive. The rig incident has spawned a dozen new rumors. Everything from a ghost tugged the bar down to someone sabotaged it on purpose. Tessa, Sasha, Jax, and I grab a table under a tree. It feels weirdly like a little found family bubble. Chaos, quiet, intensity, and me. "Facilities is in a mood," Tessa says around a mouthful of fries. "They gave us a whole lecture about respecting equipment practices." "Maybe if they respected actual unions, their equipment wouldn't revolt," Jack says, popping a chip in his mouth. "You weren't even there," Sasha points out. "How do you know?" "Group chat," he says. "And Bunny, she sent a play-by-play with emojis." At the mention of her name, his face goes momentarily soft. Sasha catches it and lifts an eyebrow. "You talking to your ex now?" she asks. "Some of us can be on good terms with people we've kissed," he says. "It's wild." He glances at me, checking if he stepped on a landmine. I sip my drink. "As long as you're not kissing all of them at the same time," I say. "Talk away." He exhales, tension easing. "Noted." Tessa leans across the table. "So," she says to me, "You and safety guy looked cozy this morning." Sasha's fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "We were looking at fonts," I say. "Very romantic." "Fonts can be sexy," Tessa says. "Those curves, those seraps." "Please stop," Sasha mutters. Jax throws a fry at Tessa. "I thought I was the chaos one," he says. "Chaos recognizes Chaos," she says serenely. Sasha turns her attention to me. "You like him," she says, not a question. I fiddle with my straw. "He likes being in control," I say. "He's intense and careful and not an idiot when someone's bleeding. That's attractive." Jax winces like I swatted him, but doesn't argue. "And he's not kissing random girls in hallways," Tessa adds helpfully. "Low bar," Sasha says again, but there's a tightness around her eyes now. "I don't know," I say. "I barely know him. I just feel less offbalance around him and more seen, I guess." The words hang there, vulnerable and dangerous. Sasha's jaw works. "So," she says slowly. "You like him?" There's no point dodging it. "Yeah," I say. "I think I do a little." Something flickers across her face. Hurt, disappointment, something else. She shutters it quickly, but I know her well enough now to catch it. "You're allowed," she says, her voice is even. "I just didn't realize we were already there." Guilt prickles at the back of my neck. "I didn't plan it," I say. "It kind of snuck up while light bars were falling." She stabs a tomato a little too hard. "Guys with hero complexes will do that," she says. "You say that like you're talking from experience," Jax mutters. She cuts him a look. "Don't start." Tessa looks between all three of us, sensing the storm and wisely choosing to change the subject. "Did you see the email about the redwood trails?" she says. "They're closing one of the side paths for maintenance." I jerk my head up. "Which one?" "Third entrance from the science wing," she says. "The one near the old amphitheater." "They said it's unsafe for unsupervised student use." "Everything's unsafe for unsupervised student use," Jack says. "They're just finally admitting it." My pulse ticks up. Third entrance from the science wing. The path I saw the clusters used that first day. I file it away.

Afternoon classes drag. My brain keeps flickering back to the redwoods, to Cole's vague sight inspection, to the unknown numbers Tur noted last night. At 2:05, when the invisible current of bodies starts flowing toward the trees, I happen to be near a window on the second floor. I watch. From this angle, I can see more than before. A loose cluster of students, maybe 15, maybe 20, peels away from the mainstream. Some wear barriage hoodies, some wear plain black jackets. They move with purpose, not like kids skipping class, more like people reporting for duty. Cole is among them. He walks near the front talking to a woman I don't recognize. Tall, dark hair, posture like a soldier. Poppy is there, too. Her barage health jacket traded for a nondescript hoodie. They disappear under the trees. The hairs on my arms lift. Jax appears at my elbow, peering out. "People watching?" he asks. "You could call it that," I say. He follows my gaze. For a moment, his expression goes unreadable. Then he schools it into something lighter. "Trail runners," he says, "always in packs." "You're a bad liar," I say. He huffs a laugh. "Not as bad as you," he says. "Your face gives you away every time." "Rude," I say. He leans against the window frame, shoulder just brushing mine. "You're going to keep poking at this until it bites you," he says quietly. "You say that like you know something," I say. "I know a lot of things I'm not supposed to talk about," he says. "Occupational hazard?" "Everyone has occupational hazards," I say. "Cole has falling metal. You have secrets and poor impulse control." "Ouch," he says, but his eyes are serious. "Just be careful, okay? Not everything in those woods wants to be Instagrammed." An eerie little thrill runs through me. "You sound like Sasha," I say. "Yeah, well," he says, "sometimes she's right." "Don't let her hear you say that," I answer automatically. He grins. "Never."

By early evening, my brain is mush. Tessa bails for rehearsal. Sasha has a shift at the clinic. I could go home, but something makes me linger. My phone buzzes. "Cole, hey, sorry for bailing earlier. Thanks again for the layout help. It saved me an hour of arguing. W admin. You free to run through a couple more ideas. I'm in the small media lab." My heart does an annoying little hop. "Me? Sure. 10 minutes." "Cole, I'll be here. Doors open." The small media lab is tucked behind the main editing suite, a room with six computers, a long table, and soundproofing that makes everything feel a little hushed. He's there when I slip in, seated at a computer, headphones around his neck. He swivels in his chair when he sees me. "Hey," he says. "Didn't expect you to say yes this late." "Didn't expect you to still be conscious after your sight inspection," I say. He grimaces. "I'm not allowed to talk about it," he says. "But let's just say my risk assessment spreadsheet has a new tab." "That sounds intriguing and boring at the same time." "It's a gift," he says. He pulls up a document on the screen. It's a draft of the opening remarks for the event. Stiff, formal language, generic phrases. "The dean's office sent this," he says. "It's fine. It's also going to put everyone to sleep. You're a content person. How do we say 'please care' without sounding like a donor letter?" I drag a chair next to him, close enough that our knees almost touch. "First, we cut this paragraph," I say, highlighting a block of text. "No one wants a history of the campus logo." Over the next half hour, we trim, rearrange, tweak. I suggest swapping in a student quote here. A brief story there. He types thoughtfully. At one point he pauses. "You're good at this," he says, "making things feel human." "I fake it," I say. "A lot." "You do more than that," he says. Silence settles between us, not uncomfortable. The only sounds are the muffled hum of the air system and the soft clicking of keys. He leans forward to scroll. I lean in too. Our shoulders bump. The contact is small. My reaction is not. The air seems to thicken. We both freeze halfway between pulling back and staying put. He doesn't move away. Slowly, he turns his head. Our faces end up a breath apart. My heart slams against my ribs. My mouth goes dry. This isn't like kissing Jax in a stairwell. That burst of chaos and impulse. It's slower, charged. I can feel every point where our bodies are almost touching. His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. He swallows. "Ava," he says quietly. "Yeah," my voice is barely there. There's a beat where I'm sure he's going to close the last centimeter. His phone buzzes on the desk. The sound is jarring in the little padded room. He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second like he's physically restraining himself from throwing the device out the window, then leans back, breaking the moment. "Sorry," he mutters, grabbing the phone. I scoot my chair back an inch, trying to slow my breathing without making it obvious. He checks the screen. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. "I have to go," he says. "Now?" "Oh," I say. "That's okay." "This isn't about you," he says quickly, as if he can see the spiral forming in my head. "Something came up. I just can't ignore it." "Secret double life," I say, trying to make it light. "Something like that," he says. He hesitates, then reaches out and touches my forearm. Brief but grounding. "I'm not playing with you," he says. The words are blunt, like they cost him something. "I don't start things I don't intend to finish." My pulse stutters. "I didn't say you were," I say. "You didn't have to," he replies. "I know what it looked like with the coffee with Jax. I'm not him." I think about Jax in the hallway, about Bunny's bruised jaw, about coffee cart sniping and apologies. I think about Sasha in my bed, warm and solid and full of sharp honesty. "I know," I say softly. "You're you. That's confusing enough." A corner of his mouth lifts. "I'll text you," he says, "when I'm not whatever this is." "Don't get crushed by anything," I say. "No promises," he says. He grabs his bag and heads for the door. Just before he steps out, he glances back. There's a hundred unsaid things in that look. Then he's gone.

The bus ride home is a blur of street lights and reflections. I lean my forehead against the glass and let my brain replay the almost kiss on loop. The way he looked at me, the way I leaned in without meaning to. The way my stomach did that horrible, wonderful drop. The way I didn't want to pull back. My phone buzzes. "Sasha: Home." "Me: Bus." "Sasha: You survived shift. PLS blood pressure is terrible." "Me: ?" "Sasha: Tell me about it." "Me: You good?" I stare at the question. Am I? "Me: I almost kissed Cole in a media lab. Might explode." Three dots then. "Sasha: Okay. How do you feel?" "Me: AB that. No jokes." I take a breath. Type: "Me: Like my stomach is on a roller coaster. Like I want it and like I might throw up." "Sasha: Honest." "Me: Good." "Sasha: Do you want it to happen?" "Me: ?" "Sasha: Then that's the answer. You don't owe me anything you didn't promise." "Me: Just don't lie to me." "Sasha: Okay." My throat tightens. "Me: I wo promise." "Sasha: Then we're fine. And I'm allowed to hate his perfect eyebrows in peace." I snort. "Me: Fair."

At home. Mom's watching a crime show. Dad scrolling on his phone. "You're quiet," Mom says as I dump my bag on a chair. "I almost kissed someone in a media lab," I blurt. Dad chokes on his drink. Mom blinks. "Not the way I expected that sentence to go," she says. "Which one?" "Cole," I say, staring very hard at my socks. Dad groans. "Of course," he mutters. "Safety guy." "Did you actually kiss him?" Mom asks gently. "No," I say. "His phone stopped us. The universe has jokes." "How did that feel?" she asks. I shrug, then laugh because there's no shrug big enough. "Terrifying," I say, "and like maybe my feelings are 15 different colors and none of them match." She pats the couch. "Sid." I flop down beside her. Dad watches like he's observing a rare animal. "You know you're allowed to be confused, right?" Mom says. "About all of it. Boys, girls, what you want, what you thought you wanted." "I feel like I'm leading everyone on," I say quietly. "Jax, Sasha, now Cole. I don't want to be that person." "What are you actually promising them?" she asks. "I think that I'll be honest," I say. "That I'm trying. That I won't pretend I feel something I don't." "Then you're doing okay," she says. "Messy, but okay." Dad nods reluctantly. "Just don't let any of them decide who you are for you," he says. "You're not a prize to be won." "I know," I say. "I told them that actually." He looks proud and horrified at the same time. "You yelled at them, didn't you?" "At a coffee cart," I admit. He sighs. "At least you're consistent."

Later in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed with my ring light dimmed and my phone propped on a stack of books. "Tonight," I tell the camera. "I almost kissed someone who makes me feel safe and seen and like I'm being quietly graded on my life choices." I laugh softly. "And I'm also kind of in something with a girl who makes my chest feel calm and my brain shut up when she holds me," I say. "And I have a flirty idiot trying very hard to be a better person in my peripheral vision." I tilt my head. "I used to think I had to pick one box," I say. "One label, one type, one story. Now I'm realizing I'm more collage. And that scares me less than it used to." I think of the redwoods, of the door humming under my thoughts. "And somewhere out there, there's a whole other world that keeps telling me ineligible," I add. "But today, I watched it swallow people I care about, and I'm done waiting for it to decide I'm worthy. I'm going to find my own way in. Sponsor or not." I save the video. My phone buzzes. "Unknown. Progress noted. Access paths remain restricted. Sponsor still required." I stare at the words. My thumbs move. "Me. Then maybe I'll stop asking permission." "Me. And you can tell your bosses they're underestimating a girl who walks between worlds on her own already." For a long moment, nothing. Then "Unknown. Reckless." "Unknown. Appropriate." My skin prickles. I put the phone down, turn off the light, and lie back. In a media lab, a boy with a bandaged shoulder is probably staring at his own screen, thinking about a girl who told him he's not like the others. In a tiny apartment across town, a girl with sharp eyes and a soft heart is scrolling her messages, giving me space and still holding a corner of my chaos. In a dorm, a flirty idiot is probably doodling panthers and trying not to text me. And in the woods beyond campus, the door waits. I'm not in yet, but for the first time, that feels like a challenge instead of a verdict.

My alarm goes off in the middle of a dream where the redwoods have Wi-Fi and the trees are all sending me texts that say "ineligible." Fitting. I slap at my phone until the noise stops and squint at the screen. No new messages from the unknown number. Nothing from Jax. Nothing from Cole. Sasha, though, has left a little blue bubble waiting from last night. "Sleep. We'll figure out labels. Never." I smile, small and stupid, and text back. "Still label less. Still here." I add a tiny bat emoji and hit send. "Ava," Mom calls. "You're going to be late." "Coming." I roll out of bed, snag my jeans from the chair, and pull on a clean sweatshirt. My hair goes into a low, lazy bun. I'll fix it later if I care enough. Spoiler: I probably won't. The kitchen smells like toast and coffee. Dad's at the table in a t-shirt and joggers, reading something on his tablet. Mom's by the stove, scraping scrambled eggs onto plates. "You look like you slept," she says, surprised. "That's new." "Still processing," I say, sliding into a chair. "Sleep was self-defense." Dad peaks over his screen. "Anybody almost crush you with heavy equipment yesterday?" "Not yet," I say. "I spent most of the day in a media lab pretending I know what donors like." He narrows his eyes. "Media lab," he echoes. "With who?" I sigh. "Cole." Mom smiles behind her mug. "Safety guy," she says. "You two seem sympatico." "We worked on event stuff," I say. "He needed help making the program sound less like a tax form." "And nothing else happened," Dad asks innocently, which means he's about to be the worst. I focus on my toast. "There was almost a kiss," I mumble. He chokes on his coffee. Mom waxes back, laughing. "Define almost," she says. "Our faces were close," I say. "There was looking and then his phone went off. The universe blocked me." Mom raises her brows. "And how did that make you feel?" "Like I wanted to throw his phone into the redwoods," I say. "And also like maybe I need therapy." Dad recovers enough to point his mug at me. "Remember what I said," he says. "Practice drill, not the big one. You don't have to evacuate the building every time the alarm goes off." "You're really committed to that analogy," I say. "I'm workshopping it," he says. Mom squeezes my hand. "Just be honest," she says. "With yourself, with him, with your Sasha. The rest you'll figure out." "My Sasha," I repeat, cheeks warming. "She's adorable," Mom says. "I like her." "So do I," I say quietly. Dad sighs. "So many people to glare at," he mutters. "I need a spreadsheet." "You and Cole can compare notes," I say. "I hate him already," Dad says. "Eat your eggs."

The bus is crowded and half the riders are still asleep. I snag a window seat and lean my head against the glass, letting the city smear by. I open my phone, thumb hovering over the unknown thread. No new messages since last night's cryptic "reckless." "Appropriate" and "progress noted." It feels like fighting with a very opinionated, very smug ghost. I scroll to Cole's chat instead. Nothing new. His last message is still from two nights ago. "You handled chaos well." That almost kiss in the media lab hums in my muscles like leftover electricity. I flip up to Sasha. "Sasha, you good?" "Me? Like my stomach is on a roller coaster." "Sasha, do you want it?" "Me? Yeah." "Sasha, then that's the answer." A nervous little warmth flutters in my chest. I text her, "Bus, need coffee." And her face. She replies almost instantly. "On campus, atrium, bring her face, too." I tuck my phone away and watch the skyline flicker. Somewhere out past it, beyond the glass, those redwoods are waiting. Door humming under bark. Today, I think, no more peeking from windows. I want to see it up close.

Barriage's atrium is already buzzing when I walk in. Students orbiting tables, the espresso machine screaming, sunlight slanting through the glass ceiling. Sasha is leaning against a pillar near the stairs. Black jeans, gray hoodie, hair braided and looped up. She straightens when she sees me. "There you are," she says. "I was about to assume you fell into a content creation hole." "Give it time," I say. We fall into step toward the coffee cart. "How's your disaster meter?" she asks. "Hovering around a five," I say. "Going up every time I think about last night." "Media lab almost kiss," she says, like she's labeling a file. "How's that sitting?" I exhale. "Scary," I admit. "Good. Scary. And I told you I want it. That still feels messed up to say out loud." "You're allowed," she says. "You don't owe me no feelings just because I had mine first." "Yeah, but I don't want to be that girl who's like, 'Thanks for helping me feel safe while I figure myself out. Please hold while I go make out with safety guy.'" She huffs a tiny laugh. "If you say it like that, I might punch you," she says. "But as long as you're not lying to me and you're not using him or me to avoid your own feelings, we're okay." "You really mean that?" I ask. She looks at me, eyes steady. "I'm jealous," she says, "and a little mad at the universe, but I meant what I texted. You didn't promise me a relationship. You promised honesty. You've kept that." My throat tightens. "You're unfairly good," I say. "I'm petty in my head," she says. "I just try not to make that your problem." "I will accept you complaining about his eyebrows," I say. "And his spreadsheets." "Oh, I plan to," she says. We reach the cart. She orders tea. I get my caramel iced addiction. The barista recognizes me now and adds extra ice without asking. Perks of being a goblin. As we wait, Sasha nudges me. "You still getting creepy texts?" she murmurs. "Not since last night," I say. "They downgraded from ineligible to passive aggressive commentary." "Progress," she suggests. "Or they're busy building new ways to annoy me," I say. Before she can answer, a hurricane named Tessa slams into my other side. "There you are," Tessa says. "Both my favorite idiots. I need you." "That's a strong statement for 8-something in the morning," Sasha says. Tessa waves her coffee cup. "Goblins wants to shoot campus myth stuff this afternoon," she says. "I have a window, a camera, and an attention span problem. I need our star." She points at me. "I'm not a star," I say. "You're the only one who can talk to a lens without sounding like a hostage." She says, "Also, rumor update. They're closing one of the Redwood paths for maintenance. We need B-roll before they fence it off." My pulse jumps. "Which path?" "Third entrance from the science wing," she says. "The creepy one with the crooked lamp." The same one I watch the students take. "That's interesting," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. Sasha's eyes narrow. "Of course, it's that one," she mutters. Tessa looks between us. "So, you in?" she asks. Sasha opens her mouth. "She has class," she starts. I cut in. "I'm free afternoon," I say. "We can grab some quick shots before my psych lecture." Sasha gives me a side eye that says we're going to talk about this later. Tessa beams. "Perfect. Meet at the science wing courtyard at 12:15. Bring your mysterious girl energy." "I hate that I know what that means," I say. She flutters off toward Goblin's HQ, leaving a trail of glitter stickers behind her. The barista calls our names. We grab our drinks. Sasha takes a sip of her tea and says very calmly. "You're going to follow them again." "Yes," I say. "No point lying." She closes her eyes briefly. "Then I'm not going to waste breath telling you not to," she says. "But text me every step. If you disappear, I'm burning that forest down." "Deal," I say softly. She bumps my shoulder. "Come on," she says. "Harlo's going to talk about framing again. You can't miss that. It's your whole life legacy."

Classes blur by in a haze of notes and half-digested theory. Jax pops in and out of my orbit, passing me a joke sticky note in media, stealing a fry off my tray when I'm not looking. Actually, not flirting, just being there. He keeps a respectful distance, but I catch him looking at me more than once. Not in the old "you and I are inevitable" way, more like he's checking I'm still breathing. At 11:50, Sasha corners me outside our lecture hall. "You sure about this?" she asks. "No," I admit, "but I'm going." "Then I'm walking you there," she says. "And I'm walking away before I become an accessory." Tessa is already in the courtyard by the science wing, balancing on a low wall to get a better angle on the path. "Closed for maintenance" sign. The crooked lamp leans over the trail like it's eavesdropping. The sign itself is simple. Laminated paper cable-tied to a chain across the entrance. "Trail access temporarily closed. Uneven ground. Do not enter." Someone has drawn devil horns on the "O." "Enclosed. Authentic," Tessa says, zooming in. "This is perfect creepy B-roll." I help her get a few slow pans of the sign, the trail entrance, the trees beyond. Sasha hovers just outside the frame, arms folded tight. After 10 minutes, Tessa checks her watch. "I have to run print stuff for Harlo," she says. "This should be enough for a teaser. If you want, we can come back tomorrow." "I've got a sight class," I lie smoothly. "I'll grab a couple of shots on my phone on the way." "Bless you," she says. "Try not to fall into a hole." She trots off. It's just me and Sasha now. "This is where I say the part where you ignore me," she says. "Go on," I say. "Don't follow them too far in," she says. "If it feels wrong, turn back. And if some creep in a robe starts chanting, run." "No robed creeps, got it," I say. "Just basic lurking." She sighs. "Text me," she repeats. "Seriously, I will." "I promise." Reluctantly, she backs away. "I have clinic at 2:00," she says. "If you're not out by then, I'm coming with a stretcher." "Noted," I say. She hesitates, then steps forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. "Don't die," she says. "I'll do my best," I whisper. Then she's gone, vanishing into the flow of students. I don't have to wait long. At 1:55, the courtyard starts to thin. A few stragglers head toward the dining hall. The real current runs another direction. I feel it more than see it. A tug at the edge of things. A shift in gravity. Then they appear. A cluster of students, 15, 20, drifts into view from the far side of the science building. Some I recognize by face from classes. Some I've only seen at a distance. A couple wear bay hoodies. Others are in plain jackets. They don't look like a club. They look purposeful. Cole is at the front. He's in dark jeans, black jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder. He's talking quietly to a woman I haven't seen before. Tall, dark hair in a low knot, posture straight as a blade. She carries herself like she owns any room she walks into. Beside her, Poppy strides, hands in her pockets, eyes scanning the edges like she's on patrol. My pulse kicks into overdrive. I wait until the last of the cluster passes the crooked lamp, then slip off the wall and fall in behind them, keeping to the edge of the path. "Me going in, me behind group trail." I hit send to Sasha, tuck my phone deep in my hoodie pocket, and focus.

The redwoods swallow sound faster than campus buildings. After a dozen steps, the hum of students and vending machines fades, replaced by the hush of needles underfoot and the distant rustle of leaves. The air is cooler here, thicker. I hang back, letting the group get ahead, but not so far I lose them. Even at a distance, I can track them by sound. The crunch of shoes, the murmur of voices. My hearing is better than human. It's one vampire perk I don't hate. They take a turn I've never noticed before. An almost invisible fork off the main trail, marked only by a barely there notch in the bark of a tree. If I weren't watching them, I'd miss it completely. I slip behind a trunk and wait, peeking around just enough to see. The path curves around a cluster of old growth, then opens into a small clearing. In the center, the ground rises into a gentle rounded mound ringed by stones. Gleaming silver cables run from the stones up into the branches above, forming a kind of lattice overhead. And tucked into the side of the mound is a door. It's not big, not dramatic, just a wooden door frame sitting where earth should be. Its boards old and dark, carved with faintly glowing symbols that shift when I try to focus on them. One by one, the students file past a waist-high plinth near the entrance. The tall woman stands there watching. Some students tap something against the top. ID cards maybe. Others brush their fingers in a particular pattern over the carvings. The air flickers faintly like heat rising from asphalt. When Cole reaches the plinth, he lifts his hand and presses it flat against a symbol. The glow brightens. The air around the doorway shivers. He passes through where there should be dirt. He disappears. Just gone. One second there, the next not. My heart is trying to punch a hole in my ribs. This is it. This is the door. After the last student disappears inside, the tall woman follows. Poppy is the last. She glances back over the clearing, eyes brushing the tree I'm behind. For a second, I think she sees me. Then she steps through and is gone. The clearing is empty. My legs want to shake. I don't let them. I give it a full minute. Two. No one comes back out. No alarms go off. The redwoods stand indifferent. "Okay," I whisper, just close enough to look. "Don't touch anything stupid." I step out from behind my tree and walk toward the mound. Up close, the air feels wrong. Charged like the moment before lightning, that metallic taste on your tongue. The symbols carved into the door frame shift when I look straight at them. Lines and curves stacking and reforming into patterns that make my eyes water if I stare too long. My fangs itch. "Hi," I whisper to no one. "I'm your new obsession. Please be nice." I reach out and stretch my hand toward the space where Cole vanished. The air is cool against my fingers. There's a layer of something resistant, like a film of static. I press. The barrier gives a little, then pushes back. It's not a physical shove, more like a deep, vibrating "no" that goes straight into my bones. I grit my teeth and lean harder. Vamp strength isn't flashy, but it's there under my skin, in my muscles. That added bit of pressure. The barrier flexes again. Heat flares in my palm. The symbols on the frame pulse brighter. Something snaps. Not the barrier, something else. A crack of sound splits the quiet, the kind of sound ice makes when it fractures. The next second, the air in front of me explodes in white light. I stagger back, throwing an arm up over my eyes. The light burns, but not in a physical way. It's like my brain protesting the static. When it clears, someone is standing between me and the door. He's not anyone I recognize from classes. Mid-30s maybe, though something about him feels older. Dark hair slicked back, a trimmed beard, gray button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows. His eyes are sharp and light, the color of old coins. He does not look surprised. "Ms. Rays," he says, like we're meeting at office hours. His voice is smooth and precise. "I was wondering how long it would take you to show up." My skin goes cold. "How do you know my name?" I ask. He glances at the symbols still pulsing faintly on the frame, then back at me. "You've been pinging our systems for 3 days," he says. "Text messages, location pings. You're not exactly subtle." My hand curls into a fist. "You're the one texting me," I say. "The cryptic, ineligible nonsense." His mouth twitches. "Both of those messages came from an automated intake system," he says. "I simply monitor the log." "So, you're the witch behind the curtain," I say. "I'm a teacher," he corrects. "Damian. That will do for now." I take a breath, steadying my voice. "What is this?" I nod toward the door. "And don't say restricted area. I just watched half the student body vanish into the hill." "47%," he says automatically. "And this is none of your concern." My laugh comes out sharper than I mean it to, really, because your system keeps texting me like I'm on some kind of waitlist and I just bounced off your invisible wall. "Feels pretty concerning from here." He studies me. Not like Sasha does, not like Jax or Cole. His gaze isn't interested in who I am. It's measuring what I am. "You're persistent," he says finally. "I'll grant you that." "I'm done being told I'm ineligible without explanation," I say. "You obviously know what I am." I let my fangs slip just enough to show sharp points pressing against my lower lip. Not full drop, just a hint. His eyes flicker. "In part," he says. "Then stop treating me like I'm going to burst into flame the second I step inside," I say. "If this is a place where people like—" I gesture at the door, "—go to learn to not hurt people. Why am I locked out?" His jaw tightens for a moment. Something almost like sympathy moves behind his eyes. It's gone quickly. "Because access requires a sponsor," he says. "Someone inside who will vouch for you. Someone who believes you are worth the risk and is willing to share in the consequences if they're wrong." "That's ridiculous," I say. "You're the adults. If I'm a risk, that's on you to manage, not on some student." "This is not a public school," he says. "This is an institution designed to manage variables we cannot always predict. We've learned the hard way that unsponsored entrance tend to break things." "I'm trying not to break things," I say. "Intent is not the same as control," he replies. "You live with humans who don't know what you are. Your bloodline is unregistered. Your last incident report is—" he pauses like he's listening to someone only he can hear. "Interesting. You are by definition a liability." My stomach drops. "You know about that is not up for discussion," he says sharply. Anger flares hot enough to override fear. "So I'm good enough for your little system to stalk," I say. "Good enough to be flagged and cataloged, but not good enough to actually get the training you keep dangling in front of me." "The system flagged you because you tripped half a dozen wards last year," he says. "We prefer not to let walking breaches roam unmonitored." Ice slides down my spine. My last big loss of control episode. The one that ended with me and a boy and too much blood and my parents moving cities like the floor was on fire. "I'm not like that anymore," I say, adding the small crack in my voice. He watches me for a beat, expression unreadable. "Maybe," he says. "Maybe not, but you are not coming through this door without a sponsor. That is non-negotiable." I step closer, fists clenched. "And if I find one," I ask, "if someone inside thinks I'm worth the risk?" His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. "Then we will revisit your status," he says. "Assuming you haven't gotten yourself expelled by then." "And if I keep pushing," I ask. "If I keep showing up at your door, if I keep poking at your systems until they squeal." His eyes chill. "Then we will consider more drastic measures," he says softly. "Memory adjustment is not our first choice, Miss Rays. But we will protect our students and our work." My stomach flips. "You can't just erase me," I say. "My life doesn't belong to you." "Stay away from the door," he says. "Stay away from the woods unless invited. That is your warning." A breeze shifts through the clearing. The carved symbols on the frame dim slowly. "Do not mistake my patience for permission," he adds. "You are not the only hungry thing out here." We stare at each other. "I'm not the only one you should be worried about," I say quietly. "Your own students are out here hurting people. Or do you not keep those reports?" Hoodie boy's half-shifted snarl flashes through my head. Bunny's bruised jaw. Something flashes in Damian's eyes. Not surprise, recognition. "This conversation is over," he says. The world tilts for a second. I'm not in the clearing. I'm in my kitchen, my dad shouting. Blood on my hands. I smell iron and fear and chlorine. My heart spikes. My breath stutters. "No." I shove against the image with everything in me, digging my nails into my palms until pain slices through the fog. "Get out," I snap. The false memory shatters. The clearing snaps back into focus. The mound, the door, the trees, Damian's face, all exactly where they were. His eyebrows lift just slightly. "Interesting," he murmurs. "What did you just try to do to me?" I demand. "A precautionary measure," he says. "Apparently an ineffective one." "You don't get to edit my life," I spit. "Then don't hand me the pen," he says. My hands are shaking. Part rage, part reaction to whatever psychic cheap shot he just pulled. "Find a sponsor," he says. "Or stay on your side of the trees." He lifts his hand. The air shivers again, that same white-hot light slicing across my vision. But this time, it doesn't hit me. It washes over the mound, the frame, the whole clearing. When it fades, the door is gone. Or at least it looks gone. To anyone else, it's just a mossy rise in the earth. Cables vanishing into dirt, stones half buried. The symbols are invisible. The barrier is still there, though. I can feel it like a pressure in my teeth. Damian is gone, too. Just me and the trees. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a little too loud in the silence. My fangs are half dropped. I force them back up, swallowing the ache. "Sasha." "Sasha." "Ava." "Sasha." "You better text me or I'm calling the campus cops and my aunt." My thumb shakes as I type. "Me. I'm okay." "Me. Saw the door." "Me. Got yelled at by some wizard named Damian." "Me. I'll tell you everything." "Bus home." Three dots. "Sasha. I hate the school." "Sasha. But I'm glad you're okay." "Sasha, come find me if you want be before you go." I take one last look at the no-ordinary mound. "I'm not done," I whisper to the air. "Sponsor or no sponsor? I'm not done." Then I turn and walk back up the trail.

On the way out of the woods, I almost literally run into Cole. He appears around a bend in the regular trail at the exact wrong moment. I'm too stuck in my head to scan ahead. We collide, his hand shooting out to steady my elbow. "Whoa," he says. "Hey." My heart does a stupid leap. "Hey," I say, untangling myself. "Sorry, I wasn't—" "Looking where you were going," he finishes. "Yeah, I noticed." He's changed since I saw him go through the door, if that's even possible. Different jacket, hair damp, face a little more drawn. There's a tired edge around his eyes I didn't see this morning. "What are you doing out here?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Trail inspection," he says without missing a beat. "Facilities asked for extra eyes on the closed sections." Smooth? Too smooth? I tilt my head. "You always trail inspect with half the student body," I ask. That cracks his expression. He closes his eyes briefly. "You followed us," he says. "You disappeared," I say. "I wanted to know where." His jaw tightens. "That was not a great idea." "Yeah, Damian said the same thing," I say, right after he tried to psyche-wipe me. His eyes snap open. "He tried to what?" "Make me forget," I say. "He failed." A muscle jumps in his cheek. He glances around like he's checking for hidden cameras. "You shouldn't have been here," he says. "You could have gotten hurt." "I didn't," I say. "And I learned things." He steps closer, lower voice. "This isn't a game, Ava." He says, "Those wards, those systems, they're not built with you in mind. One wrong move and you could have been knocked out or worse." "You think I don't know that?" I shoot back. "You think I don't know what worse looks like?" We stare at each other, breath misting in the cooler air. He swallows. "What did he say to you?" he asks. "Damian?" "That I'm a walking liability," I say. "That I need a sponsor if I want in. That memory adjustment is always an option." Cole curses under his breath. Something sharp and ugly. "He shouldn't have gone that far," he mutters. "He's supposed to flag cases, not erase people," I say. He drags a hand through his hair. "Look," he says, "you shouldn't say I shouldn't come back." I cut in. "Go ahead, try." He meets my gaze, frustration, and something more tangled flickering there. "I'm not going to tell you not to want this," he says finally. "You deserve training. You deserve not to be stuck on the outside hoping you don't lose control again." Heat prickles behind my eyes. "Then don't stand between me and the door," I say. "I'm trying to keep you from getting steamrolled by a system that doesn't care how much you want it." He says, "There's a difference. We're too close now." Again, the same charged space as the media lab, but colder and wrapped in pine. "What if I find a sponsor?" I say, "then are you still going to tell me to stay away?" His jaw flexes. "Depends who it is," he says. "Should I be asking you?" The question slips out before I can catch it. His eyes darken. "That's not—" "You're inside," I say. "You clearly have clout. You run events. You're on every safety form. You could go to whoever you answer to and say, 'Hey, maybe we let the vampire who keeps almost dying on our watch into the training program.'" "It's not that simple," he says. "Sponsors don't just sign paperwork. They take responsibility. If you slip, if something goes wrong, they're on the line with you." "Maybe I should be the one deciding who I trust with that," I say. "Maybe," he says quietly. "But I'm the one who gets ripped apart if I make the wrong call." His choice of words makes something crawl up my spine. "Has that happened before?" I ask. He looks away. The answer is obvious. We stand there breathing, the woods listening. "I can't be your sponsor," he says finally. "Not like this. Not with Damian watching for any excuse to cut my legs out." Anger flares hot. "So, I'm just supposed to go home and pretend none of this exists," I snap. "Hope I don't slip and hurt someone because the people who could train me are scared of paperwork." He flinches. "That's not what I want," he says. "Believe me." "Then what do you want?" I ask. "You alive?" he says. "You trained. You not having your brain scrambled by some overzealous mind mage?" "Then help me," I say. He closes his eyes for a moment. Like he's wrestling with himself. "I am," he says finally. "Just not the way you expected." "That's not an answer," I say. "It's the only one I can give you right now," he says. "I have to go." "Of course you do," I say. He winces. "I'll text you later," he says, backing away. "If you're not busy erasing someone," I say. "That's not what I do," he says a little sharper. "Then prove it," I say. He looks like he wants to say more. He doesn't. He turns and walks back down the trail toward campus, shoulders tight. I stand there until he disappears around the bend, then let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "You're not done either," I mutter.

Sasha is waiting for me in the campus clinic lobby. She's in scrubs now, hair pulled back, badge clipped to her collar. Her foot taps a frantic little rhythm on the floor. When she sees me, she exhales like she's been holding her breath for an hour. "Thank God," she says. "You look like hell, but the alive kind." "Damian tried to use my brain like a whiteboard," I say. "10 out of 10 do not recommend." "Sit," she orders. I sit on a plastic chair. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. "Tell me everything," she says. I do. Not the bloodline snippet. Not yet. But the door, the sponsor requirement, the failed mind trick. I spill all of that. Her eyes get darker with every sentence. "He tried to wipe you," she says, voice low and dangerous. "And they think you're the threat." "Apparently, I tripped a bunch of wards last year," I say. "Their system has a file on me." She swears quietly. "Of course they do," she says. "Of course the secret magic school in the woods is keeping dossier. Why wouldn't they?" "I hate how right they are about me being a risk," I say. "It makes me want to set their trees on fire out of spite." "But you didn't break," she says. "He pushed, you pushed back. That matters." "It freaked me out," I say. "For a second, it was real. I was back in that kitchen." She squeezes my knee. "You came back," she says. "On your own. That matters, too." I swallow. "He said if I find a sponsor, they'll revisit my status," I say, "which means it's possible. Not guaranteed, but possible." "And you're thinking about asking Cole," she says, reading my mind. "I already half asked," I confess. "He—"

said he can't. Not right now. Not with whatever politics he's dealing with.

"Of course not," she mutters. "Nothing can be straightforward."

"He did say he wants me trained," I say. "For what that's worth."

"It's worth something," she says. "But don't wait around for him to decide you're a good risk. If he steps up, great. If he doesn't, that's on him, not you."

"I don't know anyone else inside," I say. "Except Poppy, and I doubt she'd sign up for that."

Sasha is quiet for a moment. "You know one more person," she says slowly.

I blink. "Who?"

She gives me a look. "Morno."

I stare. "Jax."

"He's not enrolled," she says. "But he's involved in his own chaotic way. He knows more than he should and he cares more than he pretends. He said he's investigating some group trying to topple the principal."

"I say that's adjacent. He also threw himself at an almost shifted idiot in an alley without blinking."

She says, "Don't underestimate his particular brand of loyalty."

"I can't ask Jax to sponsor me," I say. "That's inviting disaster."

"I'm not saying you should," she says. "I'm saying don't forget that you have more pieces than you think."

My head spins. "I need to go home," I say before my dad texts the SWAT team.

She squeezes my hand. "Text me later," she says. "I want the unabridged version."

"This was the abridged version?" I ask.

"You didn't cry," she says. "We're not done."

I snort. "Fair."

At home, the apartment smells like tomato sauce. Mom's stirring a pot on the stove. Dad's at the table with his laptop open, a spreadsheet full of numbers glowing on the screen.

"You're on time," he says, surprised.

"I had incentive," I say. "Threat of mind wipe."

Mom freezes. "What?"

I throw my bag down and sag into a chair. "There's a program," I say. "It's complicated, but I went to ask about joining and they basically told me I'm a hazard and maybe they'll erase my memories if I keep poking."

Dad's face drains of color. "What program?"

"An advanced thing," I say quickly. "For students with particular talents, extra training, whatever. I got some cryptic messages, so I followed up."

"And they threatened you?" Mom says, voice flat.

"They strongly discouraged unsolicited applications," I say.

Dad's jaw clenches. "We're pulling you out," he says.

"What?" I blink.

"If this school thinks it can play with your head—"

"Dad," I cut in. "It's not the whole school. It's like a weird secret honors track. They're not exactly advertising it with campus tours."

"That makes it worse," he says.

"Look," I say, leaning forward. "I'm fine. They didn't do anything permanent. They can't do anything permanent if I don't let them. And they have training I need."

"So, you keep saying," he says, "training to not be a liability. Training to not hurt people."

"Do they know what happened last year?" The question lands like a punch.

"Yes," I say quietly. "At least this Damian guy does."

"And that doesn't bother you?" he demands. "Some stranger holding your worst moment like a file folder."

"It bothers me," I say. "It also means they understand why I need control. Why I can't just hope it never happens again."

Mom turns off the stove and sits down, eyes wet. "I thought we were past this," she whispers.

"We moved," I say. "We didn't remove my fangs."

She flinches. I regret the words immediately.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"That was true," she says, just hard.

We sit in thick, heavy silence. Finally, Dad exhales. "I hate this," he says.

"Me too," I say, "but ignoring it won't make it go away."

He rubs his face. "If they try anything like that again—"

"I'll walk," I say. "I promise. I'm not giving anyone a free pass to rewrite my brain. I just—I need to know what's behind that door. I need to know I'm not going to screw up like before."

Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. "If you ever feel like you're slipping," she says softly. "You come to us, not some secret teacher in the woods."

"Us."

"I know," I say. "I just also want backup. More tools, more control."

They look at each other. Some silent parent conversation passes between them. Dad sighs. "We're not going to win this one, are we?" he says.

"No," I say.

He gives me a tired half-smile. "At least you're honest," he mutters.

In my room, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. The day feels like three days stacked on top of each other. My phone buzzes.

Cole: you okay?

Two words, too much weight.

Me: Define. Okay.

Me: I didn't get erased, so that's something.

dots.

Cole: I'm sorry. He shouldn't have gone that far.

Cole: I told him you're not just a flagged case on a screen.

My chest tightens.

Me: Me? Great. Now I'm officially a flagged case. W a lawyer.

Me: Me? You didn't have to do that.

Cole: Yes, I did.

Cole: He listens to the ones who clean up his messes.

Me: Interesting choice of words.

Me: Did you get in trouble, Cole?

Cole: Not yet.

Cole: I meant what I said in the woods, Cole. I want you trained safely, Cole. I'm trying to find a way that doesn't get you or me shredded.

Me: Me? If I find a sponsor who isn't you, will you be mad?

A long pause.

Cole: mad. No.

Cole: worried. Yes. But I'd rather you in than out.

Cole: even if someone else signs the form, he's giving me space.

Me: It hurts and helps at the same time.

Me: thanks. For not telling me to stay home and be a good girl.

Cole: I know better.

Cole: you don't do stay.

He's not wrong. There's another buzz.

Jax: Hey, heard you went lumberjacking. You alive?

Me: I blink. Who? How did you hear that?

Jax: Sasha.

Jax: Also, I know that look on your face when you're about to do something stupid in the direction of trees.

Me: I'm fine.

Me: Wizard named Damian tried to brains smudge me.

Me: 010. Bad vibes.

Jax: Jesus.

Jax: I hate that guy.

Me: You know him.

Jax: Unfortunately.

Jax: He's been sniffing around the "Replace the Principal" kids for months.

Jax: Thinks fear is a personality.

I sit up straighter.

Me: replace the principal kids.

Jax: Told you I've been looking into it.

Jax: Group of students and one very ambitious teacher.

Jax: They want Myra out. Think she's too soft.

Jax: Damian acts like he's on her side, but he's definitely got his own agenda.

Me: Myra, the Bay Ridge principal, the one whose signature is on my acceptance letter, the one whose portrait hangs in the atrium, and the one who runs the secret college, apparently.

Me: He said I need a sponsor.

Me: You ever heard of that?

Jax: Yeah. Sponsor equals poor bastard who signs off on her mess.

Jax: They're usually faculty. Or Legacy Kids.

Jax: It's a whole thing.

Me: Faculty. That's new. I'd assumed sponsors were students.

Me: So if I can't get Cole to sign my death warrant.

Me: I need a teacher.

Me: Or someone tied in deep.

Jax: Or you do what I did.

Jax: And find the cracks in their rules.

Jax: But I'm not texting that where they can read it.

I look at the forest of notifications on my screen and for the first time feel like maybe they're not all coming from the same place.

Me: Thanks for worrying.

Jax: Don't get used to it.

Jax: I have a reputation.

Jax: Also next time you go door hunting, bring snacks.

Jax: I work better with snacks.

Later, when the house is quiet and my parents are half watching a movie in the living room, I prop my phone on my desk. Turn on my ring light to a soft glow and hit record.

"Today," I tell the camera, "I found a door in the woods and bounced off it." I twist the drawstring of my hoodie around my finger. "I met a man who knows more about me than I wanted him to," I say. "He called me a liability. He tried to delete a memory and he failed." I let myself sit with that for a second. "Turns out I'm harder to erase than I thought," I say, "which is comforting and awful at the same time." I think of Cole's face in the trees, of Sasha's grip on my knee. Of Jax's chaotic, "I hate that guy" text. "I also found out there's a way in," I say. "A bad one, but still a way. You need a sponsor. Someone on the inside to say, 'I'll stand next to her if she explodes.'" I laugh softly. "I don't know who that is yet," I admit. "But I know this. I'm done waiting for an automated system to tell me I'm ineligible. I'm done letting some wizard with a spreadsheet decide if I get to learn how not to be a monster." My fangs twinge. I let them drop for half a second, just enough to see them in the corner of the frame, then retract them. "I am a lot of things," I say. "Vampire, daughter, content goblin, disaster bisexual in progress. I am not a passive variable in someone else's equation."

I stop recording and save the video. My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Unknown: Unauthorized proximity to sealed access point logged. Disciplinary action deferred. Recommendation: Do not repeat.

I roll my eyes.

Me: Recommendation: Get better at doors.

dots.

Unknown: You're going to get hurt.

That's new. I stare at the words.

Me: Maybe.

Me: I'll live with that faster than I'll live with doing nothing.

A long pause.

Unknown: Reckless.

Unknown: Still appropriate.

My lips curve. "Then keep watching," I murmur to the dark.

Somewhere on some console or spellbound screen, someone is watching my logs, my pings, my insistence. Somewhere in the woods, behind a door only half real, a whole other campus breathes. And somewhere between a safety-obsessed werewolf, a flirty chaos magnet, a sharp-eyed healer, and a girl who kissed me in my bed, there might be someone willing to stand next to me and say, "I'll take the risk." Until then, I'm not going anywhere.

I don't sleep great. Every time I drift off, I'm back in the clearing. Damian's eyes like cold coins, my memories cracking like ice. When my alarm finally goes, I swat it off like it personally offended me and lie there staring at the ceiling until my phone buzzes again.

Sasha: alive

Me: barely

Me: dreamt apt wizards and bad doors.

Sasha: sounds like campus.

Sasha: coffee atrium.

Me: always.

I drag myself out of bed, pull on black jeans and an oversized gray hoodie, smear on concealer until I look less like the undead and more like a girl who stayed up too late doomscrolling, and shuffle into the kitchen. Mom's at the counter making avocado toast. Dad's at the table, laptop open, glasses perched on his nose.

"You look like you fought a tree," Dad says.

"Just one," I say. "The rest watched."

Mom frowns. "Nightmares again."

"Just a greatest hits compilation," I say, snagging a piece of toast. "Wizards, doors, memory wipes."

Dad's jaw flexes. "We're calling a lawyer," he mutters.

"Please don't threaten to sue people who can set you on fire with their brain," I say. "It's bad strategy."

He scowls. "I don't like them poking around in your head."

"Me neither," I say. "I told him to get out. He did."

Mom softens. "I hate this," she says. "I hate that you're dealing with this at 22 when you should be worrying about midterms and rent and whether your roommates do the dishes."

"I have you for that," I say. "You've seen how I load the dishwasher."

Dad snorts. "Criminal," he says.

Mom squeezes my hand. "Just remember what we said," she says. "If it ever feels like too much."

"I come to you," I say. "I know."

"I promise."

Dad drops his glasses onto the table. "What about the boys?" he asks. "And Sasha."

I freeze with my toast halfway to my mouth.

"That's a list."

He shrugs. "You've got a flirty idiot, a safety freak, and a very nice girl who looks at you like you hung the moon. I'm curious where your head is at."

"Carlos," Mom warns, but she's watching me, too.

I sigh. "I like Cole," I say. "I think a lot. And I like Sasha. Different kind of like. And Jax is my chaos goblin friend who almost got himself stabbed defending someone in an alley."

"So, you're collecting archetypes," Dad says.

"I'm trying not to break anyone," I say quietly. "Including me."

Mom squeezes my fingers. "That's all we can ask," she says. "Be honest. Be kind. Don't set yourself on fire to keep anyone else warm."

"And if either of those boys hurts you," Dad adds, "I will write a sternly worded email."

Mom pats his arm. "He'll glare disapprovingly," she translates. "It's very effective."

I laugh despite the knot in my chest. "I have to go," I say. "Sasha's waiting."

Dad points his mug at me. "No doors today," he says.

"No promises," I mutter.

The atrium is its usual morning chaos. Coffee steam, backpack straps, someone playing an acoustic guitar in the corner like this is a movie. Sasha leans against our usual pillar, scrubs pants, and a black hoodie. Hair in a messy braid. There are faint shadows under her eyes. She looks like she slept about as well as I did.

"There you are," she says. "You look like a raccoon."

"It's weirdly cute."

"Thanks," I say. "You look like a nurse about to stab someone politely."

"Also cute," she says.

"Coffee." We get in line. The barista gives us an exhausted nod of recognition.

"So," Sasha says, hands in her hoodie pockets. "You didn't die. Good start. How's your brain?"

"Annoyed?" I say. "Damian tried to roll it back to a bad night and I shoved him out. I'm proud of that and also mildly terrified the next time he'll push harder."

"Let him try," she mutters. "You're not that easy to erase."

"That sounded like an insult and a compliment at the same time," I say.

"I'm versatile," she says.

We grab our drinks and drift to a quieter corner near the stairs.

"You texted Jax," she says. It's not a question.

"He texted me," I say. "Apparently, he hates Damian, too."

"Well, he has taste in enemies," she says. "If not in life choices."

"He mentions some group trying to kick Myra out," I add. "Damian sniffing around them."

"They can get in line behind the adjuncts," she mutters. "He's definitely not just a teacher."

"I could tell," I say. "Teachers don't usually try to delete your memories in the woods."

"We're supposed to go over safety protocols," she says. "Not people."

"I went."

"How mad are you?" I ask. "Scale of 1 to 'I steal your favorite hoodie and never give it back.'"

"I'm worried," she says. "And Loki murderous—not at you, at him, at them. I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I promised to be careful and then immediately was."

"You were careful," she says. "Carefulish? You told me where you were, you texted, you got out." I just hate that they looked at you and saw liability instead of student."

"It's not totally wrong. I say I am a lot."

"So am I," she says. "Difference is I don't let wizards with god complexes decide my worth."

I take a breath. "There's something else," I say. "About you and me."

Her shoulders tense. "Okay," she says carefully.

I stare into my iced caramel like it has answers. "I told my mom about you," I say.

Her eyes go wide. "Oh," she says. "Wow. I didn't say girlfriend or anything," I hurry to add. "I just said you're important, that you make me feel safe, that I like you."

Her mouth softens. "What did she say?"

"She said you're adorable," I say, "and that she likes your hair."

"She hasn't seen it on wash day," Sasha says, but she's smiling. "She also said I don't have to pick a box right now," I add. "That I just have to be honest."

Sasha's gaze flicks down to my mouth, then back up. "Are you being?" she asks quietly.

The question hangs between us. Before I can answer, Tessa appears like she was conjured. "Goblin," she says, and Goblin's tall friend, Crisis. "Oh, good," Sasha mutters. "I was worried we were going to have a calm morning."

Tessa drops into a seat. "Harlo moved our goblin slot," she says. "We're shooting tonight instead of Thursday. That means I need our host." She points at me and "our moral support." She points at Sasha. "In the atrium at 6."

"What are we shooting?" I ask.

"Campus myths," she says. "Light version. No cursed doors, I promise. Just, 'Why are there always crows on the library roof?' And, 'Does the vending machine on level two eat souls?'"

"I think it does," Sasha says.

"So, we meet at 6?" I ask.

Tessa nods. "Wear something aesthetic," she says. "You're already halfway there, but like, more." She flounces off.

Sasha watches her go, then looks back at me. "This conversation isn't over," she says.

"I know," I say. "I just need a minute to figure out how to say things without breaking everything."

"Take your minute," she says. "But not too many. We don't have infinite episodes."

The morning slides by in classes and half-attention. In media theory, Jax actually takes notes for once. When the TA calls on him, he nails an answer about unreliable narrators and smirks at me like he knows he surprised me. During Goblins, Harlo herangs us about shot lists and continuity. Tessa keeps doodling crows in the margins of her notes.

At lunch, I sit with Sasha and Tessa under a tree, my brain humming with plans I don't quite understand yet.

"Safety guy isn't here," Tessa says, scanning the quad. "Has he finally been eaten by a light rig?"

"He's probably in the redwoods," Sasha says dryly, "counting branches."

My phone buzzes.

Cole: you okay?

Me: Mostly. Wizard tried to gaslight me in a forest, but I survived.

Cole: we're going to talk about that properly.

Cole: after my meeting.

Cole: pls, don't follow any more doors today.

I look up at the trees ringing the quad. Think of Damian's cold eyes.

Me: no doors.

Me: just myths at 6.

Cole: myths.

Me: goblins. Shoot.

Me: Crows, vending machines, general chaos.

Cole: sounds safer than my meetings.

Cole: texts me when done.

Me: maybe me if you're nice.

He sends back a single eye roll emoji. It makes me grin. Sasha catches the look and the grin. Her mouth tightens just a fraction.

"Cole?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "He's off campus. Meetings. Probably with the wizard Cabal."

"Of course," she mutters.

Tessa, either oblivious or ignoring the tension, launches into a rant about tripod etiquette. I nod in the right places, my mind elsewhere. Afternoon classes drag. In psych, my professor talks about attachment styles while my brain unhelpfully labels everyone I know. Sasha, avoidant with a heart of gold. Jax, anxious, disorganized, chaos gremlin. Cole, insecure with trust issues. Me. Disaster.

When class lets out, I check my phone.

Unknown: Nothing.

Cole: nothing yet.

My parents: A picture of our cat perched on my dad's laptop with a caption, "New assistant."

I snort and send back a heart. I kill an hour in the library, half-heartedly skimming an article until it's time to meet Tessa and Sasha for goblins.

By 6, the atrium has shifted from daytime bustle to early evening echo. The sunlight is slanting in lower. The overhead lights are just starting to matter. We've got a permit for shooting so security won't chase us off. Tessa sets up the tripod and checks the frame.

"Stand there," she tells me, pointing to a spot where the fountain and the stairwell both sit in the background like good little props. I adjust my hoodie, tug my hair into a slightly less tragic shape, and step into place. Sasha leans on the pillar off camera, arms folded, watching everything with that medic's calm.

"Rolling," Tessa says, and go.

I slip into content mode like a jacket. "Hey, goblins," I say into the lens. "It's Ava, and tonight we're answering the truly important questions like, why are the crows on the library roof watching you? And what did that vending machine do with your dollar?" I walk, talk, gesture. We do two takes near the fountain, one by the library doors, one in front of the allegedly haunted vending machine. Tessa keeps yelling "again," but more ominous and less murder podcast, more spooky TikTok. Between takes, Sasha hands me water and makes faces to make me laugh.

"You're good at this," she says quietly after one shot when Tessa's fiddling with the focus. "You turn it on and suddenly you're bigger."

"I fake it hard," I say.

"Still counts," she says.

We move outside for the last segment, catching the blue hour. The campus feels different at this time. Emptier, more echo. The crows on the library roof actually hop around like they're hitting their marks. We wrap around 7:30.

"That's a cut," Tessa says, satisfied. "Good work, goblins. I'll send rough cuts tomorrow. Don't let any ghosts follow you home." She hauls her gear away, muttering about storage room locks.

It's just me and Sasha in the cooling air.

"You want to come over?" I ask without thinking. "My mom made sauce. There's probably leftovers."

Sasha hesitates. "I have an early shift," she says. "I should probably go home."

The knot in my chest tightens. "Okay," I say.

"Walk to the bus?"

"Yeah," she says.

We head toward the stop. The sky is deepening into real night now. The campus lights flicker on one by one. Halfway there, she says.

"About this morning—" My stomach drops.

"Yeah."

She shoves her hands into her hoodie pockets. "You said you told your mom about me," she says. "That you like me."

"I do," I say immediately. "I wasn't exaggerating."

"And you like Cole," she says. "And boys in general."

"Yes," I say.

"And you've kissed me," she says. Her voice is steady, but there's an edge under it.

"More than once."

"Yes," I say again.

"What am I to you?" she asks quietly. "Exactly. Not in vibes, in words."

I stop walking. The path is empty. The lamppost nearest us hums, casting us in a pool of pale light. I take a breath.

"I don't have one neat word," I say. "I wish I did."

"Try," she says.

"I like you," I say. "A lot. When I'm with you, everything feels less loud. You make me feel safe, seen, unjudged. You're one of my favorite people."

She nods, jaw tight. "Friend," she says. "You're describing a friend."

"More than that," I say. "Maybe sometimes. When we kissed, it felt good, right? But I don't know if I'm wired for just girls or any label. I've mostly liked guys my whole life. I still do. That doesn't cancel out how I feel when you hold me."

Her throat works. "So, I'm an exception."

"That sounds clinical," she says.

"You're not an exception. You're you."

"Okay, let me ask it another way," she says. "If you had to pick right now, no more kisses, no more almosts, would you pick me or him?"

The question hits like a punch. "That's not fair," I say. "Those aren't the only options."

"Humor me," she says, "gun to your head, hard on the line."

I look away at the dark line of the trees. "I don't know," I say. "I'm not ready to say I don't want you. I'm also not ready to say I won't choose him someday."

"Someday," she repeats.

"I'm trying to be honest," I say. "I don't want to promise you something I might not be able to keep."

She laughs once, sharp. "Wow," she says. "You really are honest."

"Sasha, I'm not mad that you like guys," she says. "That would be stupid. I'm not even surprised you like him. He's painfully obvious."

I almost smile. "He is," I say.

"I'm mad that I didn't realize I was a maybe until after I let myself fall," she says. Her voice cracks on "fall." "That's on me, not you. But it still hurts."

Guilt claws at my ribs. "I never wanted to hurt you," I say. "If I could slice myself into versions so one of me could be just yours and one could be—" I gesture uselessly. "I would, but I can't."

She takes a breath, then another. "Do you like girls?" she asks. "Or do you like me?"

The question is quiet, simple, devastating. My first instinct is to say I like you. It's true. But behind it is another truth. I don't know yet if this is part of a bigger pattern or just one bright, complicated point.

"I don't know," I say, hoarsely. "I think both. Maybe. Probably. I'm still early in this. I feel things around you I've never felt around any girl. That's real. So is how I feel when he looks at me like I'm not a problem to solve."

Her eyes shine in the lamplight. "And when you imagine your future," she says, "who do you see?"

"Sometimes you," I blurt. "Sometimes him. Sometimes nobody, because I'm too busy trying not to eat anybody."

She huffs a wet laugh despite herself, wipes at her cheek. "I'm not asking you to pick right now," she says quietly. "I'm asking if I should stop hopping."

My throat closes. "I don't want you to put your whole heart on hold for me," I say. "I don't want you to wait around while I figure my life out and maybe choose someone else. That would be cruel. I care about you too much to do that."

"So, yes," she says, voice flat. "I should stop."

Pain lances through me. "I don't want to lose you," I whisper.

"You're not," she says. "Just the version of me that thought we might be something more. She needs to recalibrate."

My eyes burn. "I'm sorry," I say.

"I know," she says.

We stand there in the lamplight, both of us breathing like we've been running. Finally, she steps back, tucking a loose braid behind her ear. "We can still be friends," she says. "Real ones, not the 'I kissed you and now I'm going to pretend I didn't' kind."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"No," she says honestly. "But I'm going to try because I'd rather have you messy than not at all."

Something inside me gives way. I step forward and wrap my arms around her. She stiffens for a heartbeat, then hugs me back hard. It's different from before. Less heat, more heartbreak.

"I'm going to be petty in my head," she mutters against my shoulder. "I reserve the right to hate his stupid eyebrows."

"That's fair," I say, voice thick.

We pull apart. "I have to get to my bus," she says, "or my aunt will think I've been abducted by crows."

"I'll text you."

"You better," she says. She turns and walks toward the stop, shoulders tight. I watch until she disappears. I feel like I've just pulled out my own rib. I don't feel like going straight home. My parents will be there with questions and sympathy and garlic bread. I'm not ready for either. Instead, I loop toward the student center, then out toward the edge of campus, the part where the manicured lawns give way to rougher ground, and the trees loom closer. The sunset is gone. The sky is full dark now, a dome of navy velvet pricked with city-muted stars. The redwoods are a darker line beyond the buildings, like teeth. I sit on a low concrete wall facing them, and let myself breathe. My phone buzzes.

Jax: you okay?

Me: Of course.

Me: Define. Okay.

Jax: alive, not in jail. Still have all her memories.

Me: Me? Yes.

Me: Me? No.

Me: Me? Mostly.

Jax: That's a win.

Jax: where are you?

Me: Edge of campus.

Me: Yelling at trees in my head.

Jax: Stay there, J. I'm coming.

Me: You don't have to.

Jax: I know.

Jax: Stay.

I stare at the screen for a second, then put my phone down and hug my knees to my chest. 5 minutes later, footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me.

"Fancy seeing you here," Jax says.

I don't look at him right away. "You really like dramatic entrances," I say.

"It's in my contract," he says. He hops up on the wall beside me, leaving a respectful gap between us. We sit in silence for a moment, looking at the dark tree line.

"How bad?" he asks eventually.

"Which part?" I say. "Wizard mind games, sponsor nonsense, or the conversation where I gently broke my friend's heart."

"Let's start with the last one," he says, voice softer than I'm used to.

I tell him, not every word, not every tremor, but enough. He listens without interrupting, which might be a first.

"Ouch," he says when I finish.

"Yeah," I say. "I feel like someone scraped me out with a spoon."

"You did the right thing," he says. "The honest thing."

"Doesn't feel great," I say.

"Truth rarely does," he says. "If it did, there would be more of it."

I snort. "That was almost deep," I say.

"I have layers," he says. "Like an onion or an ogre or your emotional damage."

I elbow him weakly. "Shut up."

He's quiet a second. "For what it's worth," he says. "Sasha's tough. She'll be mad. She'll be hurt. She'll also survive. She's not the type to fold because a girl has mixed feelings."

"I hate that they're mixed," I say. "I hate that I can't just be one thing."

"Where's the fun in that?" he says. "Look, Ray, you're complicated. So is she. So is the safety spreadsheet. Anyone who expects you to come pre-sorted into neat boxes is an idiot."

"You're an idiot," I remind him.

"A self-aware one," he says.

We sit a little longer. The breeze smells like pine and distant car exhaust.

"How much do you know?" I ask about the door of the program.

"Enough to know you poking at it is giving Damian hives," he says. "That's a perk."

"I say also enough to know he's dangerous."

"He's not the only one either," he adds.

"The group trying to take Myra down," I say. "You said they have a teacher."

"Not just any teacher," he says. "Damian's been sniffing around them. Sure. But there's another one feeding them rope, letting them think they're the masterminds."

"You sure?" I ask.

"I've seen the messages," he says. "Anonymous burner accounts, Discord servers, coded flyers. They want to modernize the program, which is code for throw out anything that doesn't give them more power."

"Charming," I say.

"They recruit from the night track," he adds. "Kids with grudges, control problems, legacy chips on their shoulders. Kids like me," I say.

"Kids younger than you," he says. "Which is the messed up part? They want impressionable."

"Who's the teacher?" I ask.

"I'm still figuring it out," he says. "But I have guesses. And if Damian's gotten his claws into your file, you can bet he's comparing notes with whoever else wants leverage."

"Cool," I say. "Love that for me."

We fall quiet again.

"You said sponsors are usually faculty or legacy kids," I say. "What about other options?"

He tilts his head. "You thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"I'm thinking you said you found cracks," I say. "That you got involved without a sponsor."

He smiles, sharp and a little dangerous. "That's because I didn't go through the front door," he says. "And I didn't go in as a student."

I look at him. "What did you go in as?"

"Help," he says. "Messy, unreliable help. Intern, assistant. 'Sure, I'll carry that box for you.' People underestimate the guy who's always in the background."

"And that got you into pieces?" he says. "Bits of classes, side rooms, rehearsals. I don't have a neat enrollment tag. I have favors, connections, a very ugly lanyard."

"And no one tried to wipe you?" I ask.

"They tried," he says. "I'm slipperier than I look."

"That sounds dirty," I say.

"Only if you want it to," he says.

I shake my head, but I'm smiling. "You want in their classes, their training, whatever," he says. "One option is sponsor. Another is make yourself useful enough they forget to lock a door."

"I don't want bits," I say. "I want the real thing."

"I know," he says. "But bits might be how you get there, and you won't be doing it alone."

I glance at him. "You offering to be my crack?"

"Rephrase," he says. I manage a laugh. It feels good.

"I'm offering," he says more serious now, "to help you find the weak points, not as your sponsor, as your friend, as the guy who already pissed off half their security team and lived."

"And why would you do that?" I ask, besides the obvious thrill-seeking.

He considers. "Because you deserve a chance to not be afraid of yourself," he says. "And because if someone's going to be in those rooms shaking things up, I'd rather it be you than some who thinks power is a personality."

My throat tightens.

"Jax, don't get sappy," he says quickly. "I have a reputation."

We sit there a little longer, shoulders not quite touching, watching the trees. My phone buzzes.

Cole: you home?

Me: Not yet.

Me: Yelling at trees.

Cole: Of course you are.

Cole: text when you get in.

Me: bossy.

Me: accurate.

Jax peers at the screen when I lower it. "Safety dad checking in," he asks.

"Something like that," I say.

He huffs. "He's not going to like me helping you break into his fancy night classes."

"He says he can yell at both of us," I say.

"We're going to have to be smarter than Damian," he says. "And sneakier than Cole and probably faster than at least one security spell."

"No pressure," I say.

He grins. "We're goblins," he says. "We thrive under pressure."

By the time I get home, my parents are half watching a cooking show. The apartment smells like garlic and basil.

"You're late," Dad says, glancing at the clock.

"Tree therapy," I say, kicking off my shoes. "And goblin filming."

Mom pats the couch. "Sit a minute," she says. "We made too much pasta."

I sit. She hands me a bowl. I twirl noodles around my fork without much appetite.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

"Talk to Sasha," I say. "It wasn't fun."

Mom's eyes soften. "You did what you had to," she says, "even when it hurts. And Jax," I add, "apparently he's decided to be useful."

Dad groans. "Of course, he knows more than he should."

"I say about the door, about Damian," I say. "About some group trying to toss Myra."

Dad snorts. "There's always a group trying to toss someone," he says. "When I was in school, it was the dean. Before that, it was the parking authority. These ones have magic."

"I remind him."

He sighs. "Don't remind me."

Mom squeezes my knee. "Just remember what's real," she says. "Us, your friends, your own sense of right and wrong. Doors and wizards and boys come second."

"Some of the boys might say third," I mumble.

"Then they're not paying attention," she says.

Later in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed and turn my camera on.

"Today," I tell the lens quietly, "I broke up with a version of a future I didn't even know I was building." I fiddle with my hoodie string. "I told a girl I care about that I don't know if I can be hers." I say that I like her and I like him and I don't have one neat word for myself yet. I swallow. "I feel like a villain," I admit. "But the alternative was lying until it blew up worse. So, if this is what being honest looks like, it kind of sucks." I blow out a breath. "On the chaos side," I add, "I also bounced off a magical door, told a wizard to stay out of my head, and accidentally recruited a flirt-addicted disaster boy as my accomplice in breaking and entering progress." I almost smile. "I don't know how any of this ends yet," I say. "I just know I can't go back to pretending I'm small or simple or something to be decided by someone else's form."

I save the video and set my phone on the nightstand. It buzzes once more before I can turn off the light.

Unknown: Sponsor requirement stands. Unsanctioned assistance will be discouraged.

I stare at the words.

Me: Good luck discouraging Jax.

dots.

Unknown: Morno is a problem.

Unknown: So are you.

A slow, dangerous grin spreads across my face.

Me: Then maybe you should start planning for what happens when your problems become students.

No reply. I put my phone face down, turn off the light, and lie back. Somewhere in the woods, the door hums. Somewhere in a media lab, a boy with a bandaged shoulder is juggling loyalty and fear. Somewhere in a tiny apartment, a girl with a braid and a cracked heart is deciding how much of me she can still hold. And somewhere else on campus, a flirty chaos goblin is sketching maps of a school he technically doesn't attend, looking for cracks we can slip through. I'm messy. I'm not sorted, but I'm not alone.

I wake up to the smell of garlic and my mother singing off-key in the kitchen. For 10 seconds, I stare at the ceiling and pretend none of my life is real. Then yesterday hits. Sasha under the lamppost. "Do I stop hopping?" Jax on the wall by the trees. "We're goblins." Damian's voice in my head. I groan into my pillow and peel myself out of bed. Mom is plating leftover pasta into lunch containers. Dad's nursing coffee like it betrayed him.

"You're up early," Mom says.

"Apocalypse. Midterms," I say. "Which are the same thing."

Dad squints at me, still seeing that boy. I blink. "You're going to have to be more specific," he says. "Flirty one. Safety freak or girl with braid?"

Mom swats his arm with a dish towel. "Carlos," I mutter. "Not helping."

He lifts a shoulder. "I just want to know who I'm supposed to glare at."

"Rotate," I say. "Equal opportunity glaring."

Mom slides a container across the counter. "No staying out past 10," she says. "Especially if it's for filming. That always ends in trouble."

"I have goblins editing," I say. "And maybe an events meeting."

"Events?" Dad echoes.

"With safety boy."

"He has a name," I say.

"I prefer my version," he says.

Mom kisses my forehead. "No doors in the woods," she says softly.

"I heard you the first 14 times," I say.

"Still saying it," she answers.

On the bus, Sasha slides into the seat beside me without asking, knees bumping mine.

"Morning," she says.

"Hey," I say. We sit in silence for a minute. The air between us feels different. Same warmth, new bruise.

"You sleep?" she asks.

"Some," I say. "You."

"Some," she echoes. The bus rattles over a pothole. Our shoulders sway together and apart.

"You still mad?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah," she says, "not at you—at the situation, at labels, at boys. Co-starring Ava," I say.

She huffs a small laugh. "And at you," she concedes. "A little, but it's background noise. I'm not going to bite your head off for existing."

"That's my job," I say automatically.

Her mouth twitches. "You're still my idiot," she says. "Just with a warning label."

"Handle with care," I say.

"Handle with honesty," she corrects.

I nod. "That I can do." She leans her head briefly on my shoulder, just long enough to feel like forgiveness, then sits up as the bus pulls into campus.

The atrium is a low-grade riot. Posters for the upcoming arts gala cover every vertical surface. Gold script, dramatic photos, "An Evening of Illusions and Innovation." Cole's event. I'm halfway to media theory when he appears at my side, falling into step like we rehearsed it.

"Ray," he says.

"Safety guy," I say.

His mouth twitches. "How's your head?" he asks. "Any lingering side effects."

"Just a new hatred of men named Damian," I say.

"You," he says deadpan. "Same."

We walk a few beats in silence. He nods toward a cluster of posters. "Gayla's Friday," he says. "We're doing a rehearsal tonight. Hybrid deal. Normal students get behind-the-scenes stuff. Night track gets a controlled environment to practice like a show and tell with extra danger."

"I say something like that," he says. "We need volunteers for the human side. People willing to sit where I put them and follow directions while things—" he gestures "—happen."

"Things like falling light bars," I say.

"That was a one-off," he says quickly. "Tonight is low-risk demonstrations, containment drills. I'd be right there."

My stomach tightens. "You want me there," I say.

"I want someone I trust there," he says. "Who can keep their cool and who deserves to see a little more than what Damian thinks you should."

I stop walking. "You're inviting me into a night track thing," I say slowly. "After your boss tried to scrub my brain."

"He's not my boss," Cole says. "He's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated," I say.

"You like complicated?" he points out.

He has a point. I hate that he has a point.

"What's the catch?" I ask. "You said you can't sponsor me. Is this some workaround?"

"It's an open drill," he says. "Half the audience will be day students. It's not enrollment. It's exposure. Damian can't pull rank on that without blowing his own cover."

"And you think he won't try?" I say.

"I think he'll watch," Cole says. "I'd rather he watch you with me there than skulking in the trees."

"Reassuring," I mutter. He shifts his weight, shoulder brushing mine. "Say no if you want," he says. "I'm not pulling you by the collar. I'll find someone else to sit in the splash zone."

"The fact that he'd replace me shouldn't hurt."

"It does."

"What time?" I ask.

"7," he says. "Main auditorium. If you come, find me first. Don't sit with the general crowd."

"That sounded ominous," I say.

"Just trust me," he says. I search his face. He's tired a little, edges worn, but his eyes are clear. "I'll think about it," I say.

He nods once. "That's all I'm asking." He peels off toward the production office, leaving me staring at his retreating back, brain buzzing.

In media theory, I don't hear half of what Harlo says about point of view. My notes are useless scribbles: trust, drill, Damian, sponsor, and inexplicably a doodle of a tree with fangs. After class, Jax corners me at the door.

"You look like you ate a bad mushroom," he says. "What's up?"

"Cole wants me at some night track rehearsal thing," I say. "Seven auditorium."

His eyebrows go up. "U field trip."

"He says it's open," I say. "Hybrid audience demonstrations and Damian—"

"Jax asks, "watching?"

"Of course he is," I say.

Jax mutters. "Students stream around us like water around rocks. You think it's a trap?"

"If it was a trap," he says, "they wouldn't have flyers. It's more like bait and data collection. They want to see who shows up, who freaks out, who keeps their cool."

"And you think I should go?" I say.

"I know you're going to go whether I say yes or no," he says. "So here's my suggestion. Don't go alone."

"You going to hold my hand?" I ask.

"Tempting," he says. "But I'm persona non grata in certain back rooms. I show my face. Damian starts sharpening overdue knives."

"Comforting," I say.

"I am going to be nearby," he adds. "Doors, stairs, air vents. If something goes sideways, I'll know before the safety announcements."

"Air vents," I say. "Since when are you Spider-Man?"

He grins. "You'd be amazed what a bored tech can get away with."

Sasha appears at the end of the hall reading something on her phone. She spots us and heads over.

"You two plotting?" she asks.

"Always," Jax says.

"Cole invited me to a night drill," I say. "Auditorium 7."

Sasha's mouth thins. "Of course he did," she says.

"You think it's a bad idea," I say.

"I think anytime three people with conflicting agendas invite you to the same place, it's going to be a night," she says. "You're going, aren't you?"

"I want to see," I say. "I want to know what they're training for if I'm supposed to be one of them."

She exhales. "Then text me when it starts and when it ends," she says. "If you disappear in the middle, I'll start a riot."

"I'll help," Jax says.

"You'll start the riot," she corrects. "Semantics."

He says, "Afternoon bleeds into evening faster than it should. Goblins work. Reading. The usual hum of campus turning golden then blue."

At 6:30 I'm standing in my room with my closet open, staring at my clothes like they're a test. It's stupid. It's just a drill. But some feral part of me wants armor. I pull on black jeans and my least ripped pair of boots. A black tank. The red flannel Sasha once stole and returned. Hair up then down then half up. Minimal makeup. I tell myself it's so I can see better if the lights go out.

Mom leans on my doorframe. "Where?" she asks.

"Events rehearsal," I say. "Cole's thing. We're audience participation."

She studies me. "Home by 11:00," she says.

"I'll try," I say.

"Not try," Dad calls from the kitchen. "Do."

"Okay, Yoda," I mutter.

Mom smiles faintly. "Text if you're late," she says. "No woods."

"No woods," I promise.

The main auditorium looks different at night. The seats are half filled with regular students. Some from Goblins, some from theater, some just nosy. The stage is dressed for the gala. Black drapes, a glittering backdrop, platforms waiting for performances. A cluster of people in darker clothing stands off to one side. Night track. They don't huddle. They occupy space. Cole is downstage conferring with a woman in a blazer. Myra, the principal. I've only ever seen her from a distance at orientation, in framed photos. Up close, she looks exactly the same, ageless, sharp. Her gaze sweeps the room like she's counting everyone and everything. I hover at the edge of the aisle, suddenly unsure. Cole spots me, says something to Myra, then jogs up the steps toward me.

"You came," he says.

"I'm regretting it already," I say.

"You can bail anytime," he says. "You're not locked in here." He gestures toward a small block of seats near the front, separated from the main crowd by a low railing. "Sit there," he says. "Those are our controlled audience. Closer view, safer angle."

"You always talk like a science experiment," I say.

"Comes with the job," he says. As we head down, I notice Damian on the far side of the stage near a stack of equipment cases. He's not in charge of anything obvious. He's just there, watching. His eyes flick over me then away. Dismissive. It makes my skin crawl. In the designated section, I recognize a couple of faces. Bunny chewing her lip. A tall guy from Goblins. A girl with purple braids. All look a little nervous. Cole leans in.

"You'll see some things," he says.

Quietly. Shifts. Minor spellwork. If at any point you're uncomfortable, stand up and walk back to the aisle. I'll peel off someone to escort you out. Clear. Clear? I say. He nods and heads back to the stage.

Lights dim. The ambient chatter drops. Myra steps up to the center microphone. "Good evening," she says. Her voice is smooth, carrying without effort. "Thank you for joining us for tonight's preview." There's polite laughter.

"We like to say Barage has two faces," she continues. "Day and night. Tonight you'll get a glimpse of what our students prepare for when the rest of campus is asleep." She talks about control, responsibility, the line between spectacle and safety. Her words are chosen carefully, nothing explicitly supernatural, all using the kind of language you could explain to a board of trustees without giving them a heart attack.

"We will show you things," she says. "But we will not tell you everything that is earned." Her eyes linger on the night track section. Then for half a second they flick to me. I shiver.

The first demonstration is simple. A girl from night track stands center stage and ignites a controlled ring of fire around her feet. Hands raised. Lines of sigils on the floor flare, containing the flames. The heat reaches my face. My skin prickles, but it doesn't burn.

Next, a boy shifts partially, eyes glowing, claws extending, teeth sharpening, then pulls himself back down to human with visible effort. His breathing is ragged. A healer in the wings watches, ready. I recognize her, the dumb girl from my sight class who always asks obvious questions and gets answers nobody else thought to. Leah. Her expression now is focused, serious, none of the scattered act.

"Of course," I mutter. She notices me, gives the tiniest nod, then returns to watching the werewolf boy. The crowd murmurs, equal parts fascinated and unsettled.

"Still okay?" Someone behind me whispers. I jump. Jax drops into the seat at my left, hoodie up, blending into the rose.

"You're not supposed to be here," I hiss.

"Neither are you, technically," he says. "Isn't breaking the rules more fun with company?"

"I thought you were sticking to air vents," I say.

"I got bored," he says. "And I wanted a better view if something explodes."

"You're very reassuring," I say.

"Shh." Someone in front of us hisses.

On stage, Cole steps up with a mic. "And now," he says, "a containment drill. His voice is steady, professional. 'We're going to simulate what happens if someone loses control in a confined space,' he says. 'Our students will respond with deescalation and restraint. You'll see safety spells, physical intervention, and healer coordination.'" He nods toward the wings. A boy steps out. I know him. Hoodie boy, the one who attacked Bunny. His hoodie is gone now. He's in a plain shirt, sleeves rolled up, expression carefully blank. My heart drops somewhere around my knees.

"What the hell?" I breathe. Jax goes very still beside me.

"Of course, they picked him," he mutters.

"This is part of his discipline track," Cole explains from the mic. His voice has a harder edge now. "Controlled exposure supervised." Myra's watching like a hawk from the side. Damian stands in the shadows, arms folded.

"This is a mistake," Jax says under his breath.

On stage, symbols glow faintly under Hoodie Boy's feet. He rolls his shoulders, jaw clenched. "Ready when you are," he says. He starts to shift. It's slower than in the alley, more deliberate. Bones creek, muscles ripple. His back arches, claws sprout. He growls low and contained. The containment ring flares brighter.

Cole gestures. Two other Night Track students move in, flanking Hoodie Boy, one witch, one werewolf. Leah stands at the edge of the sigil circle, eyes narrowed, hands hovering over a small glow of healing magic, ready to deploy.

"This is where they show off how in control they are," Jax mutters. "Right before everything goes to—" the lights flicker. Just once, like a blink, the containment symbols sputter. Time slows. One of the glowing lines under Hoodie Boy's feet goes out. A gap opens in the ring. His head snaps up. His eyes are wrong. Too bright, too hungry.

"Uh-oh," Jax says. The containment sputters again and dies. Hoodie boy lunges. He doesn't go for the flanking students. He goes sideways toward the edge of the stage, toward the audience, toward us. People scream. The witch on his left throws up a barrier. It catches him for half a second, then shatters.

"Stay," Jax says. He launches himself over the row in front of us, sprinting toward the stage. I'm on my feet before I can think. My vamp speed kicks in. Light strobing, sound stretching, bodies slowing. Hoodie boy hits the edge of the stage and leaps. I move. One second. I'm at my seat. The next I'm halfway up the aisle. I grab the girl in his path, a freshman I recognize from goblins, and yank her sideways. Hoodie boy lands where she was, claws gouging the seat. He whirls on me, lips peeled back, teeth too long.

"Not again," I say. My fangs drop. He snarls and swings. I duck. Claws whistle past my face, close enough to feel the wind. Hands grab Hoodie boy's shoulders from behind. Cole. He locks his arms around the kid's torso, using momentum to yank him back off balance. They crash into the steps. The impact echoes.

"Containment!" he shouts. Now the witch recovers, starts chanting fast. The other werewolf student dives in, pinning Hoodie Boy's legs. Hoodie boy bucks like a wild thing. His eyes find my face. Recognition flares.

"You," he growls, his voice is layered, human and wolf. "You again." His weight shifts. He bucks harder, almost throwing Cole off. My head swims. The smells, blood, sweat, adrenaline are a roar in my nose. My stomach clenches with hunger. Wrong timing. Worse timing. I grip my teeth. Force air into my lungs. Pull back, I tell myself. Do not lunge. Do not bite.

Hands clamp on my shoulders. "Ava." A voice snaps in my ear. "Look at me." Leah. She's right beside me now. Eyes hard. Her grip surprisingly strong. "Not him," she says low. "Not here." Eyes on me. Her irises flicker unnatural gold for half a second. My focus snaps to her. The noise dims. The scent blur recedes enough that I can breathe without salivating. Behind her, the containment sigils flare back to life. The witch yells a final word. Light erupts under hoodie boy and surges up around him, forming a translucent cage. He slams into it, snarling, claws scraping. The barrier holds.

"For now, everyone stay in your seats," Cole barks into the mic. His voice is sharp. "Police loud. You are safe. The situation is contained." Lie. Half lie. But people want to believe it. They cling to his words like a railing. Myra steps in, eyes like iron. She murmurs something under her breath, flicks her fingers. The cage thickens. Damian watches from the shadow, expression unreadable.

Leah squeezes my shoulders once more, then whispers, "You okay?"

"Define okay," I rasp.

"You're not drooling," she says. "That's a start." She lets go and strides toward the stage, healer mode fully on. Her previous dumb girl persona is gone. She barks orders at two assistants, sets a med kit near the steps, prepares bandages.

Jax reaches the edge of the cage, panting. "You're an idiot," he tells Hoodie Boy. "You know that, right?" Hoodie Boy snarls and slams against the barrier. Jax flinches but doesn't back away. Cole stands just outside the grid of light, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his shoulder where Hoodie Boy's claws caught him. Blood seeps between his fingers again.

I'm moving before I think, closing the distance in a handful of steps. "Let me see," I say. He looks at me, eyes wide with adrenaline. "I'm fine," he says.

"You're bleeding," I counter. Leah appears at my other side.

"Sit," she orders Cole. "Or I will sedate you in front of your adoring public." He hesitates, glances at Myra. She nods once. He sits on the edge of the stage. Leah pulls his hand away from the wound. It's not as bad as last time. Deep scratches already bruising around the edges. Still too much blood. My vision narrows.

Leah flicks a glance at me. "Back," she says quietly. "Table now." Her tone brooks no argument. She might as well have shoved me. I back away three steps. Four. My fangs ache. My palms dig into my thighs. Breathe. I tell myself. In. Out. Not hungry. Not here.

From the side. Someone takes my wrist. Jax. "You're good," he says under his breath. "You got her out of the way. You're done. Let the pros wrangle the wolf." I nod, eyes on his shirt collar instead of the blood.

On stage, Myra steps to the mic. "This," she says, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade, "is why we drill. Containment failure is not acceptable. We will be reviewing every sigil, every anchor, every line of protocol." Her gaze cuts to the equipment cases, to Damian. His jaw tightens. She looks back to the audience. "For tonight," she says, "the demonstration is over. Please exit in an orderly fashion. You have all seen enough."

Understatement of the year. Students start filing out, murmuring. Some look thrilled. Some look shaken. Most look like they'll be posting about this for days. In the designated section, Bunny sits frozen, eyes huge. I squeeze her shoulder as I pass. "You okay?" I ask. She nods jerkily. "I think yeah," she says.

"You did good," I say. "You sat. You didn't run. That's more than most." She gives me a weak smile.

Jax steers me toward the side aisle away from the main crush. My legs feel wobbly. As we reach the door, a voice calls. "Ms. Rays." Of course, Damian. He stands near the exit like a bouncer with better hair.

"Enjoy the show?" I ask. My voice comes out too sharp. His gaze flicks over me, taking in the fangs just under my lip, the tension in my shoulders.

"Some of it," he says. "Some of it was disappointing."

"Containment failure tends to be," I say. "Maybe don't use kids who already tried to maul someone behind a coffee shop." His lip curls slightly.

"You assume cause and effect," he says. "We prefer to correct dangerous behavior under controlled conditions."

"That looked really controlled," I say. "10 out of 10." Jax shifts closer to my side. Damian's eyes flick to him, then back to me.

"You handled yourself better than I expected," he says again. I don't know if that's meant as a compliment. It feels like a warning.

"Give me a sponsor and I might handle even better," I say.

"This is not the time," he says.

"No," I say. "This is exactly the time. Your containment slipped. Your student went for the throat. Literally, I'm out here improvising self-control. How am I more worried about your system than you are?" His eyes flash just for a second.

"You are not the only variable I'm monitoring," he says. "Do not presume to understand the full board from your single square."

"Then move me," I say. "Put me somewhere useful."

"Find someone willing to stand beside you when you burn," he replies. "Then we can discuss it." He steps aside. Jax makes a face at his back that's half snarl, half childish tongue out.

"Come on," he mutters to me. "Before I say something that gets me exploded." We head for the lobby.

Outside, the air is cold and sharp. Students cluster in tight groups, buzzing about what they just saw. "Did you see his eyes?" "She lit her hands on fire." "Like, actually, that guy in the front row moved so fast." I wince.

"Your secrets safe," he says. "They'll write it off as adrenaline and bad lighting."

"Will they?" I say. He steers me toward a bench out of direct flow.

"You did good," he says again.

"I almost didn't," I say. "The smell. I saw."

"That's why Leah jumped you," he says. "She knows."

"I say. She's known," he says. "She's not dumb. She just plays it for extra credit." I lean forward, elbows on my knees.

"I feel like I'm walking on a knife," I say. "One step left, I hurt someone. One step right, I get my brain scrubbed. Straight ahead is a door I can't open."

"Then we find a side entrance," he says. He nods toward the auditorium doors where Cole has just emerged, bandaged again, Myra at his side.

"Word of warning," Jax says. "If you're going to ask him again about sponsoring, don't do it where Damian can see. He's itching for an excuse to nail Cole to the wall."

"I wasn't going to ask tonight," I say.

"He's bleeding," he says. "That's never stopped you from yelling at people before." But his tone is fond. I flick him a look.

"Weren't you the one who said truth rarely feels good?" I say.

He holds up his hands. "Hey, I love the yelling. I just also love you not getting expelled." Cole spots us, says something to Myra, then heads our way. His gait is steady, but there's stiffness in his shoulder.

"I'll leave you kids to your angst," Jax mutters. "I have vents to crawl."

"You're kidding about the vents," I say. He just winks and vanishes into the crowd.

Cole stops in front of me. "You okay?" he asks immediately.

"I stand."

"I'm not the one who got mauled," I say.

"Here," he says, and reaches for my wrist. I stiffen, he pauses, eyes questioning. "May I?" he asks. I nod. He turns my wrist gently, checking. "No scratches," he says. "No burns, good." His fingers are warm. My heart does its stupid drum solo.

"Containment failed," I say.

"That's supposed to happen?"

"No," he says. "Words don't just flicker like that. Someone tampered."

"Who?" I ask. He glances back at the doors, at the now empty stage beyond.

"That's the question," he says.

"Damian," I say.

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe someone he's poking. Maybe someone else entirely. That's why we drill. And why we make notes when things go wrong." He releases my wrist reluctantly. "You moved fast," he adds. "Too fast."

"I tripped," I say. He gives me a look.

"I told you," he says quietly. "You can't keep pretending you're just normal. Not here. Not with people like Damian sniffing around."

"Then help me be something else," I say.

"Sponsor or not?" He looks like he wants to say yes. His jaw works like there's a war inside.

"I'm trying," he says. "Whether you see it or not." I swallow.

"You saved him," I say. "Hoodie boy."

"I saved everyone else from him," he corrects. "But yeah, that's the job."

"He hates me."

"He hates himself," Cole says. "You're just more interesting to look at." I huff out a laugh despite myself. He snorts.

"Are you going home?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "My dad's probably packing."

"Text when you get there," he says. "Please."

"Bossy," I say.

"Accurate," he replies. He hesitates, then reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheekbone, light as breath. My lungs forget how to work. "Thank you," he says. "For coming, for not running."

"You mean when the werewolf tried to eat us?" I say.

"I didn't have time."

"Still," he says. The air between us thickens. I almost lean in. Almost. Then my phone vibrates violently in my pocket. Mom's ringtone. I jump. He drops his hand.

"Go," he says soft, "before they send a search party." I nod, backing away.

"Try not to wrestle any more half-shifted idiots tonight," I say.

"No promises," he answers.

On the bus. Mom's voice is still in my ear. "You said 11:00," she's saying. "It's almost 10:30."

"I'm on the bus," I say. "We had to debrief."

"Debrief what?" Dad calls in the background. "Who do I need to debrief?"

"No one," I say quickly. "It was just a drill. Nothing exploded."

"That's not a denial," Mom says.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Home in 20."

"You better be," Dad mutters.

When I finally step into the apartment, they're both waiting. Mom on the couch. Dad by the door like a very short bouncer.

"You smell like smoke."

"Stage effects," Mom says.

"Fog machines, fire, you know, art," I say. Dad crosses his arms.

"What happened?"

"Containment hiccup," I say. "One of the participants got a little too into character."

"And?" Mom asks.

"And it's handled," I say. "Nobody died. He got contained again. Cole got scratched. The safety team did their jobs."

"You were there," Dad says.

"I pulled a girl out of the way," I admit. Mom closes her eyes briefly.

"Of course you did," she whispers.

"What was I supposed to do?" I ask.

"Watch," "Yes," Dad says. "Let the people who signed up to be heroes do the hero stuff."

"I am one of those people," I snap. Silence slams down. I take a breath, force my voice down. "I'm not saying I'm invincible," I say. "I'm not. I know that better than anyone. But if I just sit and let things happen, what was the point of all of this, of hiding, of starting over?" Dad's shoulders sag.

"I just don't want them to use that against you," he says. "They see you jump in, they add it to their file. Impulsive, reckless, a risk."

"I'm already a risk," I say. "Might as well be a useful one." Mom stands, steps between us.

"We're not going to solve this tonight," she says softly. "You're tired. We're scared. That's a bad combination." She brushes hair out of my face like Cole did. "Shower," she says. "Sleep. We'll yell at each other in the morning." I manage a smile.

"Deal," I say.

In my room, steam fogs the mirror as I scrub smoke and adrenaline off my skin. In the shower, I can still feel hoodie boy's howl vibrating in my ribs, smell his blood, taste the almost of mine. When I finally crawl into bed, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. One message, not from unknown, from Leah. I didn't even know she had my number.

"Hey, you didn't eat anyone. Proud of you." I huff a laugh.

"Thanks for yelling at me."

"Anytime. You're in deeper than you think."

"You know, I'm starting to get that."

"Get some sleep, vampire."

"Big day tomorrow." Big day for what she doesn't say. I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. On stage tonight, I saw what they really do when the doors close. On the floor in the seats, I saw who I am when things break. Between those two places, there's a gap. Somewhere in that gap is my sponsor. My way in, my way out, my way through. I don't know yet if it's Cole or Leah or Myra or some combination of idiots and heroes. I just know after tonight, standing outside isn't going to be enough.

I wake up with the taste of smoke still in my mouth. For a second, I think the auditorium is burning again. Then I realize it's just garlic from last night clinging to the air and my own brain replaying hoodie boy's howl on loop. My phone says 7:12. My head says throw me out the window. I roll out of bed anyway. Mom is at the stove flipping tortillas. Dad's at the table scrolling the news like it personally offended him. He looks up as I shuffle in.

"Good," he says. "You're not dead."

"Morning to you, too," I mumble, dropping into a chair. Mom sets a plate in front of me.

"Eggs," she says. "And leftover salsa. You look like you fought a lawnmower."

"Just a werewolf," I say. "Close enough." Dad's jaw tightens.

"Don't," he says. "Not funny."

"I'm alive," I say. "Untorn, see." I hold out my arms. He eyes my sleeves like he expects hidden bite marks.

"You jumped in front of something with claws again."

"I pulled a girl out of the way," I say. "Then the containment came back on. It was fine."

"It was not fine," he snaps. "You told us it was just an event rehearsal. Ava, not come watch your classmates almost get eaten."

"I didn't know," I say. "Cole said containment drill. He didn't say freerange psycho." Mom slides into the chair across from me.

"You didn't answer my text right away," she says quieter. "I imagined a lot of things." Guilt pricks at my ribs.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was kind of busy not losing my fangs in public." Dad flinches.

"Did you?" he asks.

"A little," I admit. "But I put them away. Leah helped."

"Leah?" Mom asks.

"The dumb girl from my psych class who apparently moonlights as a genius healer," I say. "She snapped me out of it."

"So now we trust new healers and secret teachers," Dad mutters. "Great." Mom reaches for my hand. I let her take it.

"You're okay now?" she asks.

"Tired?" I say. "Shaky, but yeah. Okay enough." She squeezes my fingers. "If they keep putting you in situations like that."

"They didn't put me in it," I cut in. "I volunteered to be in the closed seats. I wanted to see. I knew there were risks. I just didn't expect the damn circle to flicker out." Dad's eyes narrow.

"Circles don't just flicker," he says.

"I know," I say. "Someone messed with it."

"You sure?" Mom asks.

"Cole said as much," I say. "Wards don't randomly take a coffee break." Dad rubs his temples.

"So someone inside this thing is sabotaging safety drills," he says. "And you want to keep going back?"

"I want to stop them from turning me into collateral damage," I say. "If I sit at home and pretend none of this exists, it doesn't make me safer. It just makes me blind." He opens his mouth, then closes it. Mom looks between us.

"Be careful," she says finally. "Whatever you do, whoever you trust, be careful."

"I will," I say. Dad exhales.

"If any of those people try to touch your memories again," he says, "you come to us first. We'll figure something out."

"Like a lawyer?" I say.

"Like a flamethrower," he says. Mom elbows him.

"Eat," she says to me. "Then go do your magic politics."

"Magic politics," I repeat. "New minor."

The bus ride is oddly quiet. No Sasha dropping into the seat. No Jax with his stupid grin. Just a couple of half asleep commuters, a student in headphones, and me. I text Sasha a quick "you alive?" and get back a thumbs up and a "clinic early shift." I stare out the window as the trees thicken. Somewhere past them, the door hums, invisible and infuriating.

When I step into the atrium, campus buzz is turned up to 11. "Did you see his claws?" "I swear her hands were on fire." "Cole just grabbed him like bare-handed." Tessa materializes in front of me, eyes bright.

"Oh my god," she says. "You were in the splash zone."

"I was in the 'please don't bite the freshman' zone," I say. She grabs my elbows.

"Tell me everything," she says.

"I had to sit with the normal, boring people," I say. "Later." My brain's still putting itself back together.

"Fine," she says, "but goblins wants you on camera talking about it. Student perspective on safety and horror."

"Hard pass," I say. She grins like I didn't say anything. "We'll workshop it." Before she can interrogate me further, someone clears their throat behind me.

"Aar." I turn. A woman in a crisp navy blazer stands there, tablet in hand, late 20s maybe. Sharp eyes, hair pulled into a neat twist. I recognize her from campus emails. Assistant dean something.

"Yes?" I say.

"Principal Rowan would like to see you," she says. "Now, if possible." My stomach drops.

"Like, office see me?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "This way." Tessa whistles under her breath.

"Someone's in trouble."

"Or getting a medal," I say. She snorts. "This is college. We don't do medals." "Text me." The assistant dean leads me out of the atrium down a side hall into the administrative wing. The part of campus that always smells a little like copier toner and polished wood. We stop in front of a heavy door with frosted glass. Principal Myra Rowan. My heart does a weird flip. I've seen her from afar. Heard her speeches. Now I'm going to be in her office. The assistant knocks once, then opens the door and gestures me in.

Myra Rowan's office is both exactly what I expect and nothing like it. Big windows, bookshelves, a few framed diplomas, a plant that looks like it's older than the university. Everything tidy but not sterile. She stands as I enter. Up close, she's even more unsettling. Early 40s maybe, but there's something ageless around her eyes. Dark hair pulled back neatly. A gray dress, simple but expensive.

"Ava," she says, "may I call you Ava?"

"Yes," I manage.

"Good," she says. "Please sit." There are two chairs in front of her desk. One is empty. The other has someone in it. Cole. He looks tired, but present. Fresh bandage peaks from under his sleeve. He sits very straight, hands clasped, eyes on me as I approach.

"Ava," he says quietly.

"Hey," I say. Myra settles back behind her desk. The assistant dean closes the door and disappears.

"I wanted to speak with you both," Myra says, "about last night."

"Okay," I say.

"You were in the controlled section," she says to me. "Front row when containment failed. You moved fast."

"I pulled someone out of the way."

"I say it wasn't."

"It was," she says. "You put yourself between an uncontrolled subject and another student. I'm not here to scold you for that." I blink.

"You're not."

"Some of my colleagues would prefer I did," she says. "But I try not to punish instinctive protection. It's a useful trait when honed." Cole's lips twitch. Myra folds her hands.

"You also nearly lost control," she continues. "Leah reported it. You pulled back. That matters. But I need you to understand. Our margin for error is very, very small."

"I know," I say. "I'm trying."

"I believe you," she says simply. The words land with surprising force. "I also know," she goes on, "that you followed my students into the woods and attempted to force entry into a secured facility." I flinch.

"That was before the drill," I say.

"I am aware of the chronology," she says dryly. "You met Damian at the door."

"Yes," I say. "He tried to pull something. I pushed back." Her gaze sharpens.

"He shouldn't have done that," she says. "Not without my direct authorization."

"You knew?" Cole asks.

"I know more than he thinks," she says. There's a threat of steel in her voice now. She looks back at me.

"You are what we call an out-of-network anomaly," she says. "Born off registry, tripped wards in another city, more capable than most of the humans around you, less trained than any of my active students."

"Story of my life," I say before I can stop myself. One corner of her mouth quirks.

"Yes," she says. "I imagine it is. I applied," I say, "the night program, whatever you call it. Your system keeps texting me ineligible."

"That automated system was designed for legacy lines and vetted feeders," she says. "It is ill-equipped to handle exceptions."

"So, I'm an exception."

"I say you are." She says, "And exceptions are both assets and liabilities."

"Damian said, 'I need a sponsor.'"

"Or I stay locked out."

"Damian likes rules," she says. "When they serve his purposes."

"Do they serve yours?" I ask.

"Her eyes glitter sometimes," she says. "Right now, yes, in general, no." I look at Cole. He's very still.

"You grew up in this world," I say to him. "You know what you're doing. I'm stumbling around in the dark, hopping not to bite anyone."

"You haven't," he says.

"Yet," I say. "But you haven't," he repeats. Myra watches us.

"There are three overlapping concerns," she says. "Your safety, the safety of the students around you, and the integrity of a program that already has too many enemies."

"Enemies like the group trying to unseat you?" I ask. She doesn't flinch.

"You've been talking to Mr. Moro," she says.

"Apparently, everyone knows everything," I mutter.

"Not everything," she says, "but more than you think." She steeples her fingers. "Under normal circumstances," she continues, "I would instruct you to stay away from my doors until a sponsor emerged. I would have Damian keep you at arm's length and hope your life remained uneventful."

"And after last night?" I ask. She pauses.

"After last night," she says slowly, "I am less inclined to leave things to hope." Silence stretches.

"Are you going to erase me?" I ask. Cole's head jerks. "Myra." She lifts a hand.

"No," she says. "If we were going to do that, it would have been before you followed my children into the forest. Memories are threads. Pull the wrong one, the whole cloth distorts."

"So, what are you going to do?" I ask.

"For now," she says. "I am going to keep you close enough that I can see which way you lean."

"That sounds ominous."

"It is pragmatic," she says. "You need training. I need to know whether giving it to you will strengthen my position or hand my enemies a weapon."

"If you don't train me," I say, "they still have a weapon, just a poorly controlled one."

"Exactly," she says. She glances at Cole. "Mr. Ashwood," she says, "has been insistent that we find a way to integrate you. He argued against Damian's more drastic suggestions. He is not, however, in a position to sponsor you officially."

"I told her," Cole says quietly.

"The sponsor requirement stands," Myra says. "On paper, it keeps certain factions from flooding the program with unstable assets."

"Damian," I say.

"And others," she says, "but paper is flexible." I blink.

"So, what does that mean?"

"It means," she says, "that until a formal sponsor arrangement can be made, you will attend a limited set of sessions as an auxiliary participant under supervision. No full immersion, observation, and controlled drills only." She says it like she's offering extra credit. My heart lurches.

"You're letting me in," I whisper.

"I am letting you to the threshold," she corrects. "Do not mistake that for carte blanche."

"I won't," I say quickly.

"It also means," she adds, "that Damian will watch you more closely than ever. He will look for reasons to say, 'I told you so.' You must not give him any."

"So, no more following people without permission."

"I would prefer you acquired your information through sanctioned channels," she says.

"That's a no." Cole translates.

"Fine," I say. "Sanction me." Myra almost smiles.

"You will report to the clinic at 4 this afternoon," she says. "Leah and Poppy will run a baseline assessment. Strengths, control, triggers. I want a clearer picture of what you can do when you're not improvising." My stomach flips today.

"Unless you have other plans," she says mildly.

"Just homework," I say, "and existential dread."

"Reschedule the dread," she says. "This takes precedence." I huff a laugh, half nerves.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "Really?" She leans back, eyes on mine.

"Because," she says quietly. "I have seen what happens when we leave people like you outside. They do not get less dangerous. They get desperate. And desperation is what men like Damian feed on to justify their worst ideas." A chill slides down my spine.

"What does he want?" I ask.

"Power," she says simply. "Authority, the right to decide who is worth saving and who is not."

"And you," I ask, "what do you want?" She considers.

"I want my students alive," she says. "And I want this program in the hands of someone who believes the first priority is not fear, but control."

"Sounds like a campaign speech," I say. She smiles just a little.

"You may go," she says. "Cole, walk her out." We stand. My legs feel weirdly light. As we reach the door, Myra adds, "Oh, and Ava." I turn.

"You were very brave last night," she says. "Try not to make a habit of needing to be."

"Yes, ma'am," I say.

The hallway outside feels narrower than when we came in. Cole walks a step ahead, then slows, so we're side by side. "You okay?" he asks.

"I'm processing," I say. "She just basically said, 'Congrats, you're still a risk. Come be a supervised risk.'"

"That's better than 'stay home and hope,'" he says. "I know."

"My parents are going to love this," I say. "They don't have to know every detail."

"They're my parents," he says. "They know when I breathe weird." We pass the assistant dean's desk. She pretends not to listen. At the stairwell, I stop.

"You really went to bat for me," I say. He shrugs like it's nothing.

"You deserve training," he says. "We ask too much control of you without giving you tools."

"And Damian," I ask, "you're not worried he'll use this to screw you over."

"He's been trying to find leverage on me since I was 16," he says. "You're not his first excuse. You won't be his last."

"That's comforting," I say.

"It's reality," he says. He leans against the railing, studying me. "How do you feel about the assessment?" he asks honestly.

"Terrified," I say. "Excited. Like I'm about to sit the weirdest placement exam ever."

"You are," he says. "Leah's good, Poppy, too. They'll push, but they won't let you break."

"Can't believe the girl who pretended not to understand basic psych is about to poke my brain on purpose," I mutter. He smiles.

"Layers," he says. "We all have them." He hesitates. "I know this isn't what you wanted," he says. "You wanted in all the way. Students, classes, door pass, the works."

"I wanted not to be treated like a bomb," I say.

"You kind of are one," he says, "in the best way. Controlled blast pointed at the right target."

"Wow," I say. "Romantic." His mouth twitches.

"I'm serious," he says. "You explode toward danger, not away. That's rare and terrifying and something we can work with." Heat curls low in my chest.

"I can't sponsor you yet," he says. "Not officially, but I'm not going anywhere. You're not doing this alone."

"I'm aware of your control issues," I say. He huffs a soft laugh.

Someone clatters down the stairs above us. We both look up, breaking whatever was building. Jax. He stops halfway when he sees us.

"Wow," he says. "I didn't realize this stairwell was booked."

"We're talking."

"I can see that," he says. "Am I interrupting a safety lecture or a romantic subplot?"

"Both," Cole says. Jax makes a face.

"Gross," he says. "Rowan wants you, Ashwood. Damen's packing in the hall like someone stole his lab rat." Cole sighs.

"Of course he is," he mutters to me. "You'll be okay getting back."

"I've survived worse than stairs," I say. He squeezes my shoulder once quick, then brushes past Jax up the stairs. Jax watches him go, then looks at me.

"Well," he says, "you look like someone just told you you're both grounded and invited to prom."

"Not far off," I say. Myra, letting me do assessments, supervised sessions. No official admission yet." Jax whistles low.

"That's huge," he says. "Damian's going to rupture a vein."

"He already tried to rupture my memories," I say.

"Now he gets to watch you in a sterile room instead of in the woods," Jack says. "Progress, I guess," I say. We start down the stairs together.

"You good?" he asks. "With them poking you more?"

"I'm better with deliberate poking than surprise brain grabs," I say. "At least this way I can bite someone on purpose if they overstep." He grins now.

"That's the offer I know," he says. "The rest of the morning passes in a haze of almost normal. Media theory. Group chatter about last night. Tessa whisper ranting about how campus security blocked her from filming the most interesting parts."

At lunch, I meet Sasha under our tree. She sits cross-legged, picking at a salad. She looks tired, but less raw than yesterday.

"How'd the big office go?" she asks.

"Surprisingly non-explosive," I say. "Myra wants Leah and Poppy to evaluate me at 4." Sasha's fork freezes halfway to her mouth today.

"Apparently, my existential crisis has a schedule," I say. She searches my face.

"You okay with that?" she asks honestly.

"I'm more okay with it than with Damian doing whatever he wants," I say. "If I'm going to be on a file, I'd rather Myra be the one writing it."

"That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," she mutters.

"I'm not stupid," I say.

"She's not doing this out of the goodness of her heart," she says. "She wants to know what kind of piece I am on her board."

"And you're okay with being a piece?" she asks.

"As long as I get to move," I say. She smiles faintly.

"That's very you," she says. We eat in silence for a minute. It's almost comfortable.

"Last night," she says suddenly, "at the drill, did you want a drink?" The question is quiet, but it feels loud.

"Yes," I say. "For a second, when I smelled the blood when Hoodie was thrashing. It was a wave. But then Leah grabbed me and I remembered I'd rather die than do that in front of everyone." Her shoulders relax a little.

"Thank you," she says, "for not eating anyone."

"I say, for telling me you wanted to," she says. "It'd be easy to say you weren't tempted."

"I'm done pretending I'm not scary," I say. "I'd rather be the scary girl who's honest about it than the one who lies until she snaps."

"Good," she says. "I like the scary girl."

"You're biased," I say. She smiles a little.

By 3:45, my stomach is a knot. The campus clinic is quieter than usual. The waiting room smells like antiseptic and coffee. Poppy sits behind the desk, bangs clipped back, glasses propped on her head. When she sees me, she smiles.

"There she is," she says. "Our favorite almost hero, almost hazard."

"Great," I say. "That's exactly the tagline I wanted."

"Come on," she says, waving me through a side door. Leah's in the back setting up. We walk down a hallway lined with exam doors. Posters about flu shots and stress management decorate the walls.

"How's the shoulder?" I ask.

"Functional," she says. "Don't worry. I gave Safety Boy enough guilt to last a week."

"Good," I say. She opens a door near the end of the hall. The room inside looks like a mashup between a physical therapy office and a yoga studio. Mats on the floor, a couple of exam tables, a mirrored wall, a card of medical supplies, sigils faintly etched into the baseboards, if you know how to look. Leah stands near a rolling whiteboard, scribbling something that looks half like a workout flow and half like a spell. She turns when we enter.

"Welcome to your very weird checkup," she says.

"Is this where you pretend to forget my name again?" I ask. She grins.

"Nah, that bit was for class," she says. "Here you get full brain." Poppy closes the door behind us.

"Here's the deal," Leah says, clapping her hands once. "We're going to run a series of tests, physical, magical, mental. No one's going to throw you into a full throttle shift scenario."

"That's for later, if at all."

"Comforting," I say.

"First baseline," she says. "Vitals, reflexes, range of motion. Then we poke the fangs."

"Do not phrase it like that," I say. Poppy smirks.

"Sit," she says, patting a table. I sit. She wraps a cuff around my arm, checks my blood pressure, shines a light into my eyes.

"Resting heart rate's high," she notes.

"Welcome to my normal," I say.

"Any dizziness?" she asks.

"Only existential," I say. Leah pulls a stool up in front of me, a tablet in her lap.

"You told Myra about last year," she says, "about the incident." My throat tightens.

"She already knew," I say. "Damian told her." Leah grimaces.

"Of course he did," she mutters. "I want to hear it from you."

"Short version." I stare at my hands. "I lost it," I say. "Guy at a party pushed, grabbed. I warned him. He didn't stop. I snapped. Fangs, claws, the works. I didn't finish, but there was blood. My parents moved us before anyone could connect the dots."

"And since then?" she asks.

"Nothing like that," I say. "Little things, hunger, spikes, some near misses, but I've kept it together."

"Last night," she asks, "scale of 1 to 10."

"Seven," I say. "It hit hard. Then you yelled at me and my brain remembered it likes you more than blood." She snorts.

"Flatterer," she says. "Okay, good. That's useful."

"Useful how?" I ask.

"It tells me your trigger is less blood and more blood plus unresolved trauma plus chaos," she says. "We can work with that."

"How?" I ask. She hops off the stool.

"Slow exposure," she says. "Controlled scenarios teaching you to ride the wave instead of getting knocked over."

"This sounds like therapy," I say.

"It's more like training a muscle," Poppy says. "You don't get stronger by never lifting anything."

"I hate that that makes sense," I say.

"On the physical side," Poppy adds, "we need to map your strengths, how fast, how strong, how hard you can hit before you scare a human."

"And then?" I ask.

"Then we teach you how to pull it back," Leah says. The next hour is weird. They make me do basic stuff first, touch my toes, stretch, push against Poppy's hands, grip a dynamometer that squeals when I squeeze too hard, then balance drills. Eyes closed, one foot stands. My vamp senses make it easier until Leah flicks the lights and pipes in white noise, and my brain tips sideways.

"Good," she says. "You're terrible when we overload you. We can fix that." They have me walk across a line of faint sigils on the floor. They flare pale blue under my feet, then fade.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Resonance check," Leah says, "seeing how you interact with standard wards."

"And?" I ask.

"And you make them nervous," she says cheerfully. "They ripple more than usual. Probably bloodline weirdness."

"Love that for me," I say. Finally, the part I've been dreading.

"Okay," Leah says, hands on her hips. "Fangs."

"I hate this," I say.

"I know," she says. "Do it anyway." Poppy brings over a small sealed vial. The liquid inside is dark red. Human blood, but old donor preserved. My throat tightens. My fangs twinge.

"Deep breath," Poppy says. I inhale. Exhale. Leah holds the vial at arm's length.

"We're going to open this," she says. "I want you to describe what you feel. We're not going to bring it close enough for you to taste. If you reach for it, I smack you."

"Comforting," I say. She cracks the seal. The smell hits like a punch. Metallic, rich, a memory of warmth. My vision narrows. Every instinct screams mine. I grip the edge of the table.

"Okay," I say through my teeth. "That's strong."

"Scale?" Leah asks.

"Eight," I say. "Nine. I don't know."

"Where does it sit?" she asks.

"Teeth, gut, head. Throat," I say. "Jaw, hands."

"Good," she says. "Focus there. Acknowledge it. Then remember last night. Remember not wanting to chew on your classmates." I snort weakly.

"Great mantra," I say.

"Seriously," she says. "Hold both. Hunger and choice. You're not fighting the first, you're adding the second." I close my eyes. The smell roars. I remember Bunny's face. Hoodie boy's snarl. Cole's blood on my fingers. My parents' kitchen. The boy's terrified eyes. The sickness after.

"I am not doing that again," I say, voice low. "Not like that."

"Good," Leah murmurs. "Anchor there. Breathe." I breathe slowly. The wave crests. It doesn't fully recede, but it stops trying to drown me.

"Scale now," she asks after a minute.

"Six," I say. "Maybe five."

"Excellent," she says. "Open your eyes." I do. The vial is still there a meter away. I don't lunge. She seals it, hands it off to Poppy. My muscles shake. Sweat prickles my neck.

"That sucked," I say.

"Yeah," Leah says. "But you didn't bite anyone. That's a win." Poppy nods.

"For a first session," she says, "better than most." I sag in relief.

"So, I'm not complete garbage," I say.

"From it," Leah says, "you're actually promising." The word makes something in my chest unclench.

"Here's the thing, Ava," she says. "We don't need you to be perfect. We need you to be predictable. Know your triggers. Know your limits. Know where you snap. Once we know that, we can build around it."

"And then?" I ask.

"And then we make you as safe as anyone like us gets to be," Poppy says. By the time we're done, it's almost 6:00. The sun outside the clinic windows is slanting low. Leah walks me to the door.

"Miral will get our notes tonight," she says. "She'll decide what she wants to do with them."

"Any guesses?" I ask.

"Knowing her," Leah says, "more sessions, more tests, careful integration."

"And Damian," I say. Her mouth tightens.

"He's going to hate this," she says.

"Which makes me like it more," I say.

"Good," I say. She hesitates.

"You did good today," she says. "I know it felt like crap, but you did."

"Thanks," I say. "And hey," she adds, "if you ever feel something slipping when we're not in here, text me. I mean it. Before you isolate, before you panic, call in your healers early."

"I don't want to be your problem after hours," I say.

"You're already my problem," she says. "Deadpan. Might as well get the full benefits." I laugh.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say.

Outside, the campus has taken on that soft early evening glow. The buzz feels different now, less like noise, more like a current I'm finally allowed to touch. As I cut across the quad, Jax falls into stride beside me.

"Well," he asks.

"Apparently, I'm promising," I say, "in a 'could still eat someone' way."

"High praise," he says. "How bad was it?"

"On a scale of 1 to 10," I say. "Horrible, but good horrible." He nods.

"Leah's solid," he says. "I wouldn't trust most of them with a paper cut, but her. She actually gives a—"

"Yeah," I say. "She does." We walk a few steps in comfortable silence.

"I've been thinking," he says.

"Dangerous," I say.

"Hilarious," he says. "Seriously, the sabotage last night. You think Damian did it?" I ask.

"Maybe," Jack says. "Maybe not. Either way, he'll use it. 'Look how unsafe Myra's protocols are. We need stronger measures.' Blah blah."

"Stronger measures like brain scrubbing," I say.

"Exactly," he says. "And like expulsions, permanent ones."

"So, what do we do?" I ask.

"We keep watching," he says. "We keep pulling receipts. And now that you've got one foot in, you listen. In hallways, in clinics, in those stupid orientation speeches."

"You want me to spy?" I say.

"I want you to do what you already do," he says. "Notice everything. Tell me when something feels off."

"And what are you doing?" I ask. He grins.

"Breaking into Discords," he says. "Reading flyers, making friends with idiots who like to brag."

"Of course," I say. He bumps my shoulder.

"Welcome to the team, Rays," he says. "We pay in anxiety and snacks."

"I expect a raise," I say. On the bus home, I'm too tired to do

anything but lean my head against the window and watch the city blur. My phone buzzes once. Cole, how did it go? I stare at the message for a second, then type back. I didn't eat anyone. Lia says, I'm promising. His reply comes fast. I told you. Proud of you. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too big. Don't say proud. Makes me feel like I'm five. Fine. Impressed then. Better. He sends a little check mark emoji. It shouldn't make my heart flip. It does.

At home, mom is chopping vegetables. Dad's pretending not to watch the door. How was your thing? Mom asks. Awful, I say. And good. Dad squints, brain intact, he asks. Mostly, I say. Leah did most of the poking, not Damian. That's something, he says. We did baseline stuff, I say. Strength, fangs, self-control. They're going to keep working with me, under watching. Mom looks relieved and worried at the same time. If at any point you want to stop, she says, "You can. You're not trapped in this." "I know," I say. "Right now, I don't want to stop. For the first time, it feels like I'm walking towards something instead of just running away." Dad exhales. "Just keep telling us," he says. Don't let this become your other secret life. It's all one life, I say, messy and loud and here. He gives me a small, tired smile. That's my girl, he says.

Later in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed and turn my camera on. Today, I tell the lens, I voluntarily walked into a room and let my friends make me hungry. I roll my eyes at myself. They opened a vial of blood, I say. And part of me went, "Yes, please." And part of me went, "Absolutely not." And for the first time, the second part didn't feel smaller. I think of Leah's promising. Poppy's better than most. Myraer is brave. I am still a risk. I say to myself, to people who get too close, that hasn't changed. What's changing is I'm not the only one holding that knowledge anymore. I rest my chin on my knees. I don't know if Myra is doing this for me, I say. Or for her, or for some future version of this school I can't see yet. Probably all three. I think of Damian in the hallway watching. Of Jacks on the wall by the trees. Of Sasher in the bus seat saying, "Handle with honesty." "But I do know this," I say. Every time they try to push me away, I keep ending up closer. Maybe that's stubbornness. Maybe that's fate. Maybe it's just me being too nosy for my own good. A small fierce spark flares in my chest. Either way, I say, if I'm going to be a problem, I'd rather be a problem with training than without. I reach forward and stop recording. Outside my window, the city hums. Somewhere beyond it, the redwoods do, too. And for the first time, instead of feeling like I'm banging my head on a locked door, I feel like someone somewhere inside just slid the deadbolt back one notch.

I wake up like someone's hit play on a movie halfway through. Redwoods, a glowing door that won't let me in. Damian's eyes. Myra saying exception. Leah telling me I'm promising. My brain wants to lie there and replay everything on a loop. My alarm says, "Get up or fail college." I get up. The kitchen is all morning light and clatter. Mom moves between stove and counter, humming under her breath. Dad's at the table, pretending to read his tablet and actually watching the door. "You look less like Roadkill," Mom says as I shuffle in. "High praise," I say, dropping into my chair. Dad studies my face like he's looking for cracks. "Head?" Okay, he asks after their evaluation. Still attached, I say. They poke the fangs. I didn't eat anyone. It's a win. His shoulders loosen a fraction. And this baseline thing, he says. They want you back. Yeah. I say, Myra, starting to pull me into their orbit slowly, supervised. Mom slides a mug of coffee toward me. You don't have to say yes to everything, she says. You know that, right? I know, I say. But if I don't say yes to anything, I stay the girl who almost lost it in a kitchen and then runs from every sharp edge. I can't live like that forever. Dad grimaces. I hate that your choices are be their project or be scared alone, he mutters. Third option, I say. Be their project on my terms. That's not how projects work, he says. It is if the project bites back, I say. Mom snorts and almost drops her spatula. Don't encourage her, she tells dad. He sigh. Just remember your terms then, he says. And if they move the goalposts, you come home and we burn their forms. Deal, I say.

The bus ride is a moving aquarium of student faces. No Sasha this morning. She texted clinic shift 7M kill me with a skull emoji. I watch the city smear by, letting the vibration of the bus settle my nerves. By the time I hit Barra's atrium, campus buzz has shifted from, "Did you see the werewolf?" to, "What does last night mean?" The poster boards are thick with art scale of flyers. "Someone," added a doodle to one of them. A little stick figure werewolf chewing on the word safety. Tessa waves from the goblins table, but she's in full campaign mode, cornering freshmen for signup. So, I duck past with a later gesture. Media theory is a haze. Group work concepts. My notes end up full of arrows and tiny sigils I've seen on clinic baseboards. After class, I step into the hallway and my phone buzzes in my pocket. Leah, clinic at 1:30. Don't eat first, you'll puke. I text back a middle finger emoji and shove the phone away, heart hammering a little faster. Morning bleeds into early afternoon in a blur of lectures and half-heard jokes. I cross paths with Jack's once in the quad. He walks backward in front of me, talking with his hands, launching into some rant about the theater kids lighting choices. His mouth moves a mile a minute, but his eyes keep skimming the tree line like he's counting exits. He doesn't have to ask if I'm still going. He knows. By 120. My stomach is a tight knot under my ribs as I push open the clinic door. The waiting room looks normal. Students with sniffles, a girl with an ankle brace, pamphlets about measles. The air smells like disinfectant and stale coffee. Poppy pops her head out of a side door and crooks a finger at me. There she is, she says. door committee table for one. "Is there a t-shirt?" I ask. "Or does being bait come with a lanyard." "You're starting to talk like J," she says. "Come on." She steers me down the familiar hallway past exam rooms to the same hybrid training room as yesterday. "It's not empty." Three other students sit perched on mats, each on their own little island of nerves. Two I recognize from lectures. quiet girl with braids who always sits near the exit, broad-shouldered guy from my psych seminar. The third is new, wiry with pale hair and restless hands. Leah stands by the whiteboard, marker in hand. You're late, she says when I enter. It's 1:29, I say. In my world, that's late, she says. Sit. I drop onto a mat. The others glance at me, then away. The air hums with that particular tension of people about to do something they're not sure they want but can't back out of. Leah caps the marker. Okay. She says welcome to auxiliary orientation. You four have been flagged as special circumstances by our friends in administration. That means Myra would like you closer. Damian would like you farther. And we in the clinic are stuck in the middle cleaning up after both. The wiry boy snorts. The others just look slightly sicker. Today is your first authorized crossing, Poppy says, leaning against the wall, arms folded. We're escorting you to the access point, taking you through, and dropping you in the shallow end of the pool. No deep divies, no independent wandering. If you see a door that looks interesting, assume it wants to eat you. Leah points her marker at each of us in turn. Quick intros, she says. Name, type, biggest fear. The pale boy groans. Really? He says, "Yes," she says. "Go." They go. Braids girl, witch illusions, terrified of blackout panic. Broad shoulder, healer, wolf side, afraid he'll freeze when someone really needs him. Wiry boy, shifter, snake, and fox afraid of getting stuck as something small and squishable. When it's my turn, they all look at me like they already know. Ava, I say. Vampire biggest fear is losing it again. Silence, then slow nods. No flinches. That helps. All right. Leah says, "Ground rules. You stay with us. You don't touch any glowing surfaces without permission. If you feel weird, you say so before you puke, pass out, or sprout claws." Poppy tosses each of us a small metal disc the size of a coin etched with a symbol. temporary access tags. She says keyed to you, to us, and to this afternoon only. You lose that, we have to drag you out manually. Wiry boy, Noah, I've already decided from his vibe. Fumbles his twice before clipping it to his belt loop. Mine feels heavy in a way that's not about weight. Leah checks the clock. Let's move, she says.

Walking to the redwoods in a sanctioned little procession feels nothing like following shadows from a distance. We step out of the clinic into bright daylight. Student traffic parts around us more than usual. As if they sense there's something different about this group and their brains file it under don't engage. We cut behind the science building. My heart starts pounding harder with every step. Air cooler, trees thicker. The crooked lamp near the third trail head bends just as awkwardly as always. The chain and trail closed sign are gone. In their place, a single orange cone stands in the path, laughably inadequate. This doesn't look secret, Noah mutters. Door likes to play dress up, Poppy says. Don't be fooled. We step off the paved path and onto the needlesoft forest floor. The smell of sap, earth, and something older wraps around us. Leah's stride is confident. Poppy's you miss nothing walk sweeps the edges. I fall in behind them, making myself walk like I belong, like I'm not two heartbeats from bolting. The subtle fork in the trail appears sooner than I expect. The same notch in the bark, the same curve around old growth. My skin prickles with deja vu. The clearing is exactly as it was when I trespassed. Mound, stones, silver lines threading up into branches, but brighter somehow alive. The door stands in the mound side again, frame humming with quiet symbols. Damian is there, of course. He leans against a tree with the deliberate ease of someone who wants it known that he is casual about this. When he straightens, the air tightens. Ms. raise, he says. You made it on time. According to L, I'm late, I say. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He looks us over like he's counting pieces in a game. These are the auxiliaries, he asks Leah. Yep, she says. Pre-screened, pre-briefed, semi- housebroken. He ignores the last bit. Myra has authorized limited access, he says like he wants to taste each word for poison. You will stay with your escorts at all times. You will not attempt to piggyback off any full students privileges. You will not touch anything you are not instructed to. Noah mutters something under his breath. Poppy steps on his foot lightly. And if we do, I ask before I can swallow the question. Damian's gaze lands on me. Then your tags deactivate, he says. And so does this experiment. The way he says deactivate makes my neck hair stand up. He gestures toward the plinth. Tag scan, he says one at a time. Leah nods at me. You first vampire, she says. Show the kids how it's done. My feet feel far away. As I step toward the plinth up close, the stone looks worn smooth by years of hands. The top is etched with concentric circles and an inner symbol that won't sit still under my gaze. I set my metal tag on the center. For a moment, nothing. Then the symbol flares, lines of light running out along the silver cables into the mound, up into the branches. The air thickens around my hand, cool and sticky, like fog made of static. Under my palm, something hums. It doesn't push me away this time. A pulse runs up my arm, cool, then hot. My fangs twinge. A prickle races over my skin. And for one flickering second, I feel watched by something bigger than the people standing here. Then it's gone. The symbol dims to a steady glow. The tag clicks hot then cool. The door frame brightens. Access granted, Damian says flatly. Step through Miss Rays. Here goes nothing, I murmur. The last time I reached toward this door, the barrier shoved me back. Now when my fingers touch the air where there should be dirt, it yields like water. Cold pours over my skin, through my clothes into my bones. For a heartbeat, my body forgets how to exist in one place. The world stutters. Then I'm inside. The first thing that hits me is the smell. Not dirt, not dust, something clean and ozone sharp over stone and old paper and a hundred different heartbeats. behind me. The others step through one by one. Little intake of breath sounds, soft curses. The door frame slides quiet back into solid wall, but I can still feel it at my back. A failed boundary turned passage. We stand in a corridor carved more by magic than tools. Stones smoothed into curves. Faint sigils pulsing where wall meets floor. The ceiling arches just high enough to feel bigger than it looks. Lights float overhead in a slow, controlled drift, bright without harshness. They look like trapped fireflies. Voices echo from farther in. Steps, the thud of weight on mats, the crackle of contained energy. We're not in a tiny bunker. We're in a campus under the campus. Leah lets us stare for a moment, then she jerks her head. Stay close, she says. Welcome to night school.

We walk. Corridors branch and curve, lines of light marking edges with a soft glow. Here and there, doorways open into rooms that look like a mashup of lab, gym, and war room. One room is lined with targets, each one burned with scorch marks or gouged by claws. Another holds a circle of chairs and a whiteboard covered in complex sigils that give me a headache if I look too long. A third is quieter. Students sitting cross-legged on mats. Eyes closed, fingers resting on their own pulses, breaths moving in unison. Everyone wears some variation of the same thing. Dark clothes, blues and grays and blacks, practical shoes. A few have coats draped over chairs. A lot have tired eyes. We pass a glasswalled observation room. Inside, a tall woman with silver streked hair, definitely superhuman, definitely terrifying, is talking to a cluster of kids as they watch a recording of last night's drill. I catch a glimpse of myself on the screen. Blur of motion, pulling a girl sideways before the angle shifts. My stomach flips. Don't linger, Poppy says. We move on. At a Tjunction, a new presence joins us. Cole. He comes around the corner from the left. A stack of folders under one arm. A mug in his hand. Here in this world, he looks different, more at ease, more dangerous. The edges I've seen on campus sharpened into something efficient. He sees us, and for a moment, his face is all controlled professionalism. Then his gaze lands on me. Something flickers. Warmth, relief, worry. You made it, he says. It's not a question. I walked through the actual door, I say. I think that qualifies as made it. The other auxiliaries glance between us, recognition dawning. Broad shoulders gives me a look that says you didn't mention him was part of the package. Leah nudges Cole with her clipboard. We're doing the grand tour, she says. Myra wants them oriented before she unleashes them on more interesting things. Orientation first, Cole says. Interesting. Later. That's what you think, Leah mutters. He looks back at me. How's your head? He asks quietly. Any push back at the door. Static, I say. Cold. A sense of being judged by a sentient security system. The usual. Sounds normal, he says. But his eyes keep scanning my face as if looking for invisible cracks. We walk together now. Poppy bringing up the rear, Leah at the front. The corridor opens into a larger space. If the outside campus has an atrium, this is its mirror. A central hall under the hill, high ceiling, ringed with doors and aloves. A wide staircase curves up to a balcony that runs around the perimeter. Students fill the space in small knots. A group of witches passes a glowing orb between them like a hot potato, laughing when it zaps slow fingers. Two werewolves in partial shift spar in a padded corner, movements controlled but brutal. A teacher monitoring with folded arms. A trio of vampires sits around a table, playing cards with flickers of speed that make the deck blur. They all turn in tiny ways as we enter. Not a full obvious stare, just quick looks, sense checking mental notes. We are the new kids in the cafeteria again. Leah clears her throat. Ox crew, this is Commons, she says. You eat here, debrief here. Try not to punch each other here. Noah tilts his head back, looking up at the curve of ceiling, the faint filigree of sigils etched into the stone. Wild, he murmurs. A tall girl peels away from a group near the stairs and saunters over. Dark hair in a high perfect ponytail. Athletic build. Eyes like a wolf even in human face. Her hoodie hangs off one shoulder. The emblem on the front a stylized paw. Kira. I've heard the name whispered in hallways. Top of her combat track. A little too proud of it. She looks our little cluster up and down. Gaze snagging on my access tag. Auxiliaries, she says. No question. More like she's tasting the word. Orientation, Leah says. Be nice. I'm always nice, Kira says. Her eyes slide back to me. You're the vampire, the one from the drill. I feel heat crawl up my neck. Depends who you ask, I say. Damian's newest pet project, she goes on. Congratulations. Her voice is cultured and bored at the same time. The students at her back watch, waiting for a show. Auxiliaries are Myra's program, not Damian, Poppy says mildly. Kira's smile doesn't reach her eyes. Of course, she says, "We're<unk> all on the same team, right?" She shifts her stance just enough that I can feel the weight of her. The way she holds herself ready, the way a wolf holds still before a pounce. It's not a physical threat. Not yet. It's a test. The smell of dominance and challenge prickles at the back of my throat. Every old instinct says, "Bear your teeth. Snap back. Don't show weakness." Leah's training from yesterday cuts through the surge like a hand on my shoulder. Acknowledge the wave. Choose your response. I let myself feel the spike of anger, the flash of hunger, and then let it slide aside. I'm not anybody's pet, I say. I'm just here to make your test scores look better. a beat. Then someone behind Kira snorts. The corner of her mouth twitches unwillingly. Cute, she says. Let's see if you're still cute and drill. She flicks her gaze to Cole like she's checking how far she can push. He doesn't move. His jaw is tight. Kira, he says, just her name, just a warning. She lifts her hands in mock surrender and backs away, rejoining her pack. Leah blows out of breath. Well, she says, "You survived your first social interaction. 10 points. Feels like we should be recording that for my grade," I mutter. "We are," Damen's voice says behind us. I hadn't seen him cross the hall, but there he is now, appearing at the edge of the commons like smoke thickening into a person. He addresses Leah and Poppy, but his eyes rest on me. Ms. Ray's integration will be observed, he says. By everyone, I suggest you choose your allies carefully. Ava, he uses my first name like it's a crime. Poppy's jaw flexes. Leah clicks her pen so hard I think it might break. We have a schedule, Poppy says crisply. You areation later. She steers us toward a side corridor before Damian can reply. For a second, my gaze catches on the line of his shoulders as he turns away. He's talking to someone near the stairs. A teacher I don't know. Tall, sandy hair, smile too smooth. They lean in close, voices low. Jax's words echo in my head. There's another one feeding them rope. A coil of unease settles deeper.

Our first actual session is in a room labeled C3. Door marked with a simple circle sigil. Inside, it's a hybrid of dojo and lab. Mats on the floor, mirrors along one wall, a line of padded dummies in one corner, a bank of monitors in another. A woman in her 30s stands waiting, arms folded. Her hair is in a tight bun, her eyes sharp, her posture screaming ex-military. This is instructor Halen, Leah says. She's in charge of basic control and deescalation drills. Lucky me, Halen says dryly. Fresh meat. We line up. She walks down the row assessing, saying almost nothing. When she reaches me, she stops. Raise. She says, night of drill vampire. Present, I say. I watched the tape, she says. You move fast. You also lock your jaw when you're about to lose your temper. Fix that. It telegraphs. Yes, ma'am. I say. The drills start easy. We run simple patterns. Step forward, duck, block, retreat over and over until my muscles burn. No powers yet, just body, breath, timing. Halen barks corrections. Poppy and Leah watch from the side, scribbling notes. Next, she pairs us up. Braids girl Ken ends up with broad shoulder Miguel. Noah gets one of the regular night track kids, a long-limmed boy who moves like he's made of water. Halen points at me, then at a tall witch with locks and a scar through one eyebrow. Raise Ren, she says. You're together. Basic reflex. Ren gives me a brief nod, expression neutral. We stand opposite each other on the mat. Rule one, Halen says, no shifting, no fangs, no full spellcasting. This is about baseline. If you cheat, I'll know. The exercise is simple in theory. We stand in a tight circle with other pairs and toss a small bean bag around. Halen randomly calls out names. Whoever has the bag when she stops the sequence takes a step closer, shrinking the circle. It's meant to test reaction time under changing conditions. The first few rounds are easy. I catch, throw, adjust my footing. Ren's hands are quick. Noah fumbles once, swears softly. Then Halen adds a twist. As of now, she says, you're only allowed to move if the bag is coming toward you. If you move at the wrong time, you're out. Control your flinch. The bag arcs, passes, dips. My fingers twitch when it sails near my shoulder, but I clamp them still. The pace picks up. Halen's voice snaps names. Miguel, Ken, Ren, Noah, Sasha. My brain supplies automatically stupidly before I shove the thought away. By the third round, two auxiliary kids and one regular are out standing at the edge watching. When the bag comes at me unexpectedly hard, Noah overcompensating, I feel my body go for the vamp catch. That blur of extra speed, I clamp down, force myself to move at human pace. My fingers close around the fabric without blur. It hurts a little, like stopping a sneeze. Halen's gaze flicks to me. She gives the tiniest nod. By the time she calls it, sweat runs down my spine. My jaw aches from holding back. Not terrible, she says. We'll see how you do when we add stress next time. Next time. There's going to be a next time. After 2 hours of drills and orientation lectures, emergency protocols, safe rooms, if you see something, say something. My brain feels full and hollow at once. Myra appears just long enough to deliver a speech about responsibility. Damian ghost walks through the back making notes. Kira smirks from her corner. When Leah and Poppy gather us to leave, my whole body hums like a tuning fork.

Walking back through the commons, I catch sight of Jax. Not where he should be in here. At first, I think I'm imagining him. Then he shifts and I recognize the particular slouch of his shoulders. He's perched in a narrow balcony al cove above, half hidden behind a column, clipboard in hand, wearing a visitor lanyard like it's a costume. He catches my eye for a heartbeat. I see a dozen masks flicker across his face. Casual, cocky, caught, concerned. Then he puts a finger to his lips in a shh and taps his lanyard. Even from below, I can see the print. Facilities volunteer. Of course, I manage the smallest eye roll I can muster and keep walking. At the door frame, the air shivers again. The tag on my belt warms, then cools as we cross back into daylight. The world outside feels wrong for a second. Too bright, too loud. The smell of cafeteria pizza hits me like a physical thing. I blink, adjusting. The auxiliaries peel off one by one. Noah muttering about needing sugar. Callen texting someone. Miguel heading toward the gym. Poppy claps my shoulder once. Not bad for your first date with the door, she says. Hydrate. Rest. If you see Kira, don't punch her. No promises. I say. Leah just gives me a look that says, "Text me if you feel weird." And disappears back into the clinic. I start across the quad, feet moving on autopilot. My phone buzzes. Not a message, a call. Sasha. I answer. Hey, how'd it go? She asks. Her voice sounds breathless like she's walking. Weird, I say. Big, exhausting. I saw a girl light her hands on fire and a boy turn halfwolf and not eat anyone, myself included. That last part is important, she says. You okay? I feel like my brain ran a marathon while my body did push-ups, I say. But yeah, okay. Need company? She asks. The question sits between us. Yesterday's lamp post conversation is still a bruise. We're both careful not to poke too hard. Yes, I say if you're offering. Commons in 20, she asks. I get off shift then. I'll be the one staring at walls, I say. Perfect, she says. I spend the waiting time in the corner of the student center, nursing a cold drink and scrolling my feed, half readading comments about the latest Goblins teaser. My body feels heavy, but under that is a subtle thrill. I walked through the door. It didn't shove me out. I didn't snap. I'm in. Not all the way. Not yet, but enough. When Sasha appears, she looks like she's just peeled out of scrubs. hair in a messy knot, hoodie thrown over a clinic t-shirt. There's a smudge of something on her cheek. She drops into the seat across from me. "You look like you got hit by a truck," she says. Door, I correct. And Kira's personality. "Ohe she knows you exist already. She sniffed out my existence like I owed her money." I say, "Told me I was Damian's pet project. I wanted to bite her. In the hot way or the murder way, Sasha asks. Both, I admit. She laughs soft. The sound unwinds something tight in my spine. I tell her about the corridor, the commons, Halen's drills, Halen's tiny approving nod, Kira's test, Damian lurking. I leave out Jax in the balcony. That feels like its own separate future argument. She listens, fingers wrapped around her cup, eyes steady. When I mention the blood vial exercise from yesterday, her mouth tightens, but she doesn't flinch away. You did good, she says when I finish. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you did. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, I say. For Damian to decide I'm too much trouble and pull the plug. He doesn't get to decide that alone. She says he's not God. He's a middle manager with magic. I snort. Don't let him hear you say that, I say. I would pay to say that to his face, she says. Maybe someday, I say. We fall into quieter talk, clinic gossip, her aunt's latest rant about the administration, Tessa's video ideas. The hurt between us isn't gone, but it's navigable. By the time I head home, the sky is turning purple orange. The bus feels less like a cage and more like a bridge.

At home, dinner is leftovers and questions. Mom wants every detail. Dad pretends not to, then asks twice as many. I tell them as much as I can without making their hair go white, door drills, healers. I didn't bite anyone. I edit out Kira's baiting, Damian's threats, Jax's infiltration. You're sure you want to keep doing this? Dad asks when I finish. No, I say and yes. And I think if I stop now, I'll be more scared than if I keep going. He sigh. You always did want to run toward the thing that scared you. I blame you, I say. You're the one who taught me to look under the bed instead of hiding from it. He makes a face like he regrets all his life choices.

Later in my room, I sit on my bed and stare at the blank note app on my phone. My fingers move. Today I walked through a door that used to spit me out. I type. I walked into a world where I'm supposed to be a monster and a student at the same time. I pause, delete monster, replace it with weapon. They say they want to help me control it, I write. Some of them do. Some of them want to point me at their enemies. Some of them want to lock me away in a file. Behind my eyes, I see Myra's measured gaze, Halen's nod, Leah's grin, Poppy's quiet steel, Kira's challenge, Damian's cold amusement, Jax with his stolen lanyard, Cole in the corridor, eyes warming when he saw me. For now, I type. I'm letting them all think they're winning. I tuck the phone under my pillow and turn off the light. The redwoods are out there, the door humming under earth and sigils. This time when I close my eyes, my dreams don't put me outside looking in. They put me in the commons under the curved stone ceiling, surrounded by people who are all a little bit dangerous and a little bit lost. For the first time, it feels less like trespassing and more like standing, shaky but steady, where I'm meant to be.

By morning, my whole body felt like a bruise. Halen's drills had reached places I didn't know I had muscles. When my alarm screamed, I lay there for a second and considered abandoning my degree, my powers, my life, and moving into a cave. Then my phone buzzed clinic today. Leah, right? No cave. I texted back a weak thumbs up, dragged myself out of bed, and let the hot shower blast the stiffness out of my shoulders. When I tilted my head under the spray, faint purple shadows of last night's door flickered behind my eyelids. Sigils humming, the cold push of magic, the way the world changed texture between one step and the next. By the time I hit the kitchen, mom was already dressed for work and dad was tying his shoes. "Morning," Mom said. "You look like someone beat you with a yoga mat." "Accurate," I said, raiding the toast. Dad eyed the faint bruises on my forearms. Tell me that's from normal exercise, he said. If you define normal loosely, I said control drills. No one tried to bite me. Except you, mom said. Except me, I agreed. They both watched me for a beat, heads tilted in the same way, checking for cracks. I'm okay, I said. Really sore, but okay. Dad nodded once. text if okay changes," he said. "Always," I said.

Campus looked different to me now. It had always been two-faced. I was just better at seeing the seam. In the atrium, under the echo of voices and espresso machines, I could feel the faint humming under my feet, like the doors pulse extended this far. I moved through my morning classes on autopilot. Lectures, slides, notes, I still caught pieces. Harlo ranting about narrative tension, a psych discussion on moral injury, but my attention kept drifting to people. A girl in the second row who yawned too wide, flashing the barest edge of Fang. A boy at the back with a fresh bandage on his forearm and the kind of watchful stillness I recognized from last night. A witch from the commons, now in a barriage hoodie, pretending to be normal as she doodled sigils in the margins of her notebook. The worlds were less separate than they pretended. At noon, I let Tessa drag me through a goblin's planning session, nodding when she asked about filming schedules, my mind half on her and half on the soft buzz of my access tag against my hip like it was impatient. By 1, Leah pinged. Doran 20. Bring your control pants. I snorted and stuffed my phone away. The walk to the woods felt less like trespassing now and more like punching in a code I'd finally memorized. We weren't a little procession this time. Auxiliaries were supposed to approach in pairs or small groups. Today it was just me and Miguel, broad-shouldered healer wolf, chewing gum like he was heading into a workout instead of a warded pocket dimension. You ready? He asked. I shrugged. I don't think anyone's ever ready for magical performance reviews, I said. He huffed a laugh, spit his gum into a wrapper, and tucked it away. Fair, he said. The crooked lamp, the bend in the trail, the clearing opening out like an exhale. Damian was there again, like a bad habit. He didn't say much this time, just watched as we touched our tags to the plinth. The symbol flared, the cables hummed, and the door swallowed us. The transition hit less hard. Still cold, still that stretchy second where my body didn't quite know how to exist, but familiar enough that my stomach didn't flip. Inside the corridor's floating lights bobbed overhead. Students passed, some in small clusters, some alone. A couple glanced at my tag and then away, cataloging me as auxiliary and problem in one look. Leah was waiting outside C3, clipboard tucked under her arm. Poppy leaning beside her like backup muscle. Warm-ups, Leah said as we approached. Halen in the mood. "Is Halen ever not in the mood to watch us suffer?" Miguel muttered. Once she laughed at a cat video, Poppy said, "But that might have been a glitch." Inside the training room, the mats were already laid out. Halen stood at the far wall, hands behind her back, eyes tracking us like we were incoming recruits. Raise Miguel, she said. Shoes off, line up. We obeyed. Footwork drills again. Forward, back, side, pivot. No magic, just body mechanics. Halen prowled the perimeter, nudging ankles into better position with her foot, tapping shoulders to straighten spines. The repetition burned, but in a clean way, like sanding rough edges. After 20 minutes, she clapped. Baseline looks better, she said. Today we add stimuli. That did not sound friendly. She tilted her head at Poppy and Leah. Said it. The change came gradual. At first, it was just a faint shift in the air, a prickle along my arms. Then light dimmed around the edges of the room, leaving the center bright. From hidden speakers, sounds started. Murmurs, distant shouting, a baby crying, someone laughing too loud. Nothing sharp enough to grab, just layers. distraction. Halen said, "You stay on task." We repeated the patterns. Step, block, pivot. Voices rose and fell around us. Meaningless words and half phrases meant to snag attention. My brain wanted to chase them. My body wanted to turn toward the cries. I forced myself to keep my eyes on Halen's hand, on where she wanted my weight. Better, she said. You're not squirrels. Good. Now we escalate. The scents rolled in next. Warmth, spice, the tang of sweat, a trace of blood so faint most humans wouldn't have noticed. My fangs twitched. Blood again. Leah caught my eye from the wall and made a small grounding gesture, palm out. I latched onto that instead of the phantom scent, using her as an anchor. Breathe, I told myself. Feel it. Don't chase it. We pushed through another set. Halen watched me close. When she saw my jaw locking, she barked. Raise unclench. I forced my teeth to part. The drill ended before my control frayed. Halen gave a curt nod. Progress, she said. You still tell on yourself, Ray, but at least you catch it. I blew out of breath. My shirt clung to my spine. Noah and Ken arrived halfway through, joining the last round. By the end, all four of us were sweating and just a little wild died. Halen dismissed us with a wave. "Cool down," she said. "Then you get a treat, Leah. You're up." Leah bounced off the wall with the kind of energy only cruel people and very good teachers have. "Field trip," she said. "Move your asses."

We were expecting another training room. What we got was a war map. The space Leah led us into was deeper under the hill, past a second set of wards that buzzed against my skin like static clinging to a sweater. The room itself was oval, lined with screens on one side and a wall-sized map on the other. The map wasn't paper. It was a living projection. Our city in glowing lines of blue and white. Little moes of light pulsed at various points. Campus downtown, a cluster near the industrial park. Two people stood by the map. Myra, controlled, composed, hands clasped behind her back, and a man I hadn't met yet. He was tall, broad-shouldered, somewhere in his 40s. Sandy hair cut short, a few silver threads at his temples. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing a thin white scar on one wrist that vanished under the cuff. His posture was easy, relaxed in the way that says I don't have to prove anything. When we entered, his eyes flicked over us, quick and assessing. They lingered on me half a second longer than on the others. Auxiliary crew, Leah announced with the flourish of someone presenting a float in a parade. Rays, Miguel, Kalen, Noah, kids, this is Professor Ashwood. The name hit like a dropped glass. Ashwood. My eyes snapped to his face. Then to Cole, who stood on the far side of the room by the screens, hands shoved in his pockets. Same mouth shape, same line of jaw. The resemblance was there now that I knew where to look. Subtle, but undeniable. Cole's gaze didn't flinch at mine, but his jaw tightened. Of course. Myra watched the realization move across my face. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Yes, exactly that. Professor Ashwood smiled. It was a good smile, warm, inviting, designed to disarm. The kind of expression that made you feel like you just been noticed in a crowd. So, he said, "You're the new line between controlled incidents and PR nightmares." His voice was smooth with the kind of dry humor teachers use when they've been doing this long enough to be jaded and still care. Something like that, Leah said. He gestured at the map. This is the live grid, he said. Wards, incident reports, patrol patterns. Normally, this room is for senior staff and advanced fellows. Myra thought it was time you saw what you're being fitted into. The map pulled me. Blue white lines hummed. Arteries of magic threaded through streets I knew. Campus glowed brightest. Other spots pulsed weaker. minor wards at hospitals, old sanctuaries, a few private holdings that pinged my teeth when I looked at them. Near the industrial park, a cluster of red points flickered like irritation. Those, Professor Ashwood said, following my gaze. Unauthorized activity. Flares in the network. We monitor. We triage. We intervene when necessary. Unauthorized like Hoodie Boy last week? Noah asked. Professor Ashwood's smile thinned. "Something like that," he said, though last night's failure was closer to home. His eyes ticked to Myra, then to Cole, then back to the map. Myra's expression didn't shift. "We're tightening our net," she said. "And we're making sure that when something slips through, we have more than one line of defense." Which is where you come in. Professor Ashwood said, "You're not frontline yet. You may never be, but you're potential. You're the generation who decides if this little experiment stays in the shadows or blows up in everyone's faces. His gaze landed on me as he said experiment, as if testing whether I'd flinch. I didn't, not outwardly. Leah tapped the legend on the lower corner of the map. Blue for stable wards, she said. Yellow for minor incidents, red for oh crap. Those red clusters, that's someone poking the network where they shouldn't. Someone, I asked, or someone's. Professor Ashwood's mouth quirked. Ambitious students, he said. Disgruntled alumni outside actors. It's never just one. Damian's shadow hung in the corners of the room without him needing to be there. Myra stepped forward. This is not your burden yet, she said. You have enough to carry learning yourselves. But we do not train in a vacuum. The context matters. You matter. The people who will sit in this room in 10 years will remember what you did with what you were given. It struck me then that for all her distance, she believed what she was saying. This wasn't just a job to her. It was legacy. Professor Ashwood flicked his fingers. The map zoomed into the woods around campus, to the clearing where the door lived, to the faint concentric lines of wards radiating out. Tiny ripples disturbed those lines, barely visible tremors. "Here's the part Damian doesn't get to see," he said lightly. "Cole stiffened almost imperceptibly." "Tampering," Professor Ashwood said. "Very subtle, very patient. Someone is testing the system, pushing in little taps instead of big blows, seeing where we notice, where we don't. And the containment flicker, I asked, "That wasn't just a hiccup." "No," he said. "That was someone finding a seam in our ring and pulling. The fact that the ring renit itself when it did means we're not broken yet." Miguel shifted his weight, the unconscious move of a wolf sensing danger. "Why are you showing us this?" Kalen asked quietly. Professor Ashwood's eyes softened just a fraction. Because you've already been standing in the blast radius, he said, I don't believe in keeping people in the dark and then blaming them when they trip over the furniture. He turned back to the map. But this, he added, this stays here. You don't talk about grid algorithms in the cafeteria. You don't tell your roommate at 2 in the morning that red dots mean monsters. Understood? We nodded. It was more than policy. It was survival. Myra let the silence sit for a moment, then inclined her head at Leah. That's enough for today, she said. Drills continue as scheduled. Leah Poppy rotate them through smaller sessions. Halen wants two more control blocks before she gives them live work. Copy that, Leah said. Professor Ashwood's gaze brushed me one more time. You did well in the drill, he said. Yesterday and last week, we'd rather you didn't have to keep proving it that way. I'd rather too, I said. He smiled again, warm, almost kind. This close, the resemblance to Cole was sharper. Same slope of nose, same almost smile. But where Cole's eyes held worry and stubbornness, his father's held something else. A cool calculation under the warmth, a glint that made my skin prickle. I filed that away.

We left the map room with more buzzing in our heads than when we came in. On the way back through the commons, students were gathering at tables, settling into clusters. The hum of conversation wrapped around us. Kira and her pack were at one corner, gestures sharp, voices low. When I passed, a few heads lifted. Something like a code word slipped between them, the kind you only catch the shape of. Rowan soft. My fangs twinged. Miguel noticed it, too. His shoulder brushed mine, solid grounding. We were almost to the corridor when a shadow dropped down from the balcony above, landing in a crouch that made a couple of kids flinch. I knew that hoodie. Jack straightened, lanyard swinging. maintenance," he said to no one in particular, shouldering a coil of cable as if that justified his presence anywhere. Leah shook her head. "You are going to get stapled to a wall one of these days," she said. "Not today," he said, falling into step beside us like he'd been invited. "He waited until we were in the narrower hallway before dropping his voice." "Map room?" he asked. "Map room?" I said. See anything fun?" he asked. "Nothing you should know," Poppy said promptly. Jax grinned. "So yes," he translated. He walked opposite me, matching my pace. Up close, I could see faint bruises blooming along his forearms, yellow and green. From the drill, from some other stupid stunt with Jax, it was hard to tell. "You all right?" I asked. He lifted an arm, flexed. I've been worse, he said. Hoodie boys got nothing on Halen's idea of a warm-up. Don't let her hear you say that, Leah said. She'll make you prove it. He shuddered theatrically. At the door, we stepped through the cold again and emerged back into late afternoon light. The shift felt sharper this time. The air smelled wrong for a second, too thin. Miguel peeled off toward the gym. Kalen waved and headed for the library. Noah announced loudly that he needed a burger or he'd faint. Jax lingered. Walk, he asked. I nodded. We cut across the quad toward the students center, not speaking at first. The sun hung low, turning the windows gold. A breeze kicked up, carrying the smell of pine and frier oil. "You saw it," he said eventually. "The tampering." I glanced at him. "How do you know what I saw?" Because you have that face, he said. The my world got bigger and I don't like who else is in it face. Do I have a lot of faces? I asked. Three main ones, he said. Snark, panic, and murder. Today you're in panic murder hybrid. Flattering, I said. He smirked, then sobered. Any mention of our favorite overthrow the principal club? He asked. Not by name, I said. But Professor Ashwood called them ambitious students and outside actors with rope. Professor, he echoed. Which one? Cole's dad, I said. Jack stopped

walking. Wait, he said. Professor Ashwood is safety boy's father. The jawline says yes. I said. Myra let me see it happen in real time. He blew out a low whistle.

Well, he said that explains a lot of the control issues. He didn't read as full villain, I said. But there's something sharp under the nice. Jax's mouth twisted. They all have something sharp, he said. It's why they're here.

We reached the steps of the student center. He shifted his weight, looked at me sidelong. You trust him? He asked. The Elder Ashwood. No, I said not yet. Maybe not ever, but he's interesting. Dangerous kind of interesting, Jack said. The only kind I ever meet, I said. He laughed once, short.

I've been digging, he said, dropping his voice. On the red clusters, on the meetings, on who's sniffing around Myra's chair. And I asked, and they're getting bolder, he said. Less careful. Flyers under doors, encrypted group chats, a professor lending them empty classrooms after hours. Which professor? I asked. He chewed his lip. Don't know yet, he said, but I've seen their notes. Rowan is weak. We need a firmer hand. Old ways. Old ways like memory wipes and expulsions, I said. Old ways like making anything messy disappear, he said.

A gust of wind slapped hair into my eyes. I pushed it back. Leah says we're promising, I said. Myra wants to keep me close. Professor Ashwood wants us to see the board. Damian wants to flip the table and some nameless prof wants Myra's chair. Welcome to politics, Jack said. This is why I don't vote, I muttered. He bumped my shoulder. You're going to be in the middle of it whether you like it or not, he said. Might as well know the players. Working on it, I said.

We separated at the door. He vanished into the tangle of students. I headed for home. By the time I got off the bus, the sky had slid into full evening. Deep blue street lights flickering on one by one. The walk from the stop to our apartment building was familiar. Cracked sidewalks, the corner bodega with the flickering sign, the narrow alley that always smelled faintly of old grease and rain. I turned the corner out of habit and froze. The air was wrong. My skin prickled the way it did when a ward hummed too close. The alley ahead of me was darker than it should have been. Light from the street lamps stuttering at the edges. Somewhere inside that darkness, something moved. Heavy, wet. A sound that was half growl, half something else. Someone cried out. My body reacted before my brain did. I dropped my bag and ran.

The alley squeezed the light down to a thin strip. Trash cans, a dumpster, a fire escape ladder. Near the end, against the far wall, three shapes. One was a girl pinned. One was something hunched over her, shoulders heaving. The third was a blur slamming into the second from the side. The blur resolved first. Jax, of course. He was half in front of the girl, arm up to block a swipe that would have taken his head off. His hoodie sleeve tore under the impact, claws scoring long, bloody lines down his forearm. The other shape straightened. Not a full wolf, not a full human. Something caught halfway between, like hoodie boy in the alley, but worse, more jagged. Limbs too long, jaws stretched, eyes rolled back so far I could see mostly white rimmed in diseased yellow. Saliva hung in ropes from its teeth, its claws shone black in the dim light. The girl behind Jax whimpered. "Bunny," Jack snapped, not looking back. Stay down, Bunny. Of course. Her long hair was a mess, eyes wide with terror, one cheek already swelling, blood stained the front of her shirt. The half-shift thing snarled, sound rasping like broken glass. Up close, the wrongness was worse. A scent sat under the usual wolf and blood mix. A burnt metal tang that tickled my nose like ozone. The same smell that clung to the broken ward ring on last night's map. Tampering. My fangs dropped before I even thought about it.

The creature lunged. Jax met it head-on. He moved with a kind of reckless precision, ducking under its first swipe and slamming his shoulder into its chest. The impact staggered it back a half step, enough to keep claws off Bunny. For a second, Jax's jaw twitched like he was fighting teeth of his own. He wasn't shifting, though, not fully, just enough instinct to move faster, hit harder. The thing came at him again, arms flailing, claws raked across his chest, fabric tore, blood sprayed. My vision narrowed to red. Bunny's pulse thundered. Jax's scent spiked with pain and adrenaline. The thing's breath reeked of raw meat and the wrong magic. I stepped forward. "Hey," I snapped. My voice came out sharper than I meant, threaded with vamp snarl. The creature's head jerked toward me. Its eyes locked on my face, took in the fangs, the posture, the not human. For a heartbeat, something like recognition flickered there. "You," it gurgled. Not him, not me, not who, just a sense of other. Then it lunged my way. Jack swore and grabbed its arm, muscles straining. He held it just long enough to drag its momentum sideways, slamming it into the wall instead of me. The impact cracked brick. My control teetered. Blood was everywhere. Bunnies, jaxes, the monsters. The smell wrapped around my brain like a net. Choice. I reminded myself, wave, then decision. I moved. Not with the full blur, but at the edge of it, enough to get behind the thing while it was still staggering. There was a length of broken pipe near the dumpster. I snatched it up, cold metal biting my palm, and brought it down hard across the back of the creature's knees. Bone crunched, it dropped. Jax pounced, planting a knee on its chest, using his good arm to pin its throat. Up close, the wrongness was worse. Its skin steamed where Jax's blood touched it. Its breath came in rattling snarls. Something glowed at its temple. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. Then I saw the faint lines burned into its skin, a sigil charred into flesh. The same pattern I'd seen flickering on the ward map, red clusters pulsing like infection. Not an accident, controlled or tried to be. The creature writhed under Jax's, snapping at his face. He leaned back just enough to avoid teeth, but his grip was slipping. His injured arm shook. I dropped the pipe and leaned down, bracing my forearm across the thing's jaw, forcing it to the side. It snapped inches from my skin. Its eyes rolled to me again. Up this close, I could see flecks of gold under the ugly yellow haze, like some part of the original wolf was still in there, trapped. Stop, I hissed, not sure who I was talking to. This isn't you. Its breath hitched for a second, just a second. Its muscles went slack. The sigil at its temple flickered. Then something tugged. It was the same feeling as Damian's push in the clearing, but rougher, less practiced. A hand hooking into the back of this creature's mind and yanking. The eyes clouded over. The muscles seized. "No," Jack snarled. "No, you don't." "Too late." The thing twisted with a force that felt unnatural, not just muscle. My weight flew off its jaw. Jax lost his grip on its throat. It surged up in a burst of raw, desperate energy that knocked us both backward. I hit the ground hard, shoulder screaming. Jack slammed into the dumpster, metal clanging. The creature didn't press the advantage. It staggered toward the deeper shadows, limbs jerking. For a second, it looked back at us. The sigil flared bright, then dark, burning out like a fuse. Then it was gone. Not running in the physical sense, just gone. The air where it had been shimmered, then settled like something had yanked it through a hole we couldn't see. My lungs dragged in air that tasted like blood and oil and burnt magic. For a second, I just knelt there, hands shaking, fangs aching, whole body ringing with the need to chase, to finish, to feed. Jax's voice cut through the static. Not a shout, not a scold, just my name, solid, anchored. I clung to it. Bunny, I said. She lay crumpled near the wall, hands pressed to her neck. Blood seeped between her fingers. I scrambled to her, sliding on my knees, forcing my focus off the hunger and onto the girl. "Hey," I said, gentler than any part of me felt. "You with me?" Her eyes fluttered open. Recognition fought panic. "Ava," she whispered, her voice shook. "It he." "I know," I said. "You're okay now. You're okay." Her blood scent hit harder up close. I swallowed hard and pressed my hand over hers, adding pressure, not letting myself look directly at the red. "Jax," I said. "Call." He was already fumbling his phone with his good hand. The other clamped over his chest. "CL clinic," he muttered. "We're three blocks from campus. Poppy will kill me if I don't." He hit a button, put the phone to his ear, rattled off details in quick, clipped phrases. "Were attack! Bleeding! Not safe to move." When he hung up, he slid down the wall beside us, breathing hard. Blood soaked his hoodie, darker in the places the claws had dug deepest. His face was too pale. "You're an idiot," I said. He grinned weakly. "You say that like it's new," he said. "You could have run," I said. "You should have." "And leave her," he said, tipping his head toward Bunny. "Not my style." His hand trembled. He shoved it under his armpit to hide it. Bunny's eyes flicked between us. You're both insane, she whispered. She sounded almost odd.

The clinic team arrived faster than I thought possible. Sirens distant, then close, then cut off abruptly as van doors slid open. Poppy strode into the alley first, hair tied back, gloves already on. Behind her, two assistants pushed a wheeled stretcher. Her gaze swept the scene once, taking in Bunny's hunched shape, the blood on her clothes, the dent in the dumpster. "Of course," she muttered. "It's you." She dropped to Bunny's side, hands moving briskly, voice smooth and practiced. "Hey, Bunny," she said. "Remember me? We're going to make you look much prettier than this." Okay. Bunny nodded, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. While one assistant started an IV, the other helped Poppy wrap compresses around Bunny's neck. The bleeding slowed under their hands, the smell of fresh blood fading into the metallic tang of antiseptic. My fangs retracted a fraction. Enough. Poppy's eyes flicked up at me for a second, a quick clinical assessment. Fangs, pupils, posture. She gave the slightest nod. You're okay enough. Then she turned to Jax. And you," she said. "What did we say about offering yourself as chew toys?" He tried to shrug and winced. That I should get Hazard pay, he said. Poppy snorted. "You get lecture pay," she said. "Sit." He slid down. Jack slid down the wall as Poppy stalked toward him, latex gloves snapping around her wrists. "Sit," she said like she was talking to a badly behaved dog. He obeyed, the smart idiot. His back thumped the brick, his breath hitched once. Up close, the damage was worse. Four long gashes across his chest, hoodie torn, skin leaking dark red through shredded cotton. "You were supposed to be taking it easy," Poppy said, ripping his hoodie open along the seams. "My exact words were no more heroics this week." "Occupational hazard," he muttered, pale but grinning. She ignored that and peeled fabric back, eyes narrowing as she exposed the wounds. They were ugly, deep, already angry looking around the edges. My own stomach lurched at the sight. Bunny made a strangled sound. Her breathing stuttered faster. "Hey," I said softer. "Look at me, not him." Her gaze snapped to my face, pupils huge. Her whole body trembled under my hands. "It hurts," she whispered. I know, I said. They're here now. You're not bleeding alone in an alley anymore. Poppy pressed fresh gauze to the worst of the cuts on Bunny's neck, checking the pressure bandage she'd improvised. Blood soaked the pads, but slowed. Pulse is holding, she told the assistant. We're transporting Jax. You're next. I can walk, he said. Oh, I know you can walk, she said. You're still going in the van. Rays stay with him until we move. There was no ambulance theatrics, no flashing lights, just efficient motion. Bunny lifted onto the stretcher, buckled down, and IV taped in place. Poppy barked orders in a tone I'd never heard in class, pure command, no sarcasm. I stayed kneeling beside Bunny until they rolled her away. My hand pressed over hers, feeling her pulse thud against my palm. When they wheeled her out into the street, I followed, heartbeat thudding at my throat. The night swallowed us. The van wasn't marked like a regular ambulance, but it had all the same equipment inside, plus sigils etched faintly into the metal. Bunny went in first with one assistant. Poppy jerked her head at me and Jax. Both of you, she said, now. I climbed in, Jax hauling himself up with a hiss of pain. The doors slammed. The van rumbled into motion. The whole space smelled like antiseptic and blood. Too much blood. I tried to focus on Bunny's face instead of the IV line. On the way her lashes left tiny smudges on her cheeks when she blinked. Jax kept cracking dumb jokes while the assistant cut away the rest of his hoodie, his voice thinner than usual. Poppy cleaned his wounds, her hands glowing faintly as she muttered under her breath. The air shifted around them, cooling, thickening, a soft pressure like hands pressing the edges of jagged glass back together. I could feel the magic. It slid over my skin like a shimmer, soothing some part of me that hadn't even realized it was screaming. When Poppy finished with him, she moved back to Bunny, checking vitals, swapping gauze. The bandages glowed faintly under her fingers. "Who was it?" she asked, eyes never leaving her work. The attacker looked like a nighttrack kid, Jack said. Half shift. Wrong. Kind of wrong. There was something burned into his temple, I added. A sigil, same shape as the map clusters in the grid room, scarred in, not tattooed. Poppy's shoulders tensed. You sure? She asked. I was close enough to count his teeth, I said. I'm sure. She swore softly under her breath and kept working.

The clinic after hours felt different. The waiting room lights were dimmed, chairs empty. Poppy marched us straight past them, down the familiar hallways, through a door I hadn't noticed before. Laundry on one side, supply shelves on the other, a narrow corridor leading to a room that hummed with wards. The air in there was thicker, darker. It smelled like ozone and alcohol wipes. They moved Bunny to a bed, hooking monitors around her finger, tapping sensors to her chest. Her skin looked waxy under the fluorescent lights. Leah barreled in 2 minutes later, hair tangled, scrubs wrinkled, eyes sharp. "What now?" she demanded. "Poppy, you just left." Her gaze landed on Bunny, took in the bandages, the IV, the dried blood. Oh, she said, her whole posture changed. "Okay, right, I see." She slid to the far side of the bed, hands already glowing as she laid them lightly over the bandaged neck. The monitor beeped a little steadier under her touch. "What about him?" she asked, flicking her chin toward Jax. "He's stupid, but salvageable," Poppy said. "Multiple lacerations, mild shock, ego bruises." Jax opened his mouth. Poppy shoved a straw between his teeth. "Drink," she ordered. I hovered near the door. Adrenaline finally curdling into fatigue. The room itched. The smell of Bunny's blood was less sharp now, buried under saline and spellwork, but my fangs still ached like they were waiting for a cue I refused to give them.

The door opened again. Myra stepped in, heels silent on the linoleum. She wore the same composed expression as always, but there was a tightness at the edges of her eyes I hadn't seen before. Cole came behind her, jaw clenched, eyes flicking straight to me, then to Jax, then to Bunny. Damen slipped in last, almost on a step's delay, hands in his pockets, gaze already sharp. What happened? Myra asked. Jax tried to sit up straighter. Random alley fun, he said. Poppy gave him a look that could have sterilized instruments. He was with a student, she said. They were attacked off campus by what appears to be a minimally functional partial shift subject. Unlicensed, uncontrolled, possibly branded. Branded? Myra's attention sharpened. I stepped forward before the words tangled in my throat. I saw it, I said. There was a sigil burned into his temple. Same pattern as the red clusters on the grid. Damian's gaze snapped to me. You're certain, he said. Yes, I said. It flashed when he went right before he disappeared. Disappeared how? Professor Ashwood's voice asked from the doorway. He too had appeared silently. Tie loosened, sleeves still rolled. The clinic was apparently where everyone came when the world went sideways. He was pulled, I said, like someone yanked a hook. His body went rigid. The brand flared, and then he was gone. No running, no phasing, just gone. Professor Ashwood's jaw tightened. "Recall spell," he murmured. "Crude one." "Someone tagged him," Myra said. "And someone called him off." "Off at the moment you got close," Damen said, eyes on me. "How convenient." "My hackles went up." "Convenient for who?" I said. He was about to rip Jax's face off. "And yet he did not," Damian said smoothly, almost as if he had a directive not to harm certain assets. You think this is about me? Jax asked incredulous. The guy nearly tore my chest open. Chaos follows you. Morno, Damian said. It's useful to ask why. Myra cut in before Jax could spit something back. Enough, she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it sliced clean through the room. Speculation can wait. Right now, we have a student who nearly died on our doorstep and an off-grid subject being used as a weapon in my city. Her eyes shifted to me. "You didn't feed," she said. With that much blood in an alley under pressure. "It wasn't a question." "No," I said. My voice came out rough. "I wanted to, I didn't." "Noted," she said. "Thank you." She looked to Leah and Poppy. "Stabilize them," she said. "When she's conscious, I want Bunny debriefed. Anything she remembers, anyone she saw with that boy before the attack." Professor Ashwood nodded toward the map room as if he could see it through the walls. I'll adjust the grid parameters, he said. See if we can trace where he was recalled to. Damian's mouth curled. And I, he said, will review which of my colleagues has taken such an interest in obsolete control methods. The way he said my colleagues made it very clear he didn't include himself. Myra's eyes flashed. Do," she said. "And this time, Damian, if you find something, bring it to me before you meddle." A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It vanished just as quickly. "As you wish," he said. He slipped out, leaving a faint chill. Myra's attention returned to me and Jax. "You both did extraordinarily stupid things tonight," she said. "And exactly what I need my students to do." Jax managed a weak salute. Happy to provide community service. He said, "Try not to make a habit of alley rescues," she said. "If our entrepreneurs realize their assets keep getting intercepted, they'll raise the stakes." "We're not just going to stand by," I said. She met my gaze. "I would be disappointed if you did," she said. "But I will expect you to survive." Then she was gone too, following the others out, leaving us in the hum of monitors and the soft glow of healing magic.

They didn't let me leave right away. Leah insisted on checking my vitals, hands cool on my wrists, eyes sharp as she inspected my pupils and gums. When she asked if I'd felt the edge of hunger, I didn't lie. Scale, she asked. Eight, I said. Maybe nine for a second, then six. Better than the vial, she said. Worse than last night's drill. So, I'm regressing, I muttered. No, she said. You're stress testing. There's a difference. You came back. That's what matters. She let me go an hour later after Bunny was sleeping, and Jax had been wrapped in so much gauze, he looked like a mummy cosplaying as a frat boy. Outside on the sidewalk, the air felt wrong and right at the same time. I stood there for a minute, breathing car exhaust and distant fryer smoke until I could convince my body we were done tonight.

By the time I got home, my parents were halfway between panic and rage. They'd gotten the call from campus security. Minor incident, no fatalities, and then sat there stewing until my key turned in the lock. Mom wrapped me in a hug so tight my ribs creaked. Dad paced behind her like a storm cloud. An alley," he said again. "This one wasn't my fault," I said into Mom's shoulder. "Not entirely." He gave me a look that said we would circle back to that. I told them enough to take the worst edges off their fear. Bunny's name, Jax's involvement, the mysterious half shift. I edited out the brand, the recall, Damian's suspicions. I told them I hadn't fed. I told them Poppy and Leah were on it. Dad rubbed his face with both hands. You're a magnet, he said. Every weird thing in this town sticks to you. I know, I said quietly. I didn't ask to be. Mom brushed hair back from my face. Her fingers lingered on my jaw. You did good, she said again. I hate that you have to, but you did. Dad sighed. I'm revising my earlier list, he said. Of people I have to glare at. It's now long enough for a spreadsheet. Jax goes on the "why are you like this" tab? I said and Cole, Mom asked too casually. My brain flashed to his face in the clinic. The way his eyes had flared when he saw me. The tightness in his shoulders when he realized how close it had been. Different tab. I said complicated. Mom gave me a look. We're going to run out of tabs. She said. I'll color code them, I said.

Sleep that night came in fits. When I did dream, it was a jumble. The door, burning sigils, Bunny's pale face, the scream of metal as the half shift slammed into the dumpster. Every time I got close to seeing who was on the other end of that recall pull, the image blurred, replaced by a smear of sandy hair and a well-shaped smile that might have been Professor Ashwood's or Damian's or someone I hadn't met yet. I woke with my heart in my throat and my tongue tasting like pennies. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Bunny. The message was short. Can we talk?

She waited for me in the campus coffee shop, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves pulled down over her bandaged hands. There was a phantom bruise blooming along her jaw, sickly yellow-green, but her eyes were clearer than last night. When I slid into the seat across from her, she flinched a little, then gave me a shaky smile. Hey, she said. Hey, I said. How's the neck? She touched the thick scarf wrapped around it. "They said I might have a scar," she said. "I told Poppy if it looked badass enough, I'd forgive her." I snorted. "You'll pull it off," I said.

We sat in the coffee smell and low music for a long moment, the noise around us wrapping us in anonymity. "I wanted to say thank you," Bunny said finally. "For last night." "You should be thanking Jax," I said. "He got there first." "Oh, I already screamed at him," she said. "And then screamed some more." I pictured that bandaged bunny swatting at Jax while he grinned through the pain and couldn't help smiling. What happened? I asked before we got there. Her fingers tightened around her cup. I was walking back from the bus, she said. Same as always. I heard someone behind me. I thought it was just, you know, city noise. Then he grabbed me. How did Jax know? I asked. Her cheeks colored faintly. I called him, she said. He told me to call security. I called him. Of course, she had. He still had my number from before, she added, voice low. The pieces rearranged themselves in my head with a soft click. You and he, I started. Dated, she said. Messed around. Whatever you want to call it. Yeah. For a bit. How long? I asked. A few months, she said. Off and on. My stomach clenched. Look, she said quickly. I didn't ask you here to make things weird or to stake some claim. I just I know you're friends with him now and I saw the way he looked at you in the clinic. My pulse jumped. The way he looks at lots of girls, I said before I could stop myself. Bunny's mouth tilted. There it is, she said. You already know. Know what? I asked, even though I did. That he's not a one-girl guy. She said that he chases the high, the flirting, the rush. He doesn't mean to be cruel. He just doesn't know how to stop when someone gets attached. Did you? I asked. Of course, she said. Have you seen him? He's like a golden retriever with good cheekbones. I almost laughed. And now, I asked. Now he's still an idiot, she said. A brave one. A stupidly brave one. I'm not saying don't be his friend. God knows he needs people who call him on his crap. Her fingers tapped the side of her cup. I'm saying if he starts looking at you the way he looked at me, she said quietly. Be careful. Don't expect more than he can give. A part of me resisted that, remembering the alley wall, the blood, the way he'd thrown himself in front of Bunny without thinking. Another part of me stored the warning like a knife tucked into a boot. I'm not looking for, I gestured vaguely. Anything with him. Maybe not now, she said. But you know how he is. He worms his way in. He makes you feel like you're the only one he's really honest with. Her eyes met mine. You're not, she said. He's more spread out than that. Just don't let him make you small. The words landed somewhere deep in a place that still remembered being pressed against a kitchen counter. Someone's hands too heavy on my arms. "I won't," I said.

We sat there for a while, letting the quiet fill in the cracks. When Bunny left, she squeezed my hand, fingers cool. "Thank you again," she said. "For the alley, for listening." "Anytime," I said, and meant it.

Later that afternoon, in the commons under the hill, Jax lounged on a couch like nothing had happened, fresh bandages peeking from under his shirt sleeves. His mouth ran as fast as ever, but there was a new tightness around his eyes. Kira walked by, tossing a casual jibe about hero auditions. He flipped her off with two fingers and an easy grin. The pack laughed under it. I caught their scent, simmering excitement, a whiff of something like ambition. Professor Ashwood stood on the balcony above, talking to Damian. Their heads bent close together, voices low. From this angle, they looked almost like allies. Myra moved through the room like a quiet current, greeting students, checking on corners, always aware of the hole. I watched all of them, the flirty boy on the couch, the principal, the professor, the hawk-eyed teacher, and thought of Bunny's warning of burned sigils and recall spells, of the way Myra had said exceptions are assets and liabilities. Somewhere in the tangle of those people was the hand that had branded that half shift and yanked him away. My life was a knot of faces and loyalties now. Jax's reckless grin, Cole's steady hands, Sasha's crooked braid, Leah's focus, Bunny's bruised smile. One of them would break my heart. One of them would save my life. One of them might be trying to crack the world open under our feet. For now, I couldn't afford to pick which was which. I could only keep moving, eyes open, through the halls of a school that existed in two places at once. Through days that always seemed one step away from turning into nights in alleys. The next time something came lunging out of the dark, I wanted to be ready.

By late afternoon, campus felt like a coiled spring. Every hallway had a gala poster. Every bulletin board screamed about illusions and innovation. Every student group wanted to be part of the show. Events was ground zero. The main auditorium looked like a tech genie had exploded. Cables, light stands, boxes of fake foliage, racks of costumes. Regular students lugged gear. Night track kids pretended to be normal while their magic hummed just under the surface. Cole stood on stage, a clipboard in one hand, a headset crooked around his neck, barking orders like he'd been born with a production schedule instead of a personality. Rig two. I need that bar at 25°, not 30, he called. If it swings, we're not doing a sequel to last week. He spotted me in the aisle and gave a small, tired half-smile that did things to my lungs. You came, he said when I reached the edge of the stage. Free show, I said. Thought I'd see what fresh disasters courting rehearsal, he corrected. Controlled rehearsal. I eyed the tangle of people, the stacks of props, the long coil of fog machine tubing like a sleeping serpent. Yeah, I said looks very controlled. He rolled his eyes. You're on crowd flow again, he said. Side aisle, front third. If anything falls, you move people, not gear. Got it. Save humans, not equipment, I said. Understood. He opened his mouth, maybe to say something that wasn't logistics, but Leah appeared at the foot of the stage, already in scrub pants and a barrier hoodie, arms full of med kits. Safety, Dad, she called. Your first aid station is live. Try not to send me more than three casualties this time. Three, Cole said. Aim higher. She snorted and trotted off, dropping kits at predetermined spots. Wings, back hall, orchestra pit. Sasha arrived a moment later, ponytail high, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She moved like she'd sprinted the whole way from the clinic. Her eyes flicked over the stage, assessing risks the way I was, rigging points, heavy equipment, too many people, and not enough exits. Our gazes met. For a heartbeat, something soft passed between us. Shared memory of the last time the universe tried to drop a light bar on our heads. Then Jack slid into my peripheral vision, carrying a coil of cable over one shoulder, wearing a high-vis vest like it was couture. Look at us, he said. Three idiots volunteering for preventable trauma. You're supposed to be running cables, Cole called down. I am running cables, Jack said. And morale. Cole gestured up to the catwalks. Stage right, he said. And don't climb anything without a tether. Jack saluted sloppily and jogged toward the side stairs.

The rehearsal began. It was supposed to be simple. Run through of acts, check cues, sink the mundane and the magical. The ballroom dance club went first. Purely human, purely practiced. They flowed across the stage in elegant patterns, oblivious to the faint shimmer of wards along the backstage wall. Then the jugglers. One of them a witch with kinetic magic stacked under his hands, making the pins hang a half second longer in the air than physics liked. Then a singer with a voice that made the air vibrate, backed by a pianist whose fingers didn't quite blur. Vamp speed slowed just enough to pass. By the time the illusionists' segment came up, the room was sweaty with concentration and stage lights. Ki was in this act, of course. She stood in the center of a circle of night track kids like she owned the floor. A ring of crystals spread around her. A cascade of silver bracelets jangling at her wrists. Cole stepped up with the mic. Next, he said, "Illusion control demo. Low risk, high spectacle. Remember, all manifestations stay within the perimeter. No freerange nightmares." Laughter rippled. Kira's mouth twitched. Cole looked at me in the aisle just once, as if making sure I was where he'd left me. Then he moved off stage into the wings. The house lights dimmed. The crystals glowed faintly, picking up blue from the stage wash. Kira closed her eyes. The air changed. I felt it before I saw it. The subtle pressure behind my forehead. The way the edges of the room wobbled. The faint hum of sigils waking up along the proscenium arch. Then the illusions bloomed. Light spilled up from the floor like water. Trees unfolded from nothing. Translucent redwoods rising where there had been bare boards. Crows formed out of shadows, perching on invisible rafters. A river of ghostly light poured down stage, eddying around Kira's boots without getting them wet. The audience, a mix of regular students, events volunteers, night track kids, gasped. My fingers tightened on the rail. Illusions were safer than physical manifestations. Supposedly, they didn't interact with the real world. Not really. But the magic that made them was real, and that was always the point of failure. Around Kira, the other illusionists added their threads. One spinning small lights into floating lanterns, another weaving in whispers of music, a third conjuring spectral wolves that paced along the edge of the river. For a moment, it was beautiful. Then something snagged. It was tiny at first. A flicker in the flow of the river, a stutter in the music. Kira's brow creased, concentration tightening. The lights overhead dipped for half a heartbeat, then flared brighter. My skin prickled. On the far side of the stage, one of the crystal points cracked with a sharp ping. A hairline fracture ran through it, glowing dull red instead of blue. Kira's eyes snapped open. Hold. She snapped to her team. Too late. The cracked crystal went dark. The illusion river hiccuped, then surged sideways, slamming into the spectral redwoods with enough force that the whole scene shuddered. The wolves at the edge of the display jerked. Their shapes flickered, then solidified. For a terrifying heartbeat, they weren't transparent at all. Their paws pressed against real boards. Their growls vibrated through the air. The protective wards around the stage flared. Sigils along the proscenium arch igniting in a protective ring. The air above the edge thickened. The wolves hit that invisible wall and scrambled. Claws scraping sparks on something I couldn't see. The crowd noise spiked. Startled shouts, nervous laughter tipping toward panic. I moved. Stay seated. I yelled at the students nearest me, throwing my arms out to block the aisle. Deep breaths, eyes here. They can't come off the stage. Behind me, I felt the magic in the ward strain like a rope pulled too tight. One of the wolves turned its head, eyes locking onto the front row, transparent again, but only just. I caught a whiff of the same burnt metal stink that had clung to the alley monster. Tampering on stage. Kira cursed under her breath, gestures sharp as she tried to pull the spell back under control. Beads of sweat stood on her forehead. "Cut it!" Cole shouted from the wings. "Fail safe!" she gritted her teeth and yanked her hands down. The crystals shattered. Light imploded. For a second, the stage went black. Every instinct in me screamed, "Run!" Then the emergency light snapped on, a harsh white wash. The illusions were gone. The wolves were gone. The trees were gone. Only broken shards of crystal scattered like ice remained. The wards along the arch still glowed, brighter than before. Protective magic in full alert. The room was full of rapid breathing. Scattered nervous laughter. Someone had fallen out of their seat in the front row. Leah was already moving toward them. Med kit in hand, Sasha was halfway down the opposite aisle, eyes scanning for injuries, not illusions. On stage, Kira stood in the wreckage, shoulders heaving, jaw clenched so hard I thought she might crack a tooth. Her team hovered around her, shaken, hands flexing as residual magic crackled along their skin. Cole stepped up onto the stage, moving carefully around the shards. "You okay?" he asked. Low enough that I wasn't sure anyone past the front rows heard. Kira didn't answer right away. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, breathing fast. Classic overload. He reached for her arm. She flinched back so hard she almost slipped on the crystals. "I had it," she snapped too loud. Someone jumped the grid. Cole's face tightened. "We'll review the feed," he said. "Right now, we need to clear the room." He turned to the crowd, mic in hand. "Okay," he said, voice steady, carrying. "That's why we rehearse. Fail safes worked. No one's hurt. We're pausing here. I need everyone to exit the auditorium in an orderly way." Tech days. There was a shuffle. A few people groaned. They'd wanted more drama, not an early dismissal. But the mass of students started to move. I walked backward up the aisle, facing them, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral, calm. The adrenaline in my veins made everything too bright, too loud. Once the aisles were full, I glanced back at the stage. The protective wards were still humming, and near the far stage left crystal, on the floor where the shards had exploded outward, something dark marked the wood. A char. A small, jagged scorch in a very familiar shape. The same sigil I'd seen burned into the alley monster's skin. The same pattern dancing in the red clusters on the map. My stomach dropped. The auditorium emptied faster than I expected. Panic had tipped into gossip, which always spread faster than fear. Did you see the wolves? It almost jumped off the stage. I swear I felt its breath. Once the last of the crowd was out, Myra appeared at the back of the house like she'd been conjured. Dark clothes, calm gaze, sharp presence. Cole met her halfway up the aisle, headset dangling around his neck, clipboard forgotten. "Containment held," he said before she could ask. "The illusions pushed against it harder than they should have, but they didn't cross." "The crystals," she asked. "All broke at once," he said. Kira says someone jumped the grid. Myra's gaze flicked past him to the stage. "Did they?" she said. Leah and Sasha drifted up the aisle behind me, arms full of medkits and half-unpacked supplies. Jax clambered down from the catwalk stairs, vest skewed, eyes too bright. Damen materialized near the front row, hands in his pockets, taking in the wreckage like he was evaluating a painting. Myra walked to the stage and stepped up, her heels crunching on glass. Kira was still there, standing in the middle of the broken circle, fists clenched at her sides. Her team had fanned out, picking shards off the floor, checking each other for cuts. Myra took it all in with a single sweep of her gaze, then crouched beside the charm mark near the edge. Her fingers hovered over it without touching. The sigils smudged under her breath. Ink on wet paper. She straightened. "Everyone out," she said, except staff and auxiliaries. Her gaze landed on me. Jax, Leah, Sasha, Kira. The room thinned quickly. Regular students and volunteers grabbed bags, bundled cables, stowed props, and fled, whispers trailing behind them. When the doors shut, and only the inner circle remained, the room felt much larger. Myra walked to center stage again. This was not a simple overload, she said. Her tone was flat, but I could feel the anger under it, banked and cold. We know, Kira said, her voice shook. I checked the draw before we started. It was stable. Someone piggybacked. "Do you have any idea who?" Professor Ashwood asked, appearing near the tech table as inevitable as gravity. Kira's jaw tightened. No names, she said, but we've all felt it. Little glitches, small poles, someone testing what happens when they lean. Same pattern, I said before anyone could stop me. As the alley, as the map, the sigil burned into the floor there. I pointed at the char mark. It was on his temple. Professor Ashwood's gaze flicked from the mark to my face, measuring. Myra's eyes narrowed. Damian stepped closer to the edge, peering down. Interesting, he murmured. Very old work. Old and stupid, Leah muttered. Myra turned back to Kira. Did you or your team alter any of the crystals before this session? She asked. Any experiments? Any new sigil sets. Kira bristled. We're not idiots, she said. We did exactly what Halen signed off on. And you still blew the circle, Jack said from the wings, tone too casual. Kira's head snapped toward him. You weren't even in the circle, Mono, she spat. You were what? Coiling cables and playing spy. Somebody has to watch the ceiling, he said. The last time we trusted your control, a light bar tried to make out with our skulls. Enough, Myra said. The word cracked through the air like a whip. Silence fell. She looked at Jax, then at Kira, then at me. "Whoever is doing this wants us rattled," she said. "They want accidents that aren't accidents. They want us to look unsafe." "To justify taking over," I said quietly. Professor Ashwood's mouth curved. "They want change," he said. "You can't blame them for that." Old systems creak. Myra's gaze sharpened. "Change is inevitable," she said. Sewing chaos to accelerate it is not. She stepped down from the stage, shards crunching underfoot. Cole, she said, "You'll shut this down for tonight. No more demonstrations. I want full logs from every piece of equipment in this room since last week." "Yes," he said immediately. No argument, no hesitation. Her eyes slid back to me. "And you," she said, "you came in as an auxiliary. You've now witnessed two incidents and one off-campus attack with the same signature. That makes you relevant." The word felt like a hand closing around my throat. I don't know what you want, I said honestly. I want you to remember, she said. Everything, everyone, every face in every room when something goes wrong. The list is getting long. I said, "Good," she said. "Long lists are harder to fake." She turned on her heel and walked out, Damian and Professor Ashwood peeling off after her like dark planets orbiting a heavier star.

We were left in the echo. We cleaned. Shards of crystal slid into bins with soft clinks. Wires were coiled, curtains tied back, fog machines unplugged. Busy work, but beneath it was a taut wire of shared tension. Kira worked in stiff silence, sweeping glass into a dustpan with more force than necessary. The rest of her team hovered, uncertain, glancing her way and then away. Jax helped unclip safety lines from the rigging, for once not making a joke. He kept checking the scorch mark on the stage, like if he stared long enough, it might tell him secrets. Leah and Sasha moved through the aisles, collecting abandoned water bottles and programs. When they passed each other, they exchanged small nods, medic to medic, truce by professionalism. Cole stayed until the last XLR cable was wrapped, the last sandbag shifted off stage. Only then did he come down the stairs into the house, headset hanging limp around his neck. He caught me near the back row where I was folding a drop cloth. "You okay?" he asked. The question felt different now. Heavier. Not small talk, not automatic. I'm starting to hate that question, I said. I'm not bleeding. I didn't almost eat anyone, so that's a plus. His mouth twitched, but his eyes were serious. You saw the sigil, he said. "Yes," I said. "Same as the alley, same stink in the air when the wolves pushed the wards." His jaw flexed, his gaze slid up to the lighting grid, down to the stage, then back to me. You shouldn't have to keep being in the middle of this, he said. Too late, I said. Middle is my brand now. He exhaled, frustrated. I wanted this to be clean, he said. A show, a tidy rehearsal, a way to prove we can do this without terrifying everyone. And instead, you got a live demo of structural sabotage, I said. He huffed a humorless laugh. Yeah, he said that. He looked at me like he wanted to say more and didn't know how. "I need to lock this room down," he said finally. "Will you walk out with Jax and Sasha? I don't like the idea of you going anywhere alone tonight." "That's adorable," Jax said, appearing at my elbow like he'd been summoned. "She's got two monsters and a medic on speed dial. She'll be fine." Cole shot him a look. Not hostile, not friendly. Somewhere in the middle, competitors in the same game on different teams. She keeps ending up where the worst things happen. Cole said, "You'll forgive me for wanting redundancy." Jack spread his hands. "Trust me," he said. "I'm invested in keeping her alive." "Yeah," Cole said quietly. "Me, too." The words hung in the air. For a second, all I felt was the pull between them. The way they both leaned slightly toward me in different directions. Cole, steady, grounded, Jack's bright, dangerous. I stepped back. I'm not a tug-of-war rope, I said. We go together or I go alone. They both blinked, taken aback. Sasha snorted from the aisle. There she is, she muttered. Cole lifted his hands in surrender. "Together," he said.

We left the auditorium as a messy, mismatched pack. Sasha walked a step ahead, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the hallway. Jax bounced from one side to the other, peering into classrooms like he expected conspirators to be playing cards in every empty space. Cole locked the doors behind us, checked the security pad, then fell into step at my side. The building's fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Outside, through the glass doors, the campus looked almost peaceful. Lamps glowing, scattered students cutting across the quad, the sky turning ink blue. We stepped out. Cool air hit my face. The scent of pine, distant traffic, a trace of that now familiar ozone tang under everything. Do you feel that? I asked quietly. Sasha frowned. Feel what? I lifted my chin toward the trees. Something listening, I said, like the wards are on high alert. Cole's hand brushed my elbow. Small contact, grounding me. You're not wrong, he said. After the alley and tonight, the grid's running hot. Every little ripple's louder. I hate that I can tell the difference now, I said. You're in it, he said. On both sides, you notice what other people step over. We started across the quad. I meant to go straight home. That was the plan. Safety first. Bus, parental scolding, bed. But halfway across the lawn, Jack slowed. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

First, I thought he meant the usual shouts from the wreck field, music from someone's speaker, the distant thump of a bass line. Then I heard it. A scrape, a thud, a muffled cry coming from the direction of the theater building, the side entrance. Sasha froze. Cole's head snapped toward the sound. "Not again," Sasha whispered.

It came again. A crash, something like glass breaking. We exchanged a look. "We should call security," Cole said automatically. "And wait 5 minutes for them to figure out which door their keys were on." Jack said by then someone's concussed or possessed. He was already moving. "Morno." Sasha started. He threw a grin over his shoulder, eyes too bright. "You coming or not?" My legs were moving before my mouth decided. "Ava," Cole said, reaching for my arm, fingers brushing my sleeve. "I'm not sitting on the grass while someone screams." I snapped. He cursed under his breath and fell into stride beside me. Sasha muttered something that might have been every swear word she knew and followed.

We hit the side entrance to the theater building in less than a minute. The door was ajar. The smell hit me first. Not blood, thank God. Dust, old paint. A trace of the same burnt metal tang from the alley and the stage. Inside, the hallway lights were off. A faint glow seeped under the door to the black box theater at the end. Blue white flickering. Another crash. We moved as one. No plan, no official clearance, just the same instinct that had dragged us into every bad situation so far.

The door to the black box theater was cracked open. Light leaked through. Too bright, too sharp. Jax grabbed the handle, looked back at us, mouthing, "three, two, one." He kicked it open. The scene on the other side was wrong enough that my brain stuttered. 10 students, maybe 12, arranged in a rough circle around the middle of the room. Candles on the floor. Wax melted into messy rings. A symbol drawn in chalk. Big and ugly, the same shape as the brand, stretched across the center. And on that symbol, a kid. He was on his knees, hands clenched at his sides, head thrown back. His eyes rolled white. His mouth moved, sound scraping out like someone dragging a shovel across gravel. Energy buzzed in the air around him, thick and dark. The candles flickered, guttered, flared too high. The students around him wore plain clothes. No pack emblems, no official insignia, but some faces I knew. Two from the illusion act, one from my sight class who always rolled his eyes when Myra spoke. A girl I'd seen whispering with Kira in the commons. And there near the back, half-shadowed, watching. Professor Ashwood. No lab coat, no clipboard, just rolled sleeves and careful distance, expression attentive and pleased. He saw us the same instant we saw him. His eyes widened a fraction. Then he smiled. "Uh," he said, "auxiliaries, how timely."

The boy on the symbol convulsed. The sigil flared under his knees, glowing the same sick red as the brand on the alley monster's temple. The air in the room dropped 10°. Every instinct I had screamed at once. This wasn't a drill. This was the coup starting to crack the floor. For a second, nobody moved. The boy on the floor convulses, every muscle straining against an invisible grip. The chalk sigil under his knees glows a sick pulsing red, lines crawling like veins toward the candles. The air in the black box is wrong, too thick, too cold. It smells like burnt metal and old dust and the tang of a storm about to break. Professor Ashwood stands just outside the circle of candles, hands loosely at his sides, eyes bright. "Breathe," he tells the students around the circle. "Stay with it. You're doing fine." They are not doing fine. Half of them look terrified. The others are trying very hard not to. The boy on the symbol chokes on another sound. Half growl, half scream. Cole is at my shoulder, tense. Sasha's weight shifts behind me. Jack steps halfway into the room, the door swinging wide on its hinges. "What is this?" I demand. Professor Ashwood's gaze slides to us, calm as if we've walked into office hours instead of a ritual. "Advanced intervention," he says. "Our volunteers here are practicing how to stabilize a partial subject under controlled conditions." "He doesn't look stabilized," Jack says. "Because you barged in and broke his concentration," Ashwood says mildly. "You can either stand there and gawk or come inside and close the door. The wards are calibrated for a closed loop."

The kid on the sigil arches off the ground, hands clawing at the air. His jaw stretches too wide. I hear the wet crack of straining cartilage. One of the students in the circle, a girl with braided hair, eyes wide, whispers, "Professor, he's not. This isn't like before." "I have it," Ashwood says without looking at her. "Back to your marks, Miss Hail." Her feet shuffle. She doesn't move back. "I don't care what this is called," I say. "He's about to break." "Ava," Cole warns under his breath. "No," that boy might have volunteered once. Right now, he's just prey caught in a trap. The sigil flares again, brighter lines burning through chalk into wood. For a split second, I see it clearly. Same shape as the brand on the alley monster's temple. Same ugly geometry under the shattered crystal on the stage. "Stop it," I say. "Shut it down." Professor Ashwood's posture doesn't change, but the temperature in the room drops another degree. "Ms. Rays," he says, "you are not in charge here." The boy lets out a roar that has nothing human in it. His spine bends too far. Bones pop. His fingers curl until the knuckles go white. Nails lengthening into something closer to claws. The students around the circle lose it. One boy stumbles back, kicking a candle. Melted wax splashes across the chalk lines. The flame gutters, then flares too high. Another girl blurts out a curse word and breaks her stance, hands flying up like she can shield herself from the sound. The ritual stutters, the energy does not. It surges into the gap. A wave of pressure slams outward from the sigil like a bomb going off in slow motion. The candles explode, wax spattering, glass votives shattering into glittering shrapnel. Sasha grabs my wrist and yanks me sideways as a chunk of glass whistles past my face. It hits the door frame behind us with a sharp crack. "Down," she snaps. We drop in the center of the room. The boy screams, a raw, ragged sound. His skin ripples, bulging and shrinking in pulses. One arm jerks, growing fur in patches, then losing it as fast. His jaw splits, teeth lengthening halfway, eyes rolling white and yellow. Half-shift again. "Stop the feed," Cole shouts. "Break the circuit." He lunges for the nearest student in the circle, shoving the kid's hands down, kicking the candle aside, scattering wax. A thread of the glowing sigiline flickers and dies. The pressure under my skin ramps up, clawing at my fangs. The air tastes like electricity and fear. Jax is already moving, skirting the wall, shoulder to the plaster, eyes locked on the boy. He kicks out another candle with the heel of his sneaker, swinging his body out of the path of a flying shard. More lines of the sigil go dark, but the central symbol, the warped ugly core, burns brighter. Professor Ashwood steps closer, finally lifting one hand palm out. "Enough," he says. The word carries like a command, layered with power. The air shivers for a fraction of a second, the red light falters. The boy's back hits the floor. His throat works, sucking in air on a wet gasp. Then something else grabs hold. It feels like that alley, like the moment the half-shift's eyes clouded over, the brand at his temple flaring before he vanished. A hook behind the world tugging. The sigil's core goes white hot. The boy's limbs jerk. He starts to rise. Not under his own power. No. "Sasha," breathes. She's on her feet before I can stop her, rushing toward the circle, hands already lit from within with healer's glow. "Don't cross the lines," Ashwood starts. She doesn't hesitate. She jumps over a broken chalk arc, slides on her knees across the floor, palms slamming onto the kid's chest. For a second, nothing happens. Then her light hits the pole. Two forces collide, one clean and warm, one sticky and cold. It feels like standing between two speakers blasting different songs at full volume. Sasha's jaw clenches. Her eyes slam shut. The glow under her hands flares. Veins in her arms standing out. The boy convulses once, twice, like something is trying to drag him up. And she is physically shoving him down. I move. The ritual isn't a neat circle anymore. The chalk is broken, candles rolled, glass everywhere. There's no pattern left to preserve. I sprint to the nearest intact arc and stomp my boot through it. Chalk smears. The line breaks. Another threat of light goes out. Jax gets the opposite side, scuffing his heel through the design, trampling symbols. A couple of students yelp, stumbling away as the structure they were trying to hold collapses under our interference. The pressure spikes. Then snap. It's not a sound so much as a feeling. In my teeth, in my bones. The kind of cracking you hear when ice gives way under too much weight. The pull on the boy's body stops. The sigil's light winks out. The chalk marks go dead gray. Ordinary dust. Sasha sags forward, catching herself with one hand, the other still pressed to his chest. He gasps once, twice, then falls into a rough, ugly, breathing rhythm. Alive, human enough. The silence after is deafening. For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the ragged inhale-exhale of a dozen lungs, the distant hum of the building's HVAC, the faint sizzle of candles dying on the floor. Then, Professor Ashwood exhales. "Well," he says, "that could have gone better." I round on him. "You think?" I snap. My voice is too loud in the quiet room. The students flinch. Ashwood looks at me the way he did in the map room, like I'm an interesting data set. "Intervention training is messy," he says calmly. "That's why we do it here instead of in the middle of a street." "That wasn't intervention," I say. "That was you bolting a recall spell onto a living person and hoping they didn't break before you could take notes." His eyes narrow just a fraction. "You recognize the pattern," he says. "I recognize the smell," I say. "The sigil, the way he was being pulled out of himself." "That subject in the alley," Sasha says hoarsely, pushing sweaty hair off her face. "Same brand." Ashwood's gaze flicks to her glowing hands to the kid under them, then back to me. "You're drawing correlations from very limited data," he says. "Not everything that looks similar is connected." "Jack says." The word hangs in the air. Ashwood turns his head slowly. "Mr. Morno," he says. "You are here because—" "Because I followed screaming," Jack says again. "The same screaming that's been echoing all over campus every time somebody plays with things they shouldn't." His tone is light, but his shoulders are tight, eyes too bright. One of the students who'd been in the circle, a boy with sharp cheekbones and shaking hands, speaks up, voice cracking. "He said it was safe," he blurts. "He said you were overseeing, that you'd step in if I did," Ashwood says smoothly. "And your subject is alive, thanks in part to Miss Vance's timely assistance." Sasha's jaw flexes at her surname. She doesn't stop feeding her light into the boy's chest. "This circle was unauthorized," Cole says quietly. He's been standing just behind me, torn between stepping in and respecting a hierarchy that's clearly rotted. His eyes are on his father now. The resemblance between them is sharper than ever. Their profiles like two versions of the same blueprint. One hardened by time, one still soft enough to change. "Was it?" Ashwood asks. "Or did you simply not read all the memos, son?" The word drops like a stone. Son. Sasha freezes. Jax's head snaps around. A couple of students gasp. The ones who knew already exchange quick, guilty glances. Heat floods my face. Of course. Of course he's not just Professor Ashwood. Of course, the man standing over a half-destroyed recall sigil, acting like this is just another Wednesday, is the same man who raised Cole. The same man Cole has been trying, failing, to step out from under this whole time. "You didn't tell her," Ashwood observes, watching the realization move across my face. "No," Cole says, there's steel in his tone I've never heard before. "Because my familial situation has nothing to do with whether it's okay to carve illegal sigils into the floor under my principal's nose." Something like pride flickers in Ashwood's eyes. It's gone as quickly as it comes. "Illegal is a strong word," he says. "The brand," I say, pointing at the chalk smear where the core of the sigil had glowed. "It matches the one burned into that kid's head. The one who attacked Bunny. The one who nearly broke your containment ring. That's not coincidence." "You're assuming it's my work," he says. "Isn't it?" Jax asks. There's a subtle shift in the room. The students who'd been part of the circle, loose anonymous silhouettes a few minutes ago, now stand out in high relief. I see their fear, their excitement, their shame. None of them thought this would go this far. None of them thought they'd be caught mid-revolution by four people their age and one very angry healer. One girl, the braid from the circle, swallows hard. "We thought," she starts, stops, tries again. "We thought this was sanctioned, that Rowan knew that Damian." The name dies in her throat. There it is. I think the connection. Ashwood's gaze sharpens on her. "Enough, Miss Hail," he says. "No one here is on trial." "Yet," Sasha says, she finally lifts her hands from the boy's chest. The light fades. His breathing is steadier now. Color creeping back into his cheeks. A smear of chalk streaks one side of his face. Sweat darkens his hairline. He looks young. They all do. Kids playing with matches in a room full of gasoline. "We're telling Myra," I say. It comes out flat, simple, a fact, not a threat. Ashwood arches a brow. "Are you?" he says. "Yes," Cole says. Ashwood looks at him for a long moment. "I thought you wanted change," he says quietly. "Proper protocols, stronger measures, a system that isn't one bad day away from falling in on itself." "I do," Cole says. "That doesn't mean I want to hand the whole school over to whoever can scare the most freshmen." "You think that's what this is?" Ashwood asks. "Fear. He gestures at the room, at the chalk, at the kid on the floor. "This is preparation," he says. "The world outside our little hill does not care how carefully we follow Meerra's rules. It cares what happens when one of these kids loses control in a place without wards. If we don't teach them how to ride that edge, how to pull someone back from it, someone else will. Someone like Damian or someone worse." "That's not what this smelled like," I say. "This was what if you stumble. This was what if I push you." "It's both," he says. "Forced stress is still stress." "Trauma isn't training," Sasha says. Ashwood's eyes flash. "I didn't force anyone to kneel in that circle," he says. "They volunteered. They know what's at stake. They know what lies outside Myra's carefully curated curriculum." The braided girl flinches. "We just," she says, "we just want to be ready. If something like last week happens again, we don't want to freeze." "And you think burning brands into your friends is the way to do that?" Jax demands. Her eyes shine. She doesn't answer. Ashwood sighs a quiet exhale. "This conversation is above your clearance," he says. "You students are auxiliaries. You don't see the whole board yet." "I see enough," I say. "Every time something explodes, your signature is in the fallout." He takes a step toward me. For the first time, I feel the weight of him. Not just as a professor or a father, but as a power in this place. The air stirs around his shoulders like invisible wings folding. "Ava," Cole says, warning in his voice. Ashwood studies my face. "You remind me of your principal," he says. "Too much faith in people, not enough in structures." "You remind me of the boy in my kitchen a year ago," I say. "The one who thought he could push until I broke and then blame what came out." Something sharp flickers in his eyes at that—respect, maybe annoyance. "We're done here," Sasha says. "He needs the clinic." She nods at the kid on the floor. "Unless anyone objects to me taking my patient out of your controlled environment." Ashwood looks like he might. Then he steps back. "By all means," he says, "treat him. He'll need it. And when you're finished telling Myra whatever version of this you choose, send her my way. I think we're long overdue for a frank conversation." He moves toward the door, stepping carefully over broken chalk. The students part for him, more out of habit than respect. At the threshold, he pauses. "Oh," he says, almost as an afterthought. "Be careful how you frame this. You especially, Ava, you've already given Damian plenty of reasons to call you unstable. If he gets a whiff of you in an unauthorized ritual, he'll be delighted to add it to his file." He smiles, a thin thing that doesn't reach his eyes. "Good night," he says. Then he's gone.

We move fast once he's out. Sasha and I get the boy, Theo, I recognize belatedly from a shared lab, onto his feet. Each of us taking an arm. His legs wobble. His skin is clammy, sweat damp. He blinks like he's waking up from a nightmare. "He doesn't quite remember what happened," he rasps. "Later," Sasha says. "Click now." The other students hover, guilty and shaken. A couple reach out like they want to help, then think better of it. Jax takes a quick, silent inventory, faces, positions, who hangs back near the broken sigil, and who stares at the door where Ashwood left. I can see him making mental notes, building a list to cross-reference later. Cole stays near the door, listening for footsteps in the hall. His jaw is set, eyes dark. When we step into the corridor, the air feels almost normal. Almost. We move down the empty hall as fast as Theo's shaky legs will allow. Sasha keeps a hand on his chest, pushing little pulses of steadying magic into his heartbeat. Every time he sways, she rights him before he falls. "You okay?" I ask her quietly. "I will be," she says. "Later, after I scream into a pillow for an hour." Her mouth twitches, humorless. "Don't crash yet," I say. "We need you upright while we lie to the receptionist." "I don't lie," she says. "I omit." "Semantics," Jax mutters, trailing at our back. We spill out into the night air and cut across the quad. From the outside, Barage looks like any small university at dusk. Scattered lamplight, clusters of students, the faint thump of music from someone's open window. Under that, I can feel the wards humming harder than ever, a net drawn tight. Theo stumbles. I catch him around the waist. He's heavier than he looks. All dead weight and shaking muscles. "Almost there," I tell him. His breath hitches. "I thought I thought I was gone," he says. "You were," Jack says. "We yanked you back out of the drain." "Jax," Sasha warns. "What?" he says. "He deserves the truth. Sugar coating doesn't make the nightmares smaller." Theo swallows. His eyes find me. "You were there," he says. "In the circle before it went," he shakes his head. "I remember your face and her hands." He means Sasha. "We've got you," I say. "That's what matters." We reach the clinic. Inside, the receptionist looks up, sees the state of us, chalk smeared, sweat damp, Theo wobbling, and doesn't even bother with small talk. "I'll get Poppy," she says, already standing. Poppy and Leah do not say, "I told you so." They don't have to. It's written all over their faces as they strip Theo's shirt off, check his pupils, lay glowing hands on his chest, his temples, the places where the magic hit hardest. "He'll be okay," they tell us. "There's no physical trauma beyond exhaustion and stress. The rest, nightmares, shakes, the taste of burned metal in his mouth will take longer." They also don't say Myra is going to lose her mind. That hangs in the air, too. When they finally shoe us out of the treatment room and into the hallway, the four of us end up leaning against the wall. Me, Jax, Sasha, Cole in a crooked row. My legs feel hollow. My hands smell like chalk and sweat. "We can't sit on this," Sasha says, eyes on the closed door. "Ashwood's games. Damian's backroom crap. Kids getting branded by sigils they don't understand." "We're not," Cole says, his voice is low, tight. "I'm telling Myra tonight." He looks like he's already rehearsing the conversation in his head. How to say your trusted professor is running unauthorized recall drills without sounding like a paranoid son with a grudge. "What if he spins it first?" Jax asks. "He's had time to get to her before you. He probably wrote a whole essay by now about eager students and overzealous interventions." "Then we show her Theo," Sasha says, "and the chalk and the sigil and tell her this isn't the first time we've seen it. And that the same pattern is in the grid." "And in the alley," Cole nods. "We're not winning this by volume," he says. "We're winning it with evidence." He looks at me. "You've been in all the wrong places at all the right times," he says. "You've seen more than most council members." "I'm not a neutral witness," I say. "Damian already thinks I'm an unstable outlier with fangs." "Exactly," Jack says. "You're the one they're trying to use as exhibit A. See what happens when we're too gentle. If you walk into that office and say, 'This is what your stricter faction is actually doing.' It screws up their narrative." The thought makes something electric crawl along my spine. I am a risk. I always have been. Maybe it's time that stopped being their excuse and started being my weapon. "Okay," I say. "We tell her." Sasha pats my arm once, then pushes off the wall. "I'm going to grab coffee before we do this," she says. "If I'm going to pick a side in a quiet coup, I'd like caffeine first." Jax blows out a long breath. "I'll go keep an eye on the theater building," he says. "In case anybody tries to bleach the chalk or pave over the scorch marks." "Don't get branded yourself," I tell him. He grins tired. "Humie," he says, "I'm too slippery." He heads out. Sasha disappears in search of caffeinated courage. Cole and I are left in the hallway alone. The clinic hums, surrounding us. For a moment, neither of us speaks. "You okay?" he asks finally. The question again. This time it lands different. "No," I say, "but I will be. Maybe." His shoulders sag a little, like he'd been bracing for me to say something else, something softer or crueler. "You shouldn't have to keep cleaning up after them," he says. "After him." "You mean your father?" I ask. He flinches. "I should have told you," he says, "sooner." "Yeah," I say. "You should have." He looks down at his hands. They're clean now, but I remember them on the boy's shoulders in the drill, on Bunny's arm, on my wrist. "He's not a monster," Cole says quietly. "He's done good things for this program, for me, for a lot of kids who would have been dead or locked up without him. But he's not where he used to be. He's willing to do things now that he cuts himself off. That Myra won't." "And you?" I ask. "Where are you?" He looks up. "Trying to keep the pieces from flying apart," he says. "Trying to stop a war between the person who built this place and the people who think they can run it better by scaring everyone into line." "And me," I say. "And you," he says, "in the middle of all of it. Because apparently the universe looked at this mess and said, 'You know what? We need a vampire with impulse control issues.'" Despite everything, I huff out a laugh. We stand there a moment longer, leaning on opposite sides of the same crack in the wall. "Come on," he says finally. "Let's go start a different kind of fire." We push off the wall and head for Myra's office. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm banging my fists on a door that won't open. I feel like I'm walking into the room where decisions are made. And this time, I'm done being the subject of someone else's experiment.

Myra's office looks different at night. The hallway is mostly dark, lit by little wall sconces instead of the big fluorescents. The frosted glass door at the end glows softly. Principal Myraan a shadow over warm light. My palms are damp. Cole walks beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight enough to snap. We don't talk. He knocks once. "Come in," Myra's voice says. He opens the door and lets me step in first. Inside, the room is the same. Bookcases, windows, plant, carefully tidy desk, but the edges feel sharper. Myra stands by the window instead of sitting. The city lights behind her turn her into a silhouette for a moment. As the door clicks shut behind us, she turns. Her gaze sweeps over me. Then Cole takes us in. Catalogs damage. "You're both here," she says. "Good. Saves time." "No, Damian. No, Ashwood." That feels intentional. Cole clears his throat. "You heard?" he says. "I heard there was a disturbance," she says. "Damian reported a minor training mishap in the blackbox theater. He did not mention blood sigils, half-shift seizures, or my son hauling a boy off the floor." Her eyes settle on me. "Ava," she says, "tell me from the beginning." I do, not in neat bullet points, in images. I tell her about the open door to the black box, the candles, the chalk, the ugly sigils stretched across the floor, the boy Theo on his knees, eyes rolled back, the way the air felt wrong, familiar in the worst way, the brand-shaped glow under his skin. I don't dramatize, I don't soften. My words come out flat and fast, like ripping off bandages. I tell her about Ashwood standing at the edge of the circle, calm, saying advanced intervention, about the students who thought this was sanctioned, about the surge, the almost-pull. The way the magic tried to yank Theo out of himself. I tell her how Sasha dove in with her hands. How Jax broke the chalk. How we stomped the pattern to pieces before it could finish. As I talk, Myra moves slowly behind her desk, pulling out a legal pad, uncapping a pen. She takes notes the old-fashioned way, but I can tell that's not what she's really writing on. She's writing on the inside of her skull, rearranging pieces. When I get to Ashwood's smile on his way out, she stops writing. "And he admitted to designing the circle?" she asks. "Not in those words," I say. "But he owned the exercise, called it preparation, said we're too soft. Said the world outside doesn't care about your rules." Her mouth hardens. "Of course he did," she murmurs. Cole shifts his weight. "He told them you knew," he says quietly. "Or at least implied it. Myra's curriculum like it was a hurdle to work around, not a framework to respect." "How many students?" Myra asks. "102," I say. "I recognize some. Theo, the kid in the circle. That illusionist from Gayla rehearsal. Hail, a couple others." "And did you see Damian?" she asks. I think back. The faces around the circle, the shadows near the back. "No," I say, "just Ashwood and the kids and us." She nods slowly. "Zit," she says. "We do." She stays standing, one hand braced on the edge of the desk like she's holding the room in place. "There's something you need to understand," she says about how this place is held together. Her eyes move to Cole for a beat, then back to me. "The door, the grid, the clinics, the scholarships, none of this exists in a vacuum," she says. "We rely on donors, on political cover, on people who sit on boards and in back rooms and say, 'Yes, this program is useful. Let it continue.'" "Ashwood," I say. "And others," she says. "But yes, the Ashwood family has funded half our infrastructure for 20 years. When we first built this campus, Professor Ashwood was my strongest ally. He wrote the protocols with me. He fought the council when they wanted to turn this into a prison instead of a school." Her jaw tightens. "He still believes he's the hero of this story," she says. "He thinks he's protecting you from a world that will never accept you." "And now?" Cole asks, his voice is very quiet. "Now he believes the fastest way to that protection is fear," she says. "If he can prove that my approach is too weak, that my students are unprepared, the council will hand him more power for everyone's safety." She looks at me. "And you," she says, "are his favorite argument. An out-of-network vampire with a history, a walking case study in what happens when we leave things to chance." Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "He said as much," I say. "Damian will use you to prove we need stronger measures," she says. "He wasn't wrong. He's not wrong about the danger." She's wrong about the solution. She sets the pen down with care. "Damian and Ashwood represent two halves of the same problem," she says. "Damen wants clean files and obedience. Ashwood wants stronger magic and stricter drills. Both think discipline is more important than trust." "And you?" I ask. "I think control without consent is just another kind of cage," she says. Silence stretches. It occurs to me that Myra could fix all of this by throwing a few people out. Expel half the circle, fire Ashwood, drag Damian's secrets into the light. She doesn't say that. Instead, she says, "I can't move against him. Not yet. Not openly." My hands curl into fists. "He burned that sigil into a student's mind." "I say he's the recall hook. He's the one making these half-shifts." "Yes," she says. "And if I accuse him without proof he can't wriggle out of, he'll say I'm scapegoating him for my own failures. The council will listen. They remember when he and I built this together. They don't see what he's become because he still speaks their language." "So what do we do?" Cole asks. "Just let him keep experimenting?" "No," she says. "We gather evidence he can't spin. We show where his methods lead. We cut off his levers before he realizes they're gone." Her gaze drops to me again, weighing. "You've seen things my staff hasn't," she says. "The alley, the drill tonight. You're already in his narrative. Whether you like it or not, I would rather you be in mine as well." My throat feels dry. "What does that mean?" I ask. "It means," she says, "that when he offers you a role to play in his version of this program, I want you to take it." For a second, I think I misheard. "You want me to what?" I ask. "Get close," she says. "Listen. Watch. Bring me what he tries to hide." "That sounds like spying," I say. "It is," she says bluntly. "And it's dangerous, and I would never ask it of a student who didn't already keep ending up in the blast radius." Cole inhales sharply. "No," he says. "Absolutely not." Myra's eyes cut to him. "You don't get to decide that for her," she says. "She's already on Damian's list," he says. "On my father's list. If they catch her feeding you information—" "They will do what exactly?" Myra asks. "Threaten to expel her, attempt a wipe, she can resist. Drag her into a circle and see what happens when they yank the hook. They're already doing that to kids with fewer teeth." The image makes my stomach lurch. She softens just a fraction. "Ava," she says, "you are not obligated to say yes. You can walk out of this office and never set foot near my door again. I will still fight for you. I will still refuse to let them treat you like a weapon." The words hit something raw in me. A year ago, no one fought for me at all. "Why me?" I ask. "You've got faculty, older students, people who know what they're doing." "Because he's interested in you," she says, "because you're new enough not to be on his list of known variables and stubborn enough to push back when you smell rot. Because both sides are already using your name in their arguments. This way, you get some say in how they use it." I look at Cole. His hands are clenched on his knees, knuckles white. His eyes meet mine, and I see the war going on behind them. Son, student, handler, something else. "You told me you didn't want me trapped between you," I say to him. "Between you and him." "I don't," he says. "I hate that this is even on the table." "But we're already here," I say. He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, they're steady. "If you say yes," he says, "I stay between you and the worst of it. You don't go into any room with him alone. Not anymore. Not without someone who can yank you out." He glances at Myra. "You can be as angry at me as you want," he says. "That part isn't negotiable." Something in my chest twists. Myra watches us like we're another piece on her board. But there's something almost feral in her gaze now. "This is the worst part of my job," she says, "recruiting brave children to stand where cowards should." For a moment, the mask slips, and I see the weight of it all on her. Every kid, every failure, every compromise. I think of Bunny's blood on the alley pavement, of Theo's body jerking over the sigil, of the half-shift's brand flaring before he vanished, of my father saying I was a magnet, of Jax's grin in the balcony, of Sasha's hands lit up over a stranger's chest. I think of Ashwood's quiet voice in the map room. "The world outside doesn't care about Myra's rules." He's right. That doesn't mean I have to play his game. "All right," I say. My voice barely shakes. "I'll do it." Cole swears under his breath at the same time Myra exhales. "I will not thank you," she says, "because you shouldn't have to." "Too bad," I say. "I accept your not-thanks." That earns the ghost of a smile. "Here is what will happen next," she says, shifting into pure logistics. "I will call a meeting with my senior staff and certain council liaisons. Ashwood and Damian will present their incident reports. You will be asked to give your account of the alley and the drill. You will not mention the circle tonight." "Why?" I ask. "Because I need to see how they lie," she says. "What they omit, who they blame. If I tip my hand now, Ashwood will know you're mine, not his." "And after?" Cole asks. "We let him approach you on his own terms," she says. "He will. He's too pragmatic not to. When he does, you listen. You nod. You ask questions. You let him think he is winning you." I swallow. "That sounds fun," I say. "You will not agree to anything binding." "No oaths, no circles, no advanced sessions without my knowledge." "You think he'll be that obvious?" Jax would probably ask. He's not here, but I can hear his voice in my head. "He likes his theater," Myra says. "He believes in dramatic gestures. He can't resist them." Cole stands abruptly. "I'm going to talk to him," he says, "tonight, before he finds her." "That would be unwise," Myra says. "I don't care," he says. "You will not win in a direct confrontation," she says, voice sharpening. "Not yet." "So, we're what? Just all polite at the faculty meeting?" he asks, while he lines up more kids to brand. Her expression doesn't change, but something in the room cools. "You will sit in that room," she says, "and let him believe his grip on you hasn't slipped. You will not give him any reason to accelerate his plans. We cannot fight on every front at once." Their eyes lock. Two Ashwoods, two versions of what this could become. Cole's jaw works. "Fine," he says eventually, "but when he comes near her—" "I will be listening," she says. "And so will you." He nods once, sharp. Myra looks back at me. "Go home," she says. "Sleep if you can. Tomorrow, smile in the halls. Go to class. Let them see you as a student, not a symbol." "Too late for that," I say. But I stand. She doesn't contradict me.

The night air outside Myra's office is cold enough to bite. We walk in silence across the quad. The lamp posts throw little puddles of yellow light onto the grass. In the distance, the city glitters, oblivious. "How mad are you?" I ask finally. Cole doesn't pretend not to know what I mean. "At you," he says. "I'm not at her," I ask. "Always," he says, "and never enough." We cut toward the bus stop. The benches are empty, the shelter lit by a flickering fluorescent tube. A breeze gusts through, rattling wrappers along the curb. "You don't have to babysit me," I say. "You can go back." "I'm not letting you stand at a bus stop alone when we just barged in on an illegal ritual," he says. "Sorry, that's not negotiable either." "You and Myra are very fond of 'not negotiable' tonight," I say. "Occupational hazard," he says. We stand there, not quite facing each other. "I meant what I said," he adds quietly. "When this blows up, and it will, you're not standing there alone." "I'm pretty sure you're going to be in the blast zone whether you like it or not," I say. He huffs out something like a laugh. "Yeah," he says. "That seems to be my fate." The bus's headlights appear at the end of the street. I turn to him. "If you get in trouble for this, for backing me, for going to Myra, for anything, you don't get to blame me," I say. "You made your own choice." "I know," he says. "And if you get hurt, you don't get to blame me for not trying to stop you." "Deal," I say. The bus pulls up with a groan. He steps back from the curb, hands in his pockets. "Ava," he says, "be careful, please." I flash a grin that feels sharper than I mean it to. "Define careful," I say. The doors hiss open. I climb aboard.

At home, my parents are waiting. They don't yell this time. They just sit at the kitchen table, faces tight, phone on the table between them like a third party. "Another call," Dad says. "From the clinic this time. Minor incident." That phrase is starting to sound like code for 'your daughter almost got killed again.' "I didn't almost get killed," I say. "It was more complicated." I tell them the parts I can without breaking Myra's trust or making their heads explode. There was a spell, a boy. We walked in before it went fully wrong. Sasha saved him. We took him to the clinic. There was a meeting. I leave out names. I leave out titles. I leave out recall hooks and coups. Mom presses her fingers to her temples. "Every time you go up there," she says, "you come back with another story that sounds like a horror movie." "Every time I go up there, I come back," I say. "That's the point." Dad's eyes search mine. "How much more can you take?" he asks. "How much more are they going to drag you into before they decide you're a liability instead of an asset?" "They already decided," I say. "All of them. I'm just choosing who gets to use the word." That doesn't make him feel better. I lean my elbows on the table and look between them. "This isn't going away," I say. "There's no universe where we move again and magic forgets I exist. There's just trained disaster and untrained disaster. I'd rather be useful when the bad things happen." "Useful?" Mom repeats, voicing. "You're not a tool, Ava." "No," I say. "I'm not. That's the whole problem. They want me to be. I'm trying to be something else inside a system that doesn't know what to do with that." Silence drops heavy. After a long moment, Dad sighs. It sounds like something in him giving way. "If you're going to keep doing this," he says, "make sure it's for your reasons. Not theirs, not Myra's, not any Ashwood's. Yours." It hits me like a weight I didn't know I needed. It's the only blessing he can give me in a world like this. "I will," I say. He nods once. "Okay," Mom says hoarsely. "Then eat something and then sleep, please." I do. Sleep is a patchwork. Door sigil. Alley chalk. Ashwood's eyes. Myra's steady and tired. Cole's hand brushing my sleeve. Jax's voice laughing in the dark. Sasha's light blazing over a stranger's heart. At some point, my phone buzzes. I fumble for it, half awake, eyes gritty. Unknown number. "You step into every circle like you're searching for something. Try not to lose it in there." Another message before I can reply. Jax, of course. He got a new number. Of course, he didn't tell me until now. I type back with clumsy fingers. "I'm searching for the off switch." "If you see it, sunpick," three dots, then I see a lot of levers. "Pretty sure one of them is you." I roll my eyes at the ceiling, but my chest feels weirdly warm. "Go to sleep, Morno." "Can't. Some of us are busy saving the world. W memes." I toss the phone onto the pillow and bury my face in the blanket. Tomorrow there will be meetings, performances, lies, maybe another ritual. Tomorrow Ashwood will start trying to turn me into proof. Tomorrow I start letting him think he can. Tonight, for a few hours, I let myself just be a girl in a dark room, heart pounding too fast for someone who's supposedly resting. Somewhere under the hill, the door hums. The grid hums. The sigils on the floor of the black box still taste like burned metal. Somewhere else, Myra sharpens her knives, and somewhere between them all, in the crosshairs, I fall asleep.

I wake up to my phone buzzing on my face. For a second, I'm sure it's fire again, or wolves, or the sigil burning under Theo's knees. It's just my screen glowing too bright in the dark. Two messages stacked on top of each other. "8:30 council room admin wing. Come as you are. Say only what you know. Mm." And under it. "I'll be outside the door. You're not doing this alone." I say no texts from Jax yet. Or Sasha. The quiet from that corner feels almost loud. My tongue tastes like fear and toothpaste. My stomach is a knot. I get up anyway. The house is half awake. Mom's pulling on her jacket. Dad's rinsing a mug. They both look up when I shuffle in. "You got a message," Dad says. "It pinged all the way down the hall." "Summons," I say, holding my phone up. "Council room. Myra wants me there." Mom's face goes still. "Is it about last night?" she asks. "It's about all of it," I say. "The alley, the drill, the circle." Dad swears low. I pour coffee with hands that shake only a little. "You could say no," Mom says. "You could pretend you never saw it." "And then what?" I ask. "They make decisions based on Ashwood's version of the story, on Damian's. No thanks." Dad leans his elbows on the table, studying me like he's trying to decide if he should forbid this outright. He doesn't. He knows it's too late for that. "Remember what we said," he says. "Your reasons, not theirs." "Got it," I say. When I leave, Mom hugs me so hard I feel her heartbeat through my jacket. "If anyone tries to touch your memories again," she says in my ear, "bite their hand." "I'll tell the principal you said that," I say. "I hope you do," she replies.

The admin wing on the top floor feels like a different world. Students don't come up here unless they're in trouble, special, or both. Today, I'm definitely the latter. Maybe the former, depending on who you ask. The council room is next to Myra's office. Frosted glass, double doors, the faint murmur of voices inside. Cole leans against the wall opposite, exactly where he said he'd be. Dark shirt, no hoodie, hair pushed back. He looks like he hasn't slept. When he sees me, his shoulders loosen a centimeter. "You came?" he says. "You ask nicely," I say. He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh. Not quite. "Last chance to bail," he says. "If you walk away now, Myra will find another way. It'll be slower, messier. But you won't be the thing they all stare at when they say this is what's at stake." "I'm already the thing they stare at," I say. "Might as well make it useful." He looks at me the way he did by the redwoods the first time I saw the door. Like he's weighing two versions of the future and hates both. "Stay to the facts," he says. "Don't speculate. Don't say Ashwood unless Myra says it first." "Whose team are you on right now?" I ask. "Yours," he says. The words come out before he can dress them up. He leaves them there. The doors open. "Ms. Rays," the assistant dean says. "They're ready." Cole's hand brushes mine for half a second. A squeeze. A promise or an apology? I'm not sure which. Then I walk into the room. It's bigger than Myra's office with a long oval table and too many windows. The city looks like a painting behind everyone's heads. Myra sits at the far end. Damian is to her right, expression neutral. Professor Ashwood is on her left, sleeves rolled, hands folded like this is a faculty meeting instead of a quiet war. Three other people occupy the remaining seats, older, dressed in expensive quiet. A woman with streaks of gray in her braids. A man with a council pin on his lapel. Another with a tablet and sharp eyes. Board liaison money. I'm the only one without a

Chair. Ms. Rays. Myra says, her voice steady. "Thank you for coming. This is a closed session review regarding the recent incidents. We are recording. Speak freely."

She gestures to a spot near the end of the table, not standing by her, not by them, in the space between. "Of course, start with the alley," she says.

So I do. The words come easier this time. They've been arranged in my head all night. Boy, brand, pull, my hunger, my choice. Jacks and bunny, teeth and blood, the recall. I don't look at Ashwood when I mention the smell or the sigil. I don't have to. I can feel his attention like heat on my skin. The councilwoman with braids takes notes. The man with the pin frowns thoughtfully. The tablet guy records, eyes flicking between my face and his screen. Damian's expression never changes.

When I finish, the room is quiet. "Thank you," Myra says. "Now the drill."

I tell them about the containment failure. The monster in the circle. My seat. My hand. The girl, the wards flickering and reknitting. Leah's shout, "The way the air felt when something pushed from outside."

Ashwood leans back, steepling his fingers. "The containment ring was under significant strain," he says when I'm done. "We've been asking for an upgrade for 3 years."

The pin man nods. "Budget has been tight," he says. "We can revisit that."

And the blackbox theater. The tablet guy asks, "You mentioned a circle." Myra's eyes flicked to me for half a second. "Not yet."

"I walked past," I say carefully. "Heard something. We interfered before it could escalate."

"What was the purpose of the exercise?" the braided woman asks, looking at Ashwood.

"Intervention training," he says smoothly. "Simulating loss of control under supervision."

Ms. Ray's account is accurate as far as it goes, though she lacks the context for the framework we operate within. He doesn't look at me when he says it.

"And the sigil, Damian asks, you keep returning to it. His gaze is on me now. Do you know how to read it enough to know it's old?"

"I say, and that it's being used the same way in three different places. Or that you are projecting patterns onto coincidence."

He says, "You are sensitive right now, understandably." He's trying to paint me as hysterical, unreliable.

The tablet guy shifts. "Whether or not the sigils match," he says, "The result was an uncontrolled partial shift, that is unacceptable."

Ashwood leans forward, sensing an opening. "Exactly," he says. "These repeated failures demonstrate that our current protocols are inadequate. We cannot continue to rely on good instincts and wishful thinking. We need stronger measures, more rigorous drills, early tagging of unstable subjects so we can intervene before we're pulling them off the street or off each other." His eyes flick to me on that last word.

The pin man tilts his head. "Tagging?" he asks.

"A minor sigil keyed to our grid," Ashwood says. "Nothing invasive. A way to ensure recall if a student wanders too far from safe parameters." My stomach turns.

"Branding," I say.

He finally looks at me. "Language matters, Miss Rays." He says, "Branding implies cruelty. This is about ensuring we can find you when you're lost."

"I'm not a lost dog," I say.

The braids woman holds up a hand before the argument can spiral. "Enough," she says. "We understand your positions. We've heard Miss Ray's account. Principal Rowan, what do you recommend?"

Myra doesn't look at me this time. "An audit," she says. "Full review of every experimental protocol run in the last 2 years, independent, and a pause on all unsanctioned intervention exercises until that review is complete."

"Which is why we do it under the college," Myra says, "in a controlled environment, not a back alley."

"The half shift in the alley was not one of ours," Ashwood counters. "If we had had proper tagging in place, we could have known that before he ever touched a student. Instead, we rely on chance, on Ms. Ray's proximity and unique appetites." The word lands like a slap.

The pin man shifts again, unease moving across his face. The braided woman's mouth thins. Tablet guy makes a note.

"Ms. Rays," he says, looking up. "Do you believe you can control yourself in another such incident? Or do you consider yourself a risk?"

The question is the whole point. Ashwoods and Damians both the fulcrum. I let myself feel the weight of it. The alley, the drill, Theo on his knees, my fangs, my hands, my choices.

"I am a risk," I say, like everyone under the hill. "I'm not safe because of what I am. I'm safer because of what I know now. Because of Leah's drills. Because of Poppy's ugly exercises, because Myra gave me tools instead of pretending I don't exist."

I take a breath. "If you want to tag someone, tag the people designing exercises that blow up in their faces," I say. "Not the kids they drag into their circles."

Ashwood's jaw tightens. Myra's eyes glint just for a second. The council people confer quietly. The tablet guy murmurs something about liability. The pin man uses the word optics. Damian watches the whole thing like a hawk.

I realize suddenly that no one is going to walk out of this room in handcuffs. Not today. This is just the first skirmish in a longer fight. But the questions they're asking, and the ones they didn't, will shape everything that comes next.

"We will consider your recommendations," the braided woman says finally. "In the meantime, Principal Rowan, all experimental protocols are paused. Nothing new without board approval."

Ashwood's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course," he says, "we wouldn't want any surprises."

The meeting adjourns. I walk out into the hallway with my head buzzing and my heart pounding. Cole falls into step at my side.

"How bad?" he asks.

"Depends who you ask. I say they didn't hand your father the keys yet."

"And Myra?" he asks.

"Bought us time," I say, "and gave me homework." He knows what that means.

"Ashwood's going to come to you," he says. "Sooner rather than later."

"Good," I say. "I hate waiting."

The next hours blur. Classes happen. People talk about the gayla. Flyers flap. The blackbox theater is taped off for renovations. Underneath, the grid hums in my bones like a storm rolling in.

By late afternoon, my phone buzzes. Unknown number. "If you're going to stare at a wolf, better to do it on a leash. Let me show you how not to get bitten." And then, before I can respond. "Clearing 8:00 p.m. If you're serious about control, the DA Damian Ashwood," he signed it, bold as blood.

I show the text to Myra on the way out of the clinic. She reads it once, twice, then hands the phone back. "I expected sooner," she says.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask.

"Go," she says, "with your eyes open, with backup."

"Backup?" I say. "Do you trust Jax?"

"Yes," I say without thinking, annoyingly.

"And Sasha?" she asks.

"With my life," I say.

"Good," she says. "Tell them everything."

There it is, the line. We meet in my dorm room as the sky bruises. Sasha sits cross-legged on my bed, hoodie sleeves shoved up, bruises from the circle still faint on her wrists. Jax sprawls sideways in the desk chair, feet up on the radiator, hair damp from a too-fast shower. I tell them about the meeting, the board, the text.

Jax whistles low. "He's subtle," he says. "Inviting you to a creepy forest meetup. Very."

"Trust me, I'm definitely not the villain."

"He wants me where he can control the variables," I say. "No Myra, no formal council, just his rules."

"So, we break them," Sasha says. She's been quiet, listening, jaw tight. Now her eyes are sharp. "You're not going there alone," she says. "I don't care what Myra says about limited assets."

"She told me to bring you," I say.

Sasha blinks. "She did?" she asks.

"She trusts you," I say. "She said you didn't know about the circle, that Jax did and told you that you saved Theo." Color rises in Sasha's cheeks. She looks down. "I should have seen it sooner," she says. "The pattern, the sigils, the way the clinic reports were off."

"You saw enough," I say. "You're here."

Jax tilts his chair back until it taps the wall. "All right," he says. "Forest plan. Step one, we let the professor think he's running a lesson. Step two, we record everything. Step three, we flip his own sigils on him and hope we don't get turned inside out."

"That's a terrible plan," Sasha says.

"It's the only one we have," he says. He looks at me. "You sure about this?" he asks, because once we walk into that clearing, we're not just students anymore. We're pieces. And he's very good at chess."

"I'm tired of being a pawn," I say. "If I have to be a piece, I'd rather be the kind that knocks over the board."

He grins. "Now you sound like me," he says.

The redwoods tower black against a navy sky. The path to the clearing feels sharper tonight. Every twist and route is etched into my bones now. The crooked lamp, the bend in the trail, the way the sound of campus buzz fades, and the hum of wards rises. We move quiet. Sasha at my side, hand occasionally brushing mine, grounding. Jack's a few steps behind, scanning the trees. Senses stretched at the fork in the path. The clearing opens like a held breath finally let go. The mound is lit. Candles ring the plinth. Crystals gleam, arranged in a new pattern, more precise than Kira. Lines drawn in some metallic dust that catches the light like groundup stars.

Damen Ashwood stands by the stone, hands in his pockets, relaxed, a silhouette in a dark coat. Cole stands a few feet away. My heart stutters at the sight of him here, off the sanctioned grid, in the shadow of his father's ritual. He looks torn, jaw tight, shoulders coiled, eyes flicking between me and the setup like he wants to be in two places at once.

"You came," Damen says, "and you brought friends. How democratic." He doesn't look surprised. Of course, he doesn't. He expects me to defy him even as I walk into his circle.

Jack shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, posture loose but ready. "Wow," he says lightly. "Family camping trip. Didn't realize there was a gaslight the freshman package."

Damian ignores him. "Ava," he says. "Approach." My skin prickles. The plinth, the crystals, the cables, all of it hums with a frequency I feel in my teeth. The sigils etched into the mound's side flicker pale like they're trying to decide whose song to follow. I step forward until I'm a few feet from the stone.

"You wanted to show me how not to get bitten," I say. "I'm here. Educate me."

He smiles. It's colder than his son. "You are unused to authority that does not apologize for itself," he says. "Myra flattered you. Leah indulged you. Ashwood coddled you."

"News flash," Jax mutters. "You're Ashwood."

Damian's eyes flick to him, then back. "What I offer you," he says, "is clarity. You are dangerous. You will always be dangerous. You can pretend otherwise, or you can become something that terrifies the right people on purpose."

"And what does that require?" I ask.

"A tag, a leash, a bond," he says. "A recall anchor. So when, not if, you slip, we can pull you back. Like Theo, like the half shift, like the branded horror in the alley."

"You mean control," I say.

"I mean survival," he counters. "Yours and everyone else. Tagging volatile subjects is standard practice in any serious program. Myra's refusal to do so is sentimentality, not strategy." He gestures at the plinth. "The door trusts signatures it knows. He says, 'Old bloodlines established wards. You are neither. That is why it repelled you. Why it strains when you pass? I can fix that. Key you properly, make you legible to the system.'" The way he says "fix" makes ice crawl up my spine.

"What's the catch?" I ask.

"No catch," he says. "Only an acknowledgement of reality. You will walk through this world under someone's rules. Better mine than those of a council that sees you as a liability or a mob that sees you as a monster." He looks at Cole. "Your friend understands," he says. "He grew up with structure."

Cole's jaw tightens. "Is this what you told him?" I ask Cole, "when he was younger? 'Better my rules than theirs.'"

He looks like he's swallowing glass. "It's not that simple," he says.

"Isn't it?" I ask. Damian's patience frays at the edges. "This is not a group therapy session," he says. "This is a strategic opportunity. Do you want to be part of this program or not?"

There it is. The raw question under everything since I stepped into barriage. "Do you?" I shoot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you want to burn it down and build a cage."

His eyes flash. "Control is not a cage," he says. "It is the only thing standing between our kind and annihilation." He steps closer, hand going into his coat. When it comes out, he's holding something small and dark. A piece of stone, not quite a crystal, not quite a slate plate, etched with the same brand shape I've seen burned into skin and floor. He sets it in a carved hollow on the plinth. The air around us tightens under the mound. The cables thrum louder. The sigils along the door frame flicker, fighting.

"You can walk away," he says. "Go back to your half-life, your parents' kitchen, your little videos. Eventually, you will slip. Someone will die. They will come for you. They will not be as kind as I am." He meets my eyes. "Or," he says, "you can step up. Take the mark. Become part of something that might actually keep you alive."

"And what happens to the ones who don't survive your training?" Sasha asks, voice cold. "Theo, the half shifts, the kids in your circles who collapse before they impress your council."

"They were weak," Damen says. "You cannot build a structure on rotten beams."

My hands curl into fists. Behind me, Jax goes very, very still.

"That boy in the alley was not weak," I say. "He was broken by you."

Damen's mouth twitches. "He was a test," he says. "Every breakthrough has casualties."

Something in me snaps. "The only casualty I see," I say, "is whatever part of you thought this place was worth saving."

He laughs, once, soft. "I never thought this structure was worth saving," he says. "Only what I could build from its bones." He looks at Cole again. "And you," he says, "this is your chance to stand where you belong, beside me, not skulking in clinics and hiding behind Rowan's skirts."

Cole's shoulders straighten, almost against his will. He looks at me, something raw and complicated in his eyes. "This was always going to happen," he says quietly. "With or without you."

"It hits harder than it should." "I should have known. He's been in this world his whole life. In its rules, its bargains."

"You use me," I say. The words taste like rust. He flinches.

"My father was going to push this through with or without a case," he says. "With or without you. I just— I thought if you were in the room, I could make sure he didn't break you while he did it."

"You brought me into his orbit," I say. "You vouched for me. You pushed Myra to let me in. You made me trust you. And all along you were building a better argument."

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. I see it now. All the little nudges, his insistence on my assessments, his presence in every incident, the way he always knew where the line was and when to step over or not.

"Tell her," Jack says quietly from behind me. "Tell her whose idea it was to give the grid her name."

Cole closes his eyes. "I submitted the proposal," he says. "To add you as a monitored variable under Myra's oversight, not under his. I thought I could split the difference. Get you training. Get him data. Keep you out of his circles."

"And how's that working out?" I ask.

He looks at the plinth, at the mark stone, at his father. "Not well," he says.

Damian sizes me up. "One way or another," he says. "This door opens my way tonight." He gestures. The crystals flare brighter. The marked stone glows. Lines of red light crawling out along the cables. "The council will see the data," he says. "Rowan will lose her grip. This place will survive, trimmed of its sentimentality. You can stand with me while it happens or be swept aside with her." He holds out his hand. "Ava," he says, "come for a heartbeat."

The world narrows to that hand, that plinth, that humming door. This is the moment he's been engineering since the day I followed the children into the woods. Every failure, every half shift, every scare, proof that Myra's soft approach doesn't work. That they need his mark, his recall, his discipline. Me here now, stepping into his circle, saying yes to his leash. That would be the perfect ending to his story. I almost laugh.

"No," I say. Just that. No. I let the word fill my lungs, my bones, my teeth. I let it drag up every memory Leah and Poppy forced me to sit with—the blood vial, the drill, the alley, the circle. The moment in my parents' kitchen a year ago when I snapped and hated myself for it. The moment last week when I didn't.

I step forward, not to his hand, to the plinth. The air snarls, the mark stone hisses, red light spiking behind me. I feel Jack's tense, ready to grab me back if I fall. Sasha's magic flickers, building. I press both hands flat on the stone. The grid hits me like a train. For a second, I'm everywhere. Wards, lines, the door, the underhill halls, the red clusters near the industrial park, the faint threads where half shifts strain against recall hooks, the burned-out scar of the sigil in the black box still hot in the canvas of the network.

Damian's mark is a knot in all of it. A pooling, ugly red node wrapped around the hum of Myra's blue-white wards. He wasn't lying. The system doesn't know what to do with me. My signature spikes too bright, too sharp. I could let his tag latch onto me. I can feel where it's reaching. Little hooks stretching from the mark stone toward my mind, ready to slap a brand on my bones. If I do, he gets what he wants. A leash on the monster.

I focus instead on the blue pulse underneath. Myra's wards. Leah's drills. Poppy's sigils. The quiet net of healers and watchers and kids who believed this place could be more than a cage. I choose them. I reach for that pattern like it's a rope in a storm. It hurts. The mark stone fights. Damian's spell snaps at my fingers, trying to redirect my grip onto his threads. The red clusters flare, pulling, promising sweet control if I just let go of the rest.

"I'm not your weapon," I whisper. I think of Bunny on the alley floor, Theo on the circle, Kira's wolves slamming the wards, Sasha's hands lit over a stranger's heart, Jax's stupid texts in the middle of the night, Cole's eyes when he said "proud." I think of my parents, arms around me in an ordinary kitchen. My body is shaking somewhere outside, knees hitting dirt, fingers gripping stone. I don't let go.

Instead, I do the thing Leah has been teaching me since that first vial. I ride the wave. I let the hunger, the fury, the hurt all crest. And at the top, I steer. I grab the knot of Damian's mark where it coils around the grid. And I bite, not with my teeth, with everything in me that knows how to latch on and not let go.

The spell shrieks. The red light flares, then twists, trying to pull away. I clamp down, not on myself, but on the knot, the way I would on a throat in a fight I intend to win. I don't drink it. I starve it. The mark stone cracks. Hairline fissures shoot through it, glowing white, blue instead of red. The cables shudder. The sigils along the door frame blaze. For a heartbeat, the entire network is a roar in my head. Then snap. The knot breaks. The red clusters on the grid dim one by one like someone turning off a bank of toxic lights. The recall hooks fizzle. The burned brand pattern loses its heat. The mark stone explodes. Shards of dark rock fly. Something slices my cheek. The plinth bucks under my hands. I stagger back, gasping, vision full of spots.

The clearing is chaos. Crystals shatter. Candles blow out. The metallic dust on the mound scatters like ash. Damian is on his knees. One hand pressed to his temple like he's just taken a psychic punch. Blood trickles from his nose. The door behind him flares bright, then settles into a clean, clear glow. No red taint, no flicker, just steady blue-white.

Jax is at my shoulder, hands hovering close, but not quite touching, like he's afraid he'll break me if he puts his weight on. Sasha stands a few feet away, palms out, ready to throw up a shield if the ritual collapses in a worse way. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown. Cole stands frozen. He's not untouched. There's blood at his lip, a cut on his brow, like the backlash hit his bloodline, too. His gaze is locked on me like I'm a grenade that just changed direction mid-arch.

Damian struggles to his feet. "What?" he rasps. "Did you do?"

My lungs drag an air that tastes like dirt and burned magic. "I said no," I whisper.

He looks at the plinth, at the shattered mark, at the faint white-blue veins now threading through where his red had been. His face goes white with fury. "You have no idea what you've broken," he snaps. "Years of work."

"You mean years of turning kids into test cases," Jack says. "Bunny, Theo, all the ones who didn't make it to your little council presentations."

Damian rounds on him. "You are a loudmouthed amateur with delusions of heroism," he says. "You think Rowan can protect you when the council sees what our world really looks like?" He gestures at me. "Look at her," he says. "She is a walking disaster. Without my mark, she will—"

"She will make her own choices," Myra says. We all turn. She stands at the edge of the clearing, three council members at her back. Leah and Poppy, too, flanking them like quiet guards. Of course, she's here. Of course, she was going to be. I realized suddenly that Jax and Sasha must have pinged her the moment we stepped onto the trail. That this whole thing, his invitation, my acceptance, our arrival, was the trap we chose to spring under her eyes, not his.

"I wondered where you'd choose to act," Myra says to Damian. "In a classroom you commandeered, in a back alley, in a black box. I should have known you'd try to take the door."

He draws himself up, trying to reshape his features into something like calm. "You're late," he says. "Your pet has already destabilized my work."

"I see that," she says, "and I am impressed." Her gaze brushes me. Pride, sharp and bright, flickers there for a heartbeat.

The braided council woman steps forward, eyes taking in the plinth, the shattered mark, Damian's bleeding nose. "This was unauthorized," she says. Not a question.

Damian laughs, brittle. "You cannot build a new model without breaking the old one," he says.

"My protocols have been revoked," the man with the pin says. He looks rattled, angry. "Effective immediately."

Damen's head snaps toward him. "You don't have the authority."

"We do," the braided woman says. "We gave it to you. We can take it back." She looks at Myra. "Principal Rowan," she says. "Your instincts about the sigils were correct. Consider this your unpleasant confirmation."

Myra inclines her head, eyes never leaving Damian. "You lied to us," the tablet guy says quietly. "You reported controlled exercises, not this."

Damian's eyes flicked to Ashwood. No, not Ashwood right now. Damian Ashwood, professor, father, saboteur. "For years," he says, "I have been the only one willing to do what is necessary to keep this place from turning into a morgue. You let her," he jerks his chin at Meera, "treat it like a sanctuary. It is not. It is a dam, and you are letting it crack."

"The only cracks we see," the braided woman says, "are in your judgment." She nods at Leah and Poppy. "Escort him to holding," she says. "We'll convene formally in the morning."

Leah's jaw sets. Poppy's eyes are flint. They move forward, hands ready, sigils humming at their fingertips. For a second, I think Damian will fight. Then he looks at me, at the plinth, at the faint white-blue glow of the wards now pooling without his red overlay, at Cole standing there with blood on his face and conflict in his eyes. Some of the fury drains out of him, leaving something colder.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "You can cut the obvious threads. The knot is still there. The world outside your hills still wants your heads. When they come, my methods will be the ones that work, not hers." He jerks his arm out when Leah reaches for him, like he's granting them the favor of escorting him instead of being dragged. They lead him away. The forest hums. The council trio follows, speaking in low, urgent tones. They don't look at me as they go. I'm not their problem right now. Not directly. That at least feels like progress.

The clearing feels strangely empty after they're gone. No candles, no crystals, just four of us and the door humming quietly behind us. Sasha sinks onto the mound, legs giving way. Her hands tremble as the adrenaline drains out. Jax drops onto the ground beside her, flopping onto his back, staring up through the branches. "Well," he says breathlessly. "That was something."

"I think I'm going to throw up," Sasha says.

"Do it away from the plinth," he says. "We don't know how it feels about bodily fluids." Despite everything, I snort.

Myra steps closer, the edges of her composure softened by genuine relief. Up close, she looks older than she did this morning, tired, but not beaten. "I did tell you," she says to me, "that I wanted to see which way you lean."

"How's my angle?" I say, my voice is hoarse.

"Defiantly inconvenient," she says. "Perfect." She looks at Cole. "You aided an unauthorized exercise," she says. "Stood by while your father built circles under my wards."

He flinches. "I tried to mitigate," he says.

"You failed," she says. Not cruel, just factual. He doesn't argue. "You may no longer serve as his go-between," she says. "That bridge has burned. If you stay here, you will rebuild your role from the ground up on my terms and hers." She nods at me.

"What if I don't stay?" he asks quietly.

"Then you will leave this place having chosen not to fight for it when it mattered," she says. "And you will carry that with you longer than any mark your father could carve." His throat works. He looks at me. "I'm sorry," he says. It's the first time he said it like he means all of it. Not just the surface-level mess-ups, the deeper betrayals, the nudges, the unspoken.

"I believe you," I say. "I also don't forgive you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

He nods, accepting pain flickering across his face. "Take the time you need to decide," Myra says. "The door will not be patient forever, but I will grant you one night." He nods again, then turns and walks away into the trees, shoulders bowed under a weight that is finally fully his.

Myra watches him go, then looks at us. "You have my gratitude," she says simply. "And my apology, I should have seen how far he'd gone sooner. You paid for my delay."

"You're making it right now," Sasha says.

"That's what matters for now," Myra says. "For tonight." She rests a hand briefly on my shoulder. It feels like a benediction and a warning. "Go home," she says. "All of you sleep, heal. Tomorrow we start again." She leaves the clearing without ceremony, following the trail back toward campus, toward council rooms and reports and the long work of rebuilding.

The three of us are left with the door and the whisper of wind through the branches. We sit there for a while. No one talks. The night sounds slowly return. Distant cars. A bird calling twice. The soft creek of trees. My body aches in places I didn't know I had nerves. My head feels like someone rewired it with glowing wire. My hands are nicked and bruised.

Jax rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. "You know," he says, "for someone who didn't want to be a symbol, you're very good at dramatic gestures."

"Shut up," I say weakly.

He grins, then sobered. "You dodged the mark," he says. "For a second, I thought you were going to take it."

"Me too," Sasha admits quietly.

I stare at my hands. "I thought about it," I say, "about how easy it would be to stop fighting myself, to hand the steering wheel to someone else and just be told when to turn."

And Sasha asks, "And then I remembered that the last time I did that, a boy almost died in my kitchen."

I say, "And that if I put a leash on my neck now, there's no version of me that doesn't want to bite whoever holds it."

Sasha exhales. "Good," she says. "I like you off leash. It suits you."

Jax pushes himself up to sitting. "Hey," he says. "Look at me."

"I do."

"I've been an idiot," he says, "for a long time with girls, with this place, with everything. Flirting my way through crises, pretending I'm not scared so no one sees how much I care."

"That's your charm," Sasha says dryly.

He shoots her a look. She lifts her hands in surrender and falls silent. "A few days ago," he goes on, "I thought the worst thing that could happen was being bored. Now, I've watched you almost get eaten three times, watched a professor try to carve his name into your bones, and watched you bite a spell in half. And all I could think was, if she dies, I will burn this entire hill down."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Jax," I start.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Let me say it. Then you can tell me I'm an idiot and we can go back to you pretending you don't like my face." I almost laugh. He scoots closer. Serious in a way I've rarely seen him. "I'm done spreading myself thin," he says. "No more three girls in a week. No more flirting as cardio. I want to be where you are, even when it's terrifying, especially when it is." His voice wobbles on the last bit. He covers it with a breath. "I know I messed up," he says, "with Bunny, with you, with Sasha. I don't expect you to just forget all that. But if we make it out of this semester alive, I want to try. For real. No games."

The night hums around us. Sasha looks between us, something soft and a little sad in her eyes.

"I already told you," I say slowly. "I'm not good at normal."

"Good," he says. "I'm allergic to it." Despite everything, I laugh. It cracks something open.

"You're serious," I say.

"Terrifyingly," he says. He's close enough now that I can see the flecks of green in his irises, the faint scar under his left eye from some old dumb stunt. The way his mouth is set like he's braced for a punch. I think of Bunny in the coffee shop warning me not to expect more than he can give. I think of him in the alley throwing himself between a monster and an ex who left him in the circle, breaking chalk in the balcony, watching the map in the clearing, standing behind me when I put my hands on the stone.

"I don't share well," I say. "If you do this, you don't get to run off next week and kiss three other girls in a stairwell."

He nods immediately. "I know," he says. "I don't want to." I search his face for the dodge, the joke, the escape hatch. There isn't one.

"I'm still mad at you," I say. "For some of it."

"Good," he says. "You should be. I'll earn it back."

I sigh. "God, you're exhausting," I murmur. Then I lean in. The kiss isn't fireworks. It's not a TV montage or a string quartet. It's warm and a little shaky and full of every almost touch and almost confession we've been tripping over since orientation. It tastes like breath and sweat and the faint metallic tang of leftover magic. He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, then kisses me back like he's been holding his breath for weeks. When we break apart, both of us are breathing too fast.

"Okay," I say. "That was something."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Definitely something."

Sasha clears her throat. "I'm happy for you," she says, and she is. I can tell, even through the flicker of hurt.

"I'm sorry," I say to her.

She shakes her head. "You warned me," she says. "You like men. I'm the idiot who thought I could logic my way around that." She looks at Jax, then back at me. "If he hurts you," she says, "I will personally rearrange his face professionally."

"I believe her," Jack says.

"You should," I say. She smiles, small but real. "Besides," she adds, standing. "Now I get to flirt with whoever I want without feeling guilty."

"Terrifying," Jack says.

"Run," she tells him. "See what happens."

He grins. "No thanks," he says. "I'm good right here."

We walk back to campus together. The night feels different. The door hums behind us. Its energy cleaner, sharper. The knot of fear in my chest has loosened just enough to let something else in. Not safety. That's a lie I'll never believe again. But possibility under the hill. Kids will still train. Wards will still flicker. Monsters will still lurk at the edges of the map. There will be other demons, other marks, other attempts to turn people into proof. But now I know how it feels to put my hands on the stone and say no. Now I know what it looks like when my friends step into the circle with me.

Tomorrow, Myra will fight in boardrooms. Leah and Poppy will rewrite protocols. Cole will decide which side of the line he can live with. Kira will have to choose what kind of wolf she wants to be. Jax will probably make three inappropriate jokes before breakfast. Sasha will roll her eyes and patch us all back together. And me, I'll keep walking toward every door they tell me is too dangerous. Not because I like being a symbol, because I remember what it felt like to be outside, nose pressed to the glass, pretending the world on the other side wasn't mine. Because I've seen what happens when you hand the keys to people who love control more than they love the students they're supposed to protect. Because I'm a risk. And for the first time, that feels less like a threat and more like a promise.

As we step out of the trees and onto the lit path, Jax reaches for my hand. I let him take it. The campus sprawls ahead. Dorm windows glowing, laughter in the air, secrets humming under the grass. Somewhere under our feet, the door thrums awake. We walk toward it.

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the secret college of Wolves and Vampires | wolf shifter romance audiobook

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