u/Trash_Tia

I never paid real attention when the world ended. Unlike the movies with earth destroying asteroids and freak weather, I witnessed the end of the world come slowly. 

Agonizingly slowly. I was a teenager. I didn't want to think about the end of the world. It was senior year. I had college applications to worry about. 

I had been forced to work on the prom committee, so that was taking up all my time, and Friday nights were game nights. I had stupid, mundane teenage problems. Mom was expecting me to get a girlfriend, but I was pretty sure I didn't swing either way. 

Romance was a foreign concept to me. Intimacy didn't feel right, and telling my mother that was on the list of things I'd rather die than commit to. I was just a confused eighteen year old worrying about my future. I didn't want listen to the news. It was subtle at first. Just last-thought headlines on the radio, and Reddit threads that caught my eye. 

Babies were dying. 

Ten babies dead at the start of the new year. It began in a tiny village in northern Thailand, and spread to the cities. No answers. No mysterious disease. 

No panic. 

Just dead infants. 

Driving to football practice, I listened to news bulletins reporting cases springing up across the world. Italy. Japan. Korea. 

It was an ice cold wintry morning, and I was shivering, kicking the ball back and forth with Simon, my breath fanning in front of me. The girls were doing track, and I watched Karina Crawford trip over herself, ponytail-first.  I laughed. Loudly.

It felt good to act normal when everyone else was on edge. 

Karina got to her feet and immediately, in pure Karina fashion, started screeching at me. I pretended not to hear her, enjoying her cheeks blooming scarlet from the cold. She shot me the finger, before catapulting into a sprint with the others.

“That girl will murder you one day,” Simon sputtered, playing with the ball opposite me. “Crawford’s out for blood.” 

I didn't respond, watching Karina run, swinging her arms to drive momentum, ponytail flying behind her. She was fast.

Fast enough to go pro. 

“Do you like her?” Simon’s words snapped me out of it. 

“Karina?” I choked on a laugh, almost losing the ball.

Simon was my best friend, but still, I felt like I had to continue to play pretend with him. Girls, sex, and my none-existant body count. It was so easy to act it out, to pretend to be this loud mouthed idiot boasting about how many girls I'd been with.

Normally, I'd joke around and make out like there was someone. It was easier to act than tell the truth; the idea of intimacy terrified me, and the idea of telling anyone made me ashamed. 

I could have told white lies. 

My gaze drifted across the field.

Annie Walker was kneeling on the asphalt, tying her shoes, out of breath, dark blonde curls hanging in her eyes.

I could have said it was her. That it was a booty call, that she was playing hard to get. So easy to lie. To be an asshole. 

I opened my mouth to lie. 

But it was cold. I was tired, scared, and worried for my future. 

Worried there wasn’t a future. 

I shot the ball back at Simon. Harder. “Like the last thousand times I told you, I'm not into anyone in our class.”

His lips curved into a smirk, brow raised. “So, my boy likes college girls!” 

I smiled. “Shut up.” 

Simon took the opportunity to kick the ball in my face, and the words just came out, bubbling out of my mouth like vomit. It was the first time I mentioned it, the first time I felt sane enough to bring it up in conversation. “Do you think it's going to come over here?” I panted, kicking the ball back. 

Simon laughed, catching it with a smooth ankle kick, and booting it behind me. He was our best kicker for a reason.

Lanky, bright red hair and freckles, Simon Atwood had been my best friend since middle school.

Which meant he knew me more than I knew myself. He’d clocked what I was talking about. Everyone was talking about the babies. Even teachers, reassuring we were all fine. I wasn't sure I believed their strained smiles. 

“Not you too,” Simon groaned, his words coming out in feathery white. “My mom’s freaking out. They said on the news that it's some kind of virus?”

His smile faded slightly when I didn't return the ball. 

“Milo.” He said my name, just like I was having a panic attack. It was all he needed to say–just my name, and I was okay. I could breathe. 

“I'm joking around,” he said, when I felt it again, that feeling I’d tried to suppress.

Drowning.

Suffocating on air that was definitely real, definitely tangible, definitely inside my lungs. But it was inhaling and exhaling, the simple action of breathing.

That was the hard part. Mom was convinced I needed medication, but what good was being medicated during my senior year? What good was being drugged up during our big game against Hartwood High? Fuck pills. 

I could think about pills when I was graduating; when I didn't have scouts eyeing me up. I shrugged, stopping the ball with my heel, a shiver creeping down my spine. The same question had been driving me insane. I had to know. Simon wasn't a scientist or an adult, but he was comfort.

I dribbled the ball slowly, before attempting a kick. My kicks were getting worse. “So, you don’t think it'll come over here?” 

Something ice cold ran down the back of my neck. Droplets hit the ground, soaking us through. Across the field, the girls erupted into shrieks. Rain.

I held out my hand, transfixed by raindrops sliding across my palm.

I lifted my head, my gaze finding thick dark clouds hovering over us. Thunder grumbled, subtle at first, more like a murmur, before a sharp clap split the clouds in two.

“Reyes!” Coach yelled from the sidelines as rain pounded the asphalt.

I straightened, automatically, my bones conditioned from his constant yelling.

Stand straight, eyes on the ball.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today, huh? Thinkin’ about girls? Eyes on the ball, Reyes!” 

“Nah.” Simon offered me a grin. “Trust me. Nothing ever happens.”

“All right, that's enough, get inside the gym!” Coach finally ground out when the asphalt under my feet started flooding. Simon kicked the ball away and marched over to me with his signature grin. 

“Milo,” he said again, watching me closely. His hands came down hard on my shoulders, squeezing tight. It was an anchor. He was an anchor. I didn’t realize I wasn’t breathing until I was on my knees, panting. Air felt wrong, like I was sucking in sandpaper. My throat locked. I was suffocating.

“Milo, hey.” His voice was soft. Warm. Soothing. “Look at me, all right? Breathe. Come on, dude.” 

His hands found mine, fingers threading through my own. He didn’t need to say anything else. His presence was enough, kneeling with me in filthy rainwater, our knees splattered, my breaths still shuddery and wrong and phantom. 

We stayed like that, long after the thudding footsteps of the other boys passed us. 

Long after Coach told us to get inside or we’d miss the game.

Somehow, my face found the crook of his shoulder, his warmth, his sodden football jersey, and slowly, breathing became simple again. Inhale and exhale. 

In and out. 

Inhale and exhale. 

My heart was fucking pounding. 

My skin was prickling, igniting, on fire. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

In and out.

“Saturday,” I thought, my thoughts spinning. Somehow, clinging to Simon felt real. Being glued together, piss wet through, choking on the stink of BO and Axe spray, I could breathe. 

I could smell the rain thick in the air. Mom called it petrichor. 

I just needed to make it to Saturday.

Saturday was three days away. Three nights of the news. Maybe three nights with no deaths. Maybe the deaths were going to stop. One more practice.

One more game.

One more panic attack.

Then I could think about pills, and Mom, and telling Simon the truth, and whatever the fuck was happening to the world’s babies. Just get to fucking Saturday.

Saturday came. Three hundred deaths in one night. This time in Australia. The news was starting to hit major networks. People were talking about it in the store when I grabbed Powerade. 

Mom hugged me for the first time since I refused to start medication. I played the perfect role all day. Even when I dug out an old prescription from months ago and downed two pills. I started shaking. 

I couldn't fucking breathe. Sandpaper throat. Locked airwaves. Pounding heart. 

Mom drove me to school. 

I smiled. I told her I was fine. The radio bulletin hit us while I was choking on my attempt to tell her, “I'm not fucking okay.” 

I wasn't okay. My hands felt like limp noodles.

My head was spinning.

The thought of playing in front of a crowd made me want to throw up.

But then the radio came out with it, a saving grace, pulling me from my own splintering self and into reality. 

“Breaking news this evening. Health officials have confirmed that seventeen infants have died in Shropshire, England, marking the first reported cases in England linked to the phenomenon spreading internationally."

"Authorities say investigations are ongoing, and families in the area are being urged to follow updated guidance as more information becomes available.”

Mom switched off the radio and smiled. “Have fun at the game, sweetheart!” 

Mom was pretending too. It's why I was such a good fucking actor. 

My performance felt real, felt like I could peel away my skin, and there he would be, this confident, loud boy with my face, who knew how to smile, knew how to laugh and joke around, and score the winning touchdown.

Dopamine was fascinating to me. Even if I didn't have enough of it.

When it did hit, it was like a drug, pure euphoria, happiness. I didn't have to act anymore. I didn't have to perform.

Dopamine was cruel. Happiness was cruel. Because it never fucking lasted.

I could be up, up, up in the sky, flying high, and my brain would remember it wasn't supposed to be happy; it wasn't supposed to be healthy. 

I could score the winning touchdown, have my name chanted and screamed. 

Somehow, while being lifted onto my team’s shoulders and paraded around, I really thought everything was okay.

Simon dumped beer over my head in the changing rooms.

I did the acting thing again, acting like a boy, acting like a beast. 

Maybe if I did, everything was going to be okay, I told myself.

Maybe I’d be okay. 

But the deaths were doubling. Tripling. Quadrupling. 

Across South East Asia, the death toll reached one thousand. 

When the first US cases hit, Mom stopped sleeping in her room. 

Oregon. Six babies, dead with no explanation. 

Two hours away. 

Then came the first cases in our town. 39 babies.

Then 100.

Then 300.

Then it was just down the road. Mrs Summers lost her daughter.

Mr and Mrs Carter lost their twins overnight. 

Mom stopped sleeping all together. I found her at 3am standing over my baby sister’s crib. I grabbed her hand and she pulled away, like I was contagious. “She's fine, Mom,” I whispered, unsure of my own words.

Was she fine? I couldn't tell. 

Mom didn't answer. She stood there all night. 

I took her a blanket, and she ignored it. 

Simon texted at midnight the next day: 

“mom pulled me out of school. won’t let me leave the house. she says women are taking kids, so she's locked me in my room.” 

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I downed my pills, washing them down with lukewarm tap water. The pills didn't make feel good, but they did make me feel like I was disassociating. Like I wasn't real. 

Like I really could peel off my skin and step into the perfect role. 

I checked Mom after I put my phone on charge.

She was still standing over my sister’s crib. 

My sister was in her arms, fast asleep. 

“Night, Mom,” I said.

Mom didn't respond.

I went to bed that night feeling dizzy.

Hungry.

Cold.

I wrapped myself up in my blankets and pretended not to hear Mom’s sobs. 

When I woke up, I could smell bacon. I showered, dressed, grabbed my homework, and traipsed downstairs and there my Mom was, happily frying bacon with baby Mara attached to her hip.

Mom was watching the news, carefully spooning pudding in my sister’s mouth. 

Three hundred US babies were dead. 

The President was in the middle of a speech.

“To all my American parents, and parents across the globe,” she began, her voice solemn, “today, I speak to you not just as your president, but as a mother. Today, March 3rd, 2027, the infant death toll has reached—”

Mom turned off the TV. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom sang when I took an uncertain seat at the table. 

Mom piled my plate with fried food and my stomach contorted, creeping into my throat. “Milo, I want you to take the side streets to school today,” she said, her tone shrill. “I don't want you walking on the main roads. This morning, Mrs Chapman posted that children are going missing.”

I stared down at my bacon like it was sentient, my gut twisting. “Not everything you see on Facebook is real.”

“Milo, what did I tell you about mumbling?” Mom scolded, wiping Mara’s mouth. “What did you say?” 

“They don't want teenagers,” I said louder, staring down at my plate. Too much food, and my brain was too tired to put on a performance. I wasn't hungry. 

I felt fucking sick. I didn't want bacon. Still, I picked up my fork and pushed around food on my plate. “Why would a grieving parent kidnap a high schooler?” 

Mom sighed when Mara spat out a mouthful of custard pudding. “Because, sweetie, they're not thinking straight. They just lost their children.” 

I didn't realize my sour tone until I was spitting into my breakfast, my fists clenched. 

I was so fucking tired of being scared, worrying, worrying some more, hoping it would get better, and worrying again–a vicious, painful cycle. My words came out like bullets. “Doesn't mean they'll start forcefully adopting eighteen year olds.” 

Mom wasn't in the mood, either. “Take the side streets Milo,” Mom reiterated, “or stay at home.” 

Before I could respond, she leaned in, resting her chin on my shoulder.

Her breath brushed my ear. “Eat up, sweetheart,” she hummed.

“I’m going to call Dr. Carlisle today about your medication.” Mom’s hand found my shoulder, squeezing tight, and my fingers found my fork, “I know you're not doing well,” she said softly. “You  don't have to pretend for me, Milo.” 

I took a single bite of bacon, mulled it around in my mouth, and swallowed. It tasted good. Perfectly crispy. Mom remembered to add BBQ sauce. 

Another bite, and I was  suddenly starving, ravenous, choking down mouthful after mouthful, my eyes stinging, my throat burning. I cleared my plate. When Mom added seconds, I scarfed that down too.

“Would you like coffee or orange juice?” Mom asked.

“Orange juice,” I whispered, my mouth full of bacon fat. 

I didn't realize something as mundane and boring as breakfast would shatter me in half. 

Mom filled my glass. I downed it in one, jumped to my feet, and grabbed my backpack, pulling my phone from my pocket. 

Seven texts from Simon. 

“I'll take the side streets,” I said, wrapping my Mom in a hug. 

I held onto her until she politely pulled away, turning to continue feeding Mara. 

Resuming her own performance. 

I pecked my sister on the cheek and she laughed gleefully. “Bye, Mara.” 

The walk to school was… uneventful at first.

Earbuds in, music blasting, it was a typical morning in nothing-ever-happens suburbia.

Grey sky, birds singing, cars trundling past. The air was sharp and cold, no sign of getting any warmer. My breath hung in front of me in a white plume.

I noticed small things were off. There was no school bus. Kids were walking instead. 

A car was parked outside our house. Engine running. No driver or license plate. I took the side streets, Mom’s earlier warning echoing in my head.

“Hey, honey,” a voice startled me. I looked up, removing an earbud.

It was a woman. Dark hair pulled into a bun. 

She was wearing nothing but her robe, her bare feet sinking into old leaves.

The woman was swaying back and forth, half-lidded eyes fluttering.

“Have you seen my son?” She whispered, her voice soft. “I can't seem to find him.” 

I forced a smile, the pit in my gut gnawing deeper. “Sorry,” I side stepped her quickly.  “I haven't.”

She blocked my way, her expression twisting as a sob burst from her lips.

She came close, so close, her ice cold hands finding my cheeks, cradling them. “He'd look just like you,” her voice twisted into a pained wail.  “When he's all grown up! I know my baby will look just like you.”

I ducked my head, mumbled an apology, and catapulted into a run. 

My chest ached, my lungs burned, my breath coming out in startling white. 

Out of breath, I pulled out my phone. 

I started to call Mom, then stopped, ending the call before it could ring.

She’d never let me leave the house again if I told her about the woman.

I checked my texts instead, jamming my sleeve into my mouth to stifle rising panic scalding my throat. 

Simon: mom finally let me come to school. I'll be in class. See you there.

Simon: dude what the FUCK. This man just approached me and asked me to get in his car. Said his wife’s sick???

Simon: okay I'm at the school gates. Alive lol. 

Simon: where are you? The school's pretty empty. I'm heading to class. 

Simon: No teachers. Dude the school is fucking empty. Do I go home or????

Simon: nvm there's kids in class.

“Reyes, are you okay?”

A familiar voice brought me back to reality. 

I was standing in front of the school gates, my hands trembling, my breaths shuddery. 

My phone felt wrong in my hands. 

Karina Crawford stood in front of me, her usually narrowed eyes softened around the edges. 

Her  strict blonde  ponytail was replaced with awkwardly tied pigtails dyed blue at the ends. 

It was… different. But I liked it. Very Harley Quinn. 

She didn't wait for me to respond, reaching into her tote bag and pulling out a bottle of water. “Here,” she handed it to me. “You're super pale.” 

I took it gratefully, downing half the bottle. The water loosened my throat. 

I managed a smile, slipping back into my perfected role. “Thanks.”

Karina didn't smile back, ushering me to walk with her.

After slight hesitation, I did, joining her side.

Karina took a deep, exaggerated breath as we stepped through automatic doors into school. Simon was right.

It was eerily silent.

The main hallway was empty. Karina didn't seem to notice. “So, I know it's none of my business, and you're probably going to scream at me for saying this, but, I have, like… problems sometimes.” 

She played with the bottle with nervous hands, her gaze stuck to the ground. “With anxiety, or whatever.  Sooo, every Friday after school, I see a counselor." 

I couldn't resist a laugh, quickening my steps. My throat was tight again.

My breathing felt wrong. My mind spun with excuses to get away from her.

Bathroom? I could say I felt sick. But the bathrooms were too far away. 

Karina was staring at me, expecting a response, expecting me to act like Milo the asshole. 

I didn't want to talk to her. 

I couldn't fucking breathe.

Karina Crawford was the last fucking person I'd expect to call me out on my shit. 

Still, somehow, my mouth worked on its own, choking on a reply. I laughed. Too loud. 

Too performative. 

I walked faster. “What makes you think I need a therapist?” 

Karina followed me, matching my pace. “Well, for one, the way you acted on Friday night when we won,” she hissed. “That wasn't excitement, Milo. I've been in the theater club since freshman year. That was acting.”

“Karina,” I started to say—started to lie.

She cut me off, blocking my way. “Get your shit together, Milo,” she said, her tone hard, but her words were soft enough to mean something.

“Everyone can tell something’s wrong. You’re not as good an actor as you think. You smile like you’re in pain, and if I wasn’t going to say something, someone else would. Louder. So everyone else can hear it.”

Karina stepped back with a sigh.

“Literally come to therapy with me on Friday. Sit in the waiting room, get a feel for it, and you can buy me pizza afterward.”

I opened my mouth to speak, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, god, not like a date!”

Karina shoved me, and I found myself laughing.

Actually fucking laughing. Karina wasn't laughing. As usual, she was scowling.  

She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. “I'm not into you, Reyes! No offense.” 

Which meant  full offense.

Karina’s offer was tempting. Maybe talking to someone wouldn't be so bad.

Friday was only two days away. Two days of news reports. 

“Sounds good,” I surprised myself with a real smile. “I'll see what I'm doing.”

Karina broke out into a grin. “Good!” She grabbed my wrist, pulling me to class. I felt a little less breathless with Karina around. “The first step in getting help is accepting help!” 

She marched me straight into class, and with a wink, twisted on her heel and strode to her desk, pigtails swinging. 

Still smiling, I slumped down at my own desk. 

“And what are you smiling about?” Simon was already full-body diving onto my desk with a devilish grin.  “You walked to school with Karina.”

I dropped my backpack on the floor. There was no teacher.

8:50am, and Mrs Cannon still hadn’t arrived.

I shoved Simon off my desk. “So?”

Simon leaned in, close enough that his breath feathered across my face. My skin prickled, igniting. “So,” he said quietly, “what did you talk about?”

I held his gaze. “We talked about how much we fucked last night,” I said dryly. When Simon’s lip curled, I leaned forward, teasing. “Eight times,” I added with a smile. “Back to back.”

Simon’s smile faded. “Seriously?”

I glanced at Karina at the back of the classroom, who winked at me.

I winked back. 

Maybe I could play the asshole, after all. “Seriously.” 

Simon pulled back, eyes wide, lips parting like he was about to say something.

He didn’t.

“Nice,” he said. “Hope you had fun, Milo. Karina’s cute.” With a two fingered salute, Simon slunk back to his desk without another word, and my gut twisted.

“Simon?” I hissed. 

He pretended not to hear me, head ducked, eyes glued to his phone. I wasn’t used to that from him. Was he pissed? Jealous? How was I supposed to know he had a thing for Karina Crawford?

I twisted around in my chair. “Simon,” I said, louder. I threw my pen at him. “Simon, I was clearly  joking.” 

He didn't respond, turning his head toward the window.

“Hey, Mikey?” 

A voice from in front of me turned me back to the front.

Kana McCartney was smiling at me, one perfectly plucked brow raised. Ponytail brunette, I used to call her. 

She was plainly pretty. No makeup, no attempt at fancy clothes.

Just the same jeans and tee every day.

Her ponytail looked painfully tight. Kana’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I had no doubt she had constant headaches.

Kana still didn't know my name.

“It's Milo,” I corrected her. 

Kana blinked. “Whatever,” she said,. “Miloooo.” She emphasized my name.

“Look, I’m sorry for interrupting your marital problems,” she shot Simon a grin, “but could I borrow a pen?”

I didn’t realize I’d become this girl’s personal pen dispenser.

“Where’s the one I gave you yesterday?” I asked.

“I lost it,” she shrugged with a sheepish smile. “It’s just a pen.”

“You don’t even know my name,” I challenged her. My phone vibrated and I ignored it.  “Why should I lend you a pen that I know you’re going to lose?”

“I didn't lose it,” she said, fashioning a smile. “I… misplaced it.”

“That's also called losing it.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Didn't I lend you a pencil that one time?”

I smirked. “That doesn't make up for all of the pens you've ‘misplaced’.”

“It’s a pen.” She nodded at my phone vibrating across my desk. “Answer your call! Jeez!”

I rolled my eyes, turning my focus to my phone. 

But all my bravado, all my confidence, came crashing down seeing one word.

Mom.

I stood up, pushing my chair back. “Mom?”

“Milo?” Mom was sobbing, her breaths rattling down the phone.

In three strides, I left the classroom, tumbling out into the empty hallway.

“Mom,” I didn't trust my own voice, my shuddery breaths. “What's going on?” 

”It’s your sister,” Mom whispered, “Milo, she's stopped breathing. We’re… we’re at the hospital. Sweetie, can you come over?”

Mom’s sobs felt and sounded like thunderclaps, and I didn't realize I'd hit the ground until my knees slammed into marble. “Milo?” Mom’s voice collapsed into a wave of white noise in my skull.

I couldn't breathe. The air felt tight, wrong, like all the oxygen had been sucked away. ”Milo, baby, I need you—”

The doors to the school suddenly flew open with a loud BANG. 

Thundering boots entered. 

Soldiers. 

“GET DOWN!”

I was slammed face-first into the floor, my phone skittering away from me. Mom. Mara. Gone. The man towering over me reeked of hair gel and shoe polish. His boot came down on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs. “HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!”

I obeyed, choking on air and dust. Mom. Was she okay? 

Mara. 

How was I supposed to reach them? How was I going to see my sister again?

I stayed down until rough hands hauled me upright, my arms yanked behind my back and tied together. Soldiers flooded the classroom, driving my terrified classmates into the hallway, all of them with their hands on their heads. 

I caught a glimpse of Simon starting toward me before a soldier shoved him back.

There was no explanation. No answers. 

We were treated like cattle. When we asked questions, we were threatened. I was hauled into the back of a military truck with fifteen other kids.

The journey dragged on, highway after highway. Cold.

Carrying me farther from Mom and Mara, and from my life.

Therapy and pizza with Karina Crawford. Regionals. College applications.

There were no blankets, we were dumped on metal benches.

I sat between a girl who wouldn't stop screaming, and a boy who pissed himself.

I drifted off, my head uncomfortably pressed into a stranger’s shoulder. I let myself sleep, the nauseating sway of the truck lulling me into some kind of slumber.

“Out.”

I woke to daylight. No. Artificial white lights blinding us.

A soldier was already yanking kids out of the truck. 

We were in a large, compound-like space. A female soldier ordered us to form two lines. Male and female. We did, almost immediately, robotically. I stood at the front of the boys, my legs wobbling, ready to give-way.

The woman didn't even look at us, her gaze glued to an iPad. 

“When your name is called, you will follow me,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” we chorused. 

They started with the A’s.

Atwood. Simon was first, shooting me a shaky smile. He was crying. 

When the door slammed behind him, soldiers following him, my legs gave way.

“Stand up!” A soldier barked, and I forced myself to my feet. 

Arlington. 

Asher.

Aspen. 

I watched all the A’s walk into a single white room. And never come back out.

The B’s were next. 

Then the C’s.

Karina tried to fight back, and was dragged inside the room by her hair. 

It took hours, each one breaking me more.

My body started to sway, my eyes flickering.

I fell back, twice, into a startled looking Wen Roman’s arms. He didn't move, didn't try and try to help me up. 

By the time my name was called out, a soldier stood behind me, pressing a gun into my temple. I was on my last chance. The woman stepped outside the door, frowning at her iPad. 

She walked toward me, heels clacking across concrete. 

“Milo Reyes?” She ushered me to follow her. “Come with me, sweetheart.” 

When I entered the room, I expected a gunshot to the head. What I got was a normal examination room, like inside a doctor’s surgery. A chair, a bed, and a desk, which she took a seat behind.

“Sit down, Mr Reyes,” she said, and I slumped into the plastic chair.

The woman handed me what looked like an inhaler. “Breathe into that for me.”

I did, forcing a breath through the tube, and her smile brightened. 

“All right, your lungs seem to be fine! Do you smoke or vape, Milo?” 

I shook my head.

She nodded. “Do you take drugs?” 

“No.”

She typed something into her laptop. “Any prescription medication?” 

“No,” I lied.

“That includes antidepressants, Mr. Reyes,” she said in a sing-song voice. “We know you were prescribed them a year ago and stopped getting refills.”

“No.”

The woman hummed. “All right! And this may seem like an invasive question, Mr Reyes, but are you….?” 

Her words drifted into ocean waves. I could barely understand her. 

She told me to stand up, and I did. The woman measured me.

Then she told me to take off my shoes, and I did.

She told me to stand on a scale, and I did.

“Is my Mom okay?” I asked in a breath. “My baby sister, Mara. She's—”

“Dead,” the woman said, gently pulling me off the scale. “Your baby sister died fifteen minutes ago. Just like every other infant, she suffocated from fluid buildup inside her lungs.” 

I stopped breathing.

For real this time.

No Simon to anchor me to reality. No Mom to tell me everything was okay. 

I grabbed for my throat, panting, my lungs aching. Screaming. 

Mara was dead. Mom was gone. And I was standing inside a military bunker in my socks getting fucking weighed. 

“I'm sorry for your loss,” the woman said, typing something else. She lifted her head. “You can sit down now, Milo.” 

I did, my head spinning around and around.

“Milo, have you ever been in a romantic relationship?” The woman asked after a moment.

“No,” I spoke through gritted teeth. 

She nodded slowly. Typed some more. “Do you have an interest in—”

“Why are you asking me this?” I whispered, my voice flat, like I'd given up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I laughed, sputtering. “My sister is dead!” My voice broke. “Why the fuck are you asking me this?” 

The woman’s expression didn't waver. “Answer the question, Mr Reyes.” She turned to me, hands clasped in her lap. “Do you have any interest in marriage?” 

I didn't even have to think about it. “No.” 

She inclined her head. “How about meaningful relationships? Would you like to have a wife one day, Milo?” 

“No.” 

Her reaction confused me. She smiled. Laughed. Crossed one leg over the other.

“Oh? And why is that, hmm?” 

I smiled. Copying her. I was done with her shit. I was getting out of there and getting to Mom. Mara wasn't dead. My heart pounded through my chest. There was no way my sister was dead.

“Because I don't want one,” I said, and got to my feet. Somehow, my legs were working. “I want to go home.” 

The woman simply regarded me with a patronizing smile. “Sit down.” 

“Next question,” she said, when I slumped back down. “Do you have any interest in having a child?” 

“No.”

“Milo, you can't say ‘no’ to every question.”

I folded my arms. “I don't want a fucking child,” I said, my voice cracking. “Is that good enough for you?” I leaned forward. “How about you? Do you want a freakin’ baby?” 

“Milo, that's inappropriate.”

I laughed. “And asking an eighteen-year-old kid isn't?” 

She went back to typing before turning to me. “Last question.  Do you understand that refusing to comply will have consequences? The smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.

“Fifteen hours ago, your entire senior class was placed under federal authority  indefinitely. As of now, Mr. Reyes, you’re no longer operating as private citizens. You’re government property.”

I didn't speak. If I did, I'd probably get a bullet in my head. 

The woman kept typing, before she slammed what I guessed was the enter key. 

“All right, Milo, that's you processed!” She got to her feet. “You have been successfully matched with your wife.” 

Something ice cold, like the cruel legs of a spider, scrambled down my spine. I stood up without thinking, without breathing. “What’s the fuck does that mean?” 

The woman’s mouth curled. “Sit down.”

When I refused, the soldier by the door stepped forward and shoved me back into the chair. The metal legs screeched against the floor. I tried to get back up, and a gun was pointed in my face. The woman did not even look up. Her fingers kept moving over the keyboard.

“Let him go,” she spoke softly. “Milo, you are important to us and deserve an explanation,” she exhaled.

“Three years ago, the upper levels of government of the highest power were informed of something in our food supply. Not just inside it, but had been there for years.”  She gently closed her laptop. 

“I won’t go into detail, but it wasn’t described as a fast killer. Instead, it lives and grows inside us. It does not kill us, not yet. It sits there. Dormant.”

Her eyes met mine again. “Its main target was women. Not because it hates women,” she added, with a laugh, “but because pregnancy changes everything. 

“Your immune system, your blood volume, the way your body holds onto what’s inside it.” She tipped her head. “A female host. A pregnant host.”

She watched my face. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to work out the rest.” 

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “When it wakes up, it doesn’t kill the mother. It doesn’t need to. It passes the cost onto the baby. Their lungs flood. We can call it respiratory failure if you want something cleaner. We can call it pulmonary edema. The result is the same.” She didn’t wait for me to speak, continuing. 

“Anyway. Now, we are seeing that backlog. And we will keep seeing it until it burns through the exposed population.” She inhaled slowly. “And the projections say that by 2028, the human population will be…”

“Stop.” I whispered, my throat on fire.

“However,” she said. “The virus seems to only affect those over a certain age. We picked your class, and others across the country, purely based on your ability to  reproduce, and continue reproducing.” 

Something sour crept up my throat. “So, we’re incubators.” 

Her mouth thinned. “Milo, this isn't cruel. This is fixing a problem.” 

“Will you force us?” I managed to get out.

“Hm?” 

My voice broke. “Will you force us?”

She shook her head. “Milo, you are looking at this from the perspective of a prisoner. Which you are not. Under the Family First Law,” she explained, “you have been assigned a wife and child. For the next two years, you will be  participating in a domestic simulation designed to prepare you for real family life.”

She turned in her chair to face me.

I wondered what her name was. Did she even deserve one? 

To me, she would continue to be “The Woman.”

“Once we determine you are  capable of producing and raising the next generation with your assigned partner, you will be released.”

“What if I refuse?” The words came out too fast. 

This time, the woman didn't spare me with sympathy.

“If you refuse to participate, Mr Reyes, you and your wife will be immediately executed.”

She stood slowly, pulling open a drawer. “Okay, Milo, please make your way over to the bed on your right side and make yourself nice and comfortable.” 

I didn't have a choice. When I backed away, I was gently shoved down. The bed reclined down, and I found myself staring at a blinding white light.

“Relax, Milo,” the woman hummed, pinning my wrists down. 

“What was the name of your baby sister again?” She asked, pulling on white gloves. I'd had an EEG before. It was kind of the same. But the plastic disks weren't on my chest. They were firmly placed on my temples. 

“Mara,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Mara,” the woman repeated, pressing pressure. “What a lovely name for a baby girl.” 

The first shock of electricity wasn't too bad. 

Like…. poking an outlet, or pins and needles.

“I'm going to ask you some questions, Milo,” the woman’s voice hummed. “Do your best to answer them for me, all right?” 

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. “Okay.” 

A second shock.

This one ripped a scream from my throat. My body jerked. 

Like being hit by lightning.

“Do you have a wife, Milo?” 

Something cold and cruel slid into the back of my skull.

“No.” I managed.

A third shock, and bright white light flashed in front of my eyes.

I could see…

New York.

A glistening chandelier.

I was standing at an altar, smiling.

And in front of me, wearing white, wearing a beautiful smile…

“Are you sure you don't have a wife, Milo?” 

I blinked rapidly, but the images were clearer. 

My wife. Standing in front of me. 

“Milo, can you answer that again for me, please?” The voice fluttered in my head. “Can you tell me the name of your wife?”

“I don't… have a wife,” I whispered. 

Pain slammed into me. Merciless pain. Agonizing pain.

I screamed, writhing, something warm running from my nose.

“The name of your wife, Milo,” the voice ordered. “Say it.” 

Kana.

Her face lit up inside my mind. Her smile. 

Her laugh. 

The way she held me, her arms wrapped around me—

Kana. 

Kana St. Clair. 

“Kana.” I spat blood, screaming. “Kana St Clair.” 

The pain stopped, and I felt my head drop.

“What is your name, Milo?” The voice asked. 

More flashes.

My wedding day.

Kana in my arms.

Kana kissing me.

Kana pulling me toward her, laughing.

Kana dancing. 

“Milo St. Clair,” she teased, pulling me onto the dance floor. Under dizzying lights, her wedding dress was ethereal, spinning with her. Her head found the crook of my shoulder. “May I have this dance?” 

I laughed, pulling her into a waltz. 

“You may!” 

Another flash. But this time I welcomed it.

Our beautiful home. 

Our white picket fence.

Kana hauling a large box, while pregnant. 

“Milo,” the voice seeped inside my head. “What is your name?” 

Milo St. Clair.

That's what she wanted me to say.

That's what would get me out of the fucking restraints.

“My name is Milo St. Clair,” I said.

“Good.” The voice said. “And who is your wife?” 

“Kana St. Clair.” 

“That's right,” she hummed. “One more question.” 

Slowly, she removed my restraints. 

But before she could deliver it, I heard the door fly open. 

“Dr. Berry,” a male’s voice hissed. “One of the female participants rejected the serum and gone into cardiac arrest—”

She didn't respond, the two of them leaving the room in a rush.

Leaving me alone.

I let out a breath and lurched to a sitting position, my bones stiff.

My vision was blurry, my mouth tangled.

Blood had crusted beneath my nose and dried along my chin.

With a trembling hand, I peeled the disk from my right temple.

The dumb bitch had let me go before she could finish Clockwork Orange-ing me.

I slid off the bed and checked her desk for weapons.

Nothing.

Unless I wanted to attack with a pen.

The door was shut. After hesitating, I pulled it open and stuck my head out. 

Kids.

No. My class. Fifty eighteen-year-old standing stock still, their arms by their sides. 

No soldiers. None that I could see, anyway.

Somehow, my legs worked, and in several strides, I was in front of Simon.

“Simon?” I whispered. 

When he didn’t respond, staring straight through me, I clapped my hands in front of his face.

“Simon!”

I shook him, but the horrific burn marks staining his temple sent me backing away.

Fuck.

Fear writhed up my spine.

I can’t do this, I thought manically, tears stinging my eyes.

I can’t fucking do this.

Fuck.

I can’t do this.

My nails found my eyes, a hysterical sob climbing up my throat.

Could I end it now? Could I save myself?

“Hey, kid.” A hand found my shoulder, and I froze. “Get in line.”

A soldier pulled me into a line of empty, mindless shells. I was positioned next to an empty, smiling Kana McCartney.

I could do this.

Stay like this.

Pretend to be like the others and get the fuck out. 

My hands found Kana’s, squeezing tight as the lights flickered off, leaving us in the dark.

I could do this. I had to.

I squeezed my “wife’s” hand again, closing my eyes.

But.I wasn’t expecting her to squeeze back.

I was seventeen years old when Harry Sullivan proposed we killed Esme.

And it was on our joint wedding day, eight years later, my hands slick with my wife's blood, when his words finally hit me.

There was a drilling sound in my head.

Sometimes it was loud.

Other times it was faint, barely noticeable.

But it was definitely there, getting closer and closer.

Louder.

I should have known not inviting Esme Lockhart to our party was a bad idea, but I was too tipsy to care. In my muddled mind, I would deal with the consequences later. Sitting on the beach with my knees pulled to my chest, a cool beer skimming my lips, I watched the tide ripple under my toes. The wind was trying to snatch the bottle from my hand, blowing my hair from my eyes.

Behind me, the party was in full swing, and Esme was being weird again.

Even through sharp blasts of wind trying to knock me over, I could hear her attempting to guilt trip Wylan for talking to a girl. It's not like I didn't expect it. Wylan had told me about the weird notes in his locker, the low-key threats in his mailbox to not even think about leaving for college.

I just didn't want to believe our best friend was this kind of obsessed with us.

If I’m honest, though, Esme was long passed obsession.

Infatuation.

This girl was a fucking psychopath.

Downing my beer, I revelled in the scratchy taste. I didn't even like it. But it was better than drinking straight vodka, which made you a psychopath.

Still though, the alcohol was perfect to lower my barriers and force words out of my mouth I had been choking on for years. I liked to think the stars aligned when we were little kids, and fate found us. Five seven year olds with our hands on the last candy bar. Pigtails, Four Eyes, Batman Shirt, Rich Girl, and Yellow Hat.

Initially, we fought for it. I snatched the candy bar up first, claiming finders keepers, only for Pigtails to grab it off of me, waving it in the air triumphantly, only for Four Eyes and Batman Shirt to form an allegiance, taking it for themselves. I shoved Batman Shirt, and he in turn pulled off my hat and made me cry. Rich Girl, who had been wandering around, stepped in.

We already knew who Rich Girl was. Her parents made more money than the Queen. At least, that’s what the rumour was in class. Rich Girl was rich rich, which meant she was either a celebrity, or a long lost princess.

In reality, her father, Jason Lockhart, had bought our little coastal town. Rich girl plucked the candy bar from the boys, and initiated a truce, splitting it four ways instead.

It was when she was handing out chunks of chocolate, did we share our names, grinning at each other with chocolatey mouths.

Pigtails was Ariosa.

Four Eyes, Harry.

Batman Shirt was Wylan.

Rich Girl, Esme.

And Yellow Hat was me.

The rest was history, I guess.

Following that day, the five of us became inseparable. In school, we became an unbreakable clique.

As littles, we made our own games and spent countless hours at the beach on weekends playing pirates. It was fun.

Those summer days and nights will be etched into my mind forever, a blur of swimming in the sea, eating candy, and sharing stories under a late setting sun.

Esme would regularly invite us to play at her house, which reminded me of a palace. She had seven bathrooms. Who needed seven bathrooms?

As littles, we made a pact. On the last day of summer vacation before third grade, we declared best friends forever.

Then, when we were twelve, tipsy on Esme’s father’s expensive wine and spread out on a picnic blanket, we said it again, giggling under a crescent moon.

Best friends forever.

It was when we reached high school, Esme started to take our pact a little too seriously.

I loved her as much as I loved the others.

But she didn't know boundaries.

Best friends forever was something a lot different in her mind.

It started subtly. When other kids wanted to hang out with us, she was adamant that it was just the five of us.

We were fourteen years old and in our freshman year of high school. Making new friends was inevitable. I invited two girls to sit with us at lunch, and Esme immediately stood up, dragging the boys and Ariosa to another table.

When I stood my ground and plonked down, refusing to follow them, Esme came over and politely asked me to join her and the others. By now, I was getting odd looks from other kids. Esme was a well-known name across town, and so was my name, by default.

I was already in way too deep with her family to brush her off. Esme’s father had already insisted on paying for my college tuition. I said no initially, though my mother thought it was a great idea.

Esme had a habit of throwing cash at us when she thought we were going to leave her.

Harry was promised a football scholarship when he showed signs of drifting away to hang out with the varsity team. When Wylan got a girlfriend, Esme surprised him with the guitar he had been saving up for.

Ariosa started getting cosy with a classmate, and that classmate’s parents suddenly won a lottery I had never heard of, and moved away. Initially, she isolated us from other kids, even our family, insisting on weekends away and trip’s to exotic locations. But we were growing up, and best friends forever was looking progressively less likely.

Esme thought our pact was an unbreakable bond, a need to be near each other constantly and be completely isolated from everyone else.

Esme thought best friends forever meant we couldn't fall in love, couldn't form relationships.

She didn't want us to grow up. In junior year, Harry actually went against her wishes and got a boyfriend. Harry Sullivan liked to experiment behind Esme’s back, having been on several dates with both guys and girls. It was well known that he was a player.

Even if Esme shot down those rumours. But I think he truly fell for Ben.

Opposites attract, and Harry, captain of the varsity team, falling for Ben Sykes, a quiet competitive swimmer, was the best thing that had happened to our group. Harry was slowly rebelling, which gave us the courage to fly the nest too. Initially, Esme didn't react or say anything.

In fact, she smiled when Harry awkwardly introduced us, his gaze glued to Esme. He was waiting for her to start screaming, his eyes hard, lips ready to argue. But she didn't. Esme offered Ben a seat. Wylan shot me a look, and Ariosa almost choked on her sandwich.

Harry didn't let his guard down, though. He politely declined her offer, and joined the varsity table instead. Harry Sullivan was slowly but surely moving away from us, away from best friends forever, and our stupid childhood pact.

He wanted his own life, his own friends. Ben was the start of that. Again, I was sure Esme was planning something.

She forced Wylan’s friends to move schools, and ripped Ariosa’s boyfriend out of town, so it didn't make sense to me why she was letting Harry get away with it.

She even restricted us from talking to adults, unless it was our parents.

Harry could have limited conversation with his coach (only in school time) and Wylan was only able to join the drama club if he promised to let the rest of us sit in the audience. If that wasn't weird enough, we were permitted to tell her everything. Every secret we had, or worry on our minds.

Obviously, we didn't.

There was no way I was telling her about my (late) first period, and I was pretty sure the boys would rather die than share their private lives.

Sometimes, we didn't have a choice. Esme would lock us in her car and demand every private detail, and it was less exhausting to just spill our guts.

I made the mistake of talking to a girl, Emma, at the start of the year. Esme may not have been in all of my classes, but she had spies, kids that were paid a decent sum of cash to make sure none of her friends were socialising.

Emma switched classes a day later, and when I tracked her down in the hallway, her eyes widened, like she was frightened.

Emma told me to stay away from her, so I did.

I didn't have a fucking choice.

I should have known the boy watching us gush over TV show crushes was loyal to Esme.

I thought she was okay with Harry dating someone. I mean, she didn't throw a screaming fit like usual.

Which was progress.

I was surprised she was actually allowing someone into the group.

Esme seemed genuinely happy with Harry's boyfriend joining our group, allowing him to come to hang out at her house, and our usual place on the beach.

The holidays came around, and Ariosa proposed a Christmas party at her place.

I was two hours late, after a heated argument with Mom over the car.

When I arrived, I immediately knew something was wrong. There was no music, and the lights were off. I did see an attempt at a party, grabbing myself some holiday themed punch from the lounge.

The figure sitting alone in the kitchen caught me off guard. It was pitch black, so I thought it was the ghost of Christmas past, after Esme forced us to watch Christmas movies with her a few days prior. When I clicked on the light, however, an identity swam into view.

Ben. Judging from the cans scattered on the table, he was maybe five or six drinks down. Harry's boyfriend regarded me with an almost pitiful smile. “Hey, Thea.” His voice was a kind of croak. Ben held up his can in a mocking salute. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey.” I poured him a glass of water, sitting down hesitantly, my hands wrapped around a glass of punch. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I'm great,” Ben’s sarcasm needed work. Harry was a master of irony, so maybe he was rubbing off on him. Ben downed another beer. “I missed a swim meet to come to this stupid party.”

Ouch.

Technically, it was an Esme centred party, so we were all there against our will.

I nodded, sipping my punch. It was kind of spicy. “So, where's everyone else?”

Ben met my gaze, his lips curling. “Where do you think?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Did they go out?”

I think Ben was waiting for me to give him a reason to find Harry. I couldn't give him one without going against her family, and putting myself in danger.

The boy scoffed. “Whatever, Thea,” he stood up. “Tell that bastard I never want to see him again,” he mumbled, staggering out of the kitchen.

Ben stopped in the doorway, but he didn't turn around. “You guys deserve each other,” he laughed, and something ice cold prickled its way down my spine. I didn't even wait for Ben to leave, and by the sound of it, he was already emptying his guts in the front hallway. Ignoring him, I forced my legs upstairs, my heart hammering.

There was no way, right?

Because if Esme had done this, then she had won.

The girl had a perfectly calculated plan after all.

Esme didn't want Harry to be intimate with anyone else but her.

I realised that when I stumbled into a lot of tangled legs and flushed faces under blankets. Wylan told me to turn off the light, but I was too stunned to move.

This wasn't what I expected. Esme wanted us as friends. But this was different. This was closer, more intimate, where she could have every part of us, body, mind, and soul. The logical side of my brain wondered if she had become so scared that we would find love and ruin our friendship pact, she immediately wanted us to love her instead.

While the not so alert part of my brain wanted to entangle myself in their weird foursome sandwich.

So, I joined them.

I mean, it was cold, the punch was definitely filled with aphrodisiacs to influence guests, and seeing Harry buried under Esme, his legs tangled around Ariosa, I'd say Esme’s plan had succeeded. I didn't want to know what Ben saw. Later on, I discovered that he walked in on them, and Harry, fully bewitched by Esme’s spell, ignored him. Ben was right. We did deserve each other. Esme had made sure of that.

I was feeling a little more than heated, so yeah, I crawled into bed with them.

I wanted to believe it meant something.

Even if I knew deep down, Esme was tightening her iron grip.

Ever since that night, our relationship became more intimate, which brought us closer together. But we never actually dated. Esme didn't want to date us, she just didn't want anyone else to date us. Most of my junior and senior year was a blur of blindly following orders, and watching the light slowly start to fizzle out in my friend’s eyes.

Esme demanded we move in with her, though luckily our parents stepped in.

When she started talking about friendship marriage, I think that was when we decided that we were done.

Best friends forever would never continue into college. I was sure of it.

Harry was the first to get a football scholarship.

Halfway across the country.

Esme did what she always did. She smiled through gritted teeth, congratulating him with a hug.

I caught Wylan’s Oh, fuck look, pretending to choke on his drink. We already knew she was planning something potentially life ruining.

We took bets.

Wylan was convinced her father would buy the college itself.

Ariosa went down a darker route, saying Esme would burn the campus to the ground.

Esme did neither, attempting manipulation more directly.

In the days following his announcement, Harry had received three anonymous death threats, and a stuffed rabbit filled with pigs blood thrown in his locker. When he talked to his parents, they went straight to the police, only to drop the case several hours later after a talk with her dad.

Harry said it was like his parents had been hypnotised.

Esme turned the whole town against us, so we had no choice but to run back to her.

Wylan talked to a girl during gym, and one of Esme’s spies immediately reported it.

I accidentally smiled at Josh Pieck in AP English, and received a strongly worded email to not even look at him.

Senior year drew to a close, and our only solace was a stupid party on the beach. I made sure to only invite kids who either hated Esme, or had offered us their help in the past. They were too scared to turn up. Emily Littlewood said her family could get us fake IDs and out of town. She sent Ariosa a text from an unknown number, only disclosing her name in cryptic code.

Emily's parents were in a car crash hours later.

Anyone who tried to help us were either hurt, or cut out of the picture.

We were officially on our own.

Presently, I felt sick to my stomach. I got an email from a college I didn't even apply to, congratulating me on my acceptance. The college just so happened to be the one Wylan and Ariosa were accepted into, and of course, Harry was going there too.

The letter was stuffed in my pocket, and I was planning on burning it. It was my way of breaking this stupid pact.

We were not going to be best friends forever, because in Esme’s eyes, she didn't see the four of us friends.

Esme saw us as trophies. Pretty things she could call hers.

Fuck that.

We built a fire on the beach. Harry pulled out his acceptance letter first, and in our own private ceremony, we took turns throwing them into the flames. I wanted to laugh in relief, but I was too scared to laugh, too scared to smile, constantly looking over my shoulder to see if we were being watched.

I started to let my guard down, slumping on the sand to eat charred marshmallows and talk shit, when Esme herself turned up with a crate of beers.

Wylan shot me a death glare, because I was usually the one who accidentally exposed our location.

But I had been so careful.

Ariosa immediately stiffened up, and Harry rolled his eyes, draining the rest of his beer. I think he was expecting it.

We had all mutually agreed that Esme and her family were witches.

Ariosa’s expression twisted with genuine fright, and she panicked, plucking the smouldered remains of our letters from the fire and stuffing them in her backpack. I was sure she burned herself from the way she kept wafting her hand, wrapping her fingers around an icy beer, though she was more scared of getting caught trashing Esme’s gift.

Luckily, Esme didn't notice, excusing herself for being late.

Harry was uncharacteristically snappy, leaning forward in his chair. The boy wasn't even trying to hide his disdain for her. Two days before, he broke down in my car. It was the only place without a camera, without spies hanging around.

Wylan was sleeping in the back, and Ariosa was dozing in his lap. Harry kept it together until I asked him if he was okay, and his body kind of jerked, like he was trembling. He had spent the whole car ride staring into oblivion, his eyes half lidded, lips curled into an almost maniacal smile.

I didn't notice he was clinging onto his seat for dear life, like Esme was going to pop up out of nowhere. I can't do this anymore. He kept saying it again and again and again, until his fingers were clawing at his hair, and he was screaming, his eyes almost feral, like a wild animal. I can't fucking do this anymore, she's going to kill me.

I hugged him. It was all I could do.

Just a few more weeks, I told him.

Then we would be free.

“How did you know we were here?” Harry's eyes narrowed, lips curling. “Are you stalking us, Esme?”

His tone was like warm water washing over me.

I thought it might finally push her away.

Esme shot him a grin. “I always know where you are,” she said, ruffling his hair. “I was just making last minute arrangements for something special.”

Harry wasn't playing around, scoffing through another mouthful of beer.

“And what's that?” he mumbled under his breath. “Another death threat?”

Esme seemed to notice his disobedience, though she didn't say anything, maintaining her wide smile.

“That's a secret.”

Harry sat back in his chair, nursing another beer. Wylan nudged him to stop drinking, but he protested with a groan, slurping from the can.

“I'm sick of being ordered around,” he said, downing another beer, as if in protest. “I'm going to do whatever I fucking want,” his half lidded gaze fell on Esme, who had visibly stiffened up. “You do whatever the fuck you want, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want.” he saluted her with his drink. “All right?”

When Esme didn't respond, Harry threw his empty can at her.

The girl didn't even flinch.

“I'm going to Duke, you psycho sponge,” Harry spat, and I caught Wylan’s wry smile. Ariosa’s expression brightened. Duke was always his first choice.

“I don't want to go to your fucking college, Esme. I don't want to be anywhere near you or your family. You're a leech. You leech onto people and suck the life out of them, and… and then throw money at them when they want to leave! What you're doing is borderline psycho. You take everything away from us. When we find friends, you make them disappear, and when we find someone, you throw yourself at us! Like a leech!”

Gulping down beer, he was just getting started.

“That night with Ben,” Harry choked out, “You fucked with our heads.”

He spluttered on a sob, and Ari moved to grab his hand, but he shoved her away, his lips curling into a snarl, angrily swiping at his eyes.

“No, get off of me, it needs to be said!” his gaze flicked back to Esme.

“You turned my parents into mindless followers of yours so you could keep me under your control. You manipulate us with money and vacations, and fancy scholarships. I mean, who fucking does that, huh? What kind of person goes to these kinds of lengths to keep friends?” he laughed.

“You threaten and isolate us, and seriously think we want to be friends?”

Harry let out a shuddery breath.

“So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to leave me and my parents alone. The same goes for Ari, Thea, and Wylan. You're going to get your father to fire my parents, and then you're going to get your ‘connections’ you keep bragging about to cancel the scholarship I don't even want. If you don't, I'll happily contact the police, and get your ass thrown in jail for stalking.”

His smile was harsh, almost manic, when Esme opened her mouth. Harry tipped his head back, dazedly blinking at the sky. “Not the police under your dad’s thumb,” he said with a snort. “I’m not fucking stupid. I mean outside of town, where you'll face actual consequences.” his eyes darkened.

“After tonight, I don't want to see your face again.” His words were venomous, and I revelled in each one. “Find new friends in college, Esme, and pray that they tolerate your psycho bullshit…”

Harry's voice faded out, the sea suddenly so much louder in my ears, waves crashing onto the sand, before drifting back. “...And don't put you six feet under the fuckin’ ground.”

Esme seemed frozen for a moment, and we all waited with baited breath.

Was this it? Would she finally leave us alone?

Instead of replying, the girl turned her attention away from Harry, and plonked herself down on Ariosa’s lap, chastising Wylan for wearing a short sleeved shirt.

Esme insisted on styling us, like we were dolls. She hated when Ariosa tied up her hair, and I wasn't allowed to straighten my curls. Harry had to wear contact lenses (if he wore glasses, she ignored him for days). When he lost his contacts and had to wear glasses, Esme bought him unlimited contacts.

Harry didn't respond to Esme ignoring him, instead cracking open another beer. He shot me a grin, which was a little too wide. Jesus fucking Christ, I remember thinking. He was losing his mind.

Mission accomplished.

If drunk Harry thought it was mission accomplished, Sober Harry was in for a rude awakening. The girl’s lack of response wasn't a win. It was a timebomb. Esme started talking about her own college acceptance letter, and I caught him glaring at her, his fingers pulverising the can. I hated what she was in the process of turning him into.

Wylan was staying quiet, absently making a mini sand castle, and Ariosa was snoozing on the sand.

The party was primarily to plan a quiet escape, and once AGAIN Esme had made it about her.

I excused myself, escaping down to the shallows.

The silence was a relief. I dropped onto my butt, letting the tide wash over my feet. Sticking my toes in bioluminescent plankton, I wondered how a candy bar had single handedly ruined my life.

Esme was making a fool out of herself again.

In the corner of my eye, she was standing with her hands on her hips, blonde curls being whipped around in the wind. Wylan had done something wrong. I had no idea what it was, though from the sound of her voice, it sounded like he'd been hiding a friend.

It was when I was watching the sea wash up on the sand, I heard it again.

Drilling.

It felt close, but also far away.

“We could just kill her, you know.”

Harry was standing behind me, swaying slightly, a fresh drink in his hand. He looked like a ghost under a moonlit sky, his cheeks were too pale, dark brown hair glued to his forehead with sweat.

He wasn't smiling. Esme said it was his best attribute, so he made sure to never smile around her. I took a moment to drink in how hollow the boy looked, both body and mind, his dark eyes barely focusing on me. Esme had turned him into a shell of himself. Not just Harry.

Ariosa had lost that glow to her skin, and I was sure Wylan was going grey at seventeen. Even looking at myself in the mirror, I was constantly on edge, my cheeks starting to deflate.

Turning back to the sea, I pressed my knees closer to my chest. The drilling was getting louder. It felt and sounded closer when I lowered my head, like if I turned at the right angle, I would hear it better. “You have a death wish, idiot.”

Harry snorted, slumping down next to me and resting his chin on his knees. He reached into his shorts and pulled out a cigarette, lit it up, and took a long drag.

The orange glow settled my dancing stomach. “I’m serious,” he said, lips curved around the cigarette. “We kill her, and dump her body in the sea. Then run the fuck away. Problem solved.”

“Problem still there,” I said pointedly, “You just declared war on a psychopath.”

I shoved him, and he pulled a face, shoving me back. “Since when do you smoke?”

Harry's gaze strayed on the ocean, smoke escaping his lips. “Since Ben.”

His words stung.

“Well, what about Esme’s dad?” I challenged him, changing the subject. I straightened up, stretching my legs. “We’ll have to kill him too, right?” I could see him trying not to smile around the smoke. So, I continued, eager to bring back the boy I grew up with. Even if it was just for one night.

“Psycho sponge?”

He groaned. “It was a good insult in my head.”

“It was a terrible insult! Did you see Wylan’s face?”

Harry laughed, and it was a good laugh, one that made me feel safe, despite knowing we were being watched. “We are going to leave here, don't worry,” He shot me a grin. “I told her to leave us alone, and…” Harry arched his neck, twisting around. “I think she got the memo? I hope she has, anyway…”

Nodding along, I took in Harry's words, though they were fading in and out.

I could hear that noise again.

It was real, a loud drilling in the back of my head. Looking up at the sky, it was suddenly too black, like an endless oblivion that would never brighten.

The sea lapping over my feet felt wrong, somehow.

Like it wasn't even wet.

The sand bunched between my fists was too perfect.

Perfect white sand, filtering through my fingers.

It was the kind of sand I dreamed of, unlike the actual beach which was mostly pointed rocks and spiky shells. It was too perfect. I looked around, gulping down air. Ariosa and Wylan trying to get the fire going, and Esme handing out food. The perfect night.

The stars twinkling above us.

The perfect sky.

“Harry.” my voice sounded wrong, like the words on my lips weren't mine.

He didn't look at me. “Yeah?”

“How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

Did I say that 5 times?

10?

15?

20?

The moon flickered, and went out completely.

And I fell through the sand, dragged down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

The drilling was louder, closer.

Real.

I could feel it, a blade pulverising through the back of my head, screeching blades dragging my thoughts to awareness. I could feel it seeping from me, blood dripping down my face and neck, pooling across the table I lay on. I opened my mouth to scream, but my lips were detached from me, my voice no longer mine.

Instead, my mind was suddenly in permanent rewind.

I was back on the beach, and this time Harry was smiling. His original words were torn away, that cutting blade slicing its way through my brain. “So here's what you're going to do,” his voice echoed, and he jumped up, picking Esme up and spinning her around. “You're going to stay with us. Forever. Never leave any of our sides.”

“You're a leech!”

“You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met. I want to be with you, Esme. Forever.”

I can't fucking take this anymore. She’s going to kill me.

This time, I did scream, a raw cry ripping from my throat.

I could sense bright light behind my eyes.

My wrists were strapped down, my head pinned to a cruel icy surface.

Harry's voice continued, clanging in my skull.

“I love her, Thea. I love her so much it hurts!”

It was endless.

It never stopped, and my screams died out into whimpers. They didn't even bother sedating me again. I felt everything, every cut and slice, the warmth that glued my hair to my face, and the saw that sheared all of it off.

When the white light faded, and flashing colours dotted my vision, I finally fell.

“Thea?”

When I opened my eyes, I was standing up.

No longer on the beach, I stood barefoot in front of an indoor swimming pool lit up in pale blue light.

I was so close to the edge, a white dress pooling at my feet, my hands wrapped around a bouquet of flowers.

I found myself smiling. Even when I reached a trembling hand to my head, where a veil had been forced into place. I stroked my fingers across my scalp, where old stitches had come apart, seeping red staining the collar of my dress and ruining my hair. When my fingers came back slick red, I swiftly wiped them on my dress, smiling wider.

Roses.

I clutched the bouquet tighter to my chest.

They were Esme’s favorite.

“Thea! Snap out of it!”

The man's voice startled me, reverberating through the room. I blinked, my vision swimming in and out of view. He was older than me, at least in his mid twenties, thick, brown hair hanging in dark eyes that part of me recognised. The flower crown of white roses sitting on top of his head looked like a joke, a mockery of him.

I didn't register the bloody sfrips of white wrapped around his head or the smear of red staining the front of his suit. Instead, I was choking on a name that shouldn't have matched the stranger.

No, not a stranger.

Harry Sullivan was not 25 years old.

Because if he was 25, then how old was I? I looked down at myself. I still felt seventeen, and yet I was taller, my dress perfectly fitted to my figure. I was seventeen, but my body was older, so much maturer, moulded and perfected.

No.

I felt my legs give-way, a cry rumbling in my throat.

I was going to go to college.

I was going to get away from her.

How long had I truly been sitting on the beach on the last day of senior year?

“Thea, listen to me.” his hands found mine, clammy and stained with blood, but his. It was him, and I wanted to cry, wanted to ask how he had jumped forwards in time, when I already knew the truth. I was in denial, and denial was agony. I moved to wrap my arms around my friend, but he shook his head.

“No, don't move,” he hissed out, “If you move, she'll know something is up.”

Opening my mouth, my throat tasted of rusty change.

How long? I wanted to scream, my chest aching.

Harry didn't speak. He didn't explain the strips of white wrapped around his head, or the others’ absence. He pressed something into my hand, delving it between the folds of my dress. The knife slid perfectly between my fingers, the blade pricking my skin.

I didn't feel anything. “Kill the bitch,” he said through gritted teeth. Harry didn't cry. I don't think he could cry anymore.

“Do you hear me?” he whispered, his voice collapsing into a sob. I wanted to know what had happened to him, what eight years had done to my best friend.

“Fucking kill her, Thea.”

The doors flew open, the sound of heels clicking loudly on marble.

Harry dropped to his knees, and I straightened up, fashioning my expression back to vacant. I wanted to help him. He couldn't stand up, his head bowed. If I was going to kill her, though, I had to catch her off guard.

Esme appeared, a blur of golden curls and fluffy pink. She was noticeably older too. Esme Lockhart was still beautiful, almost breathtakingly so. Her expression may have looked maturer, but that psychotic gleam was still there, twinkling in her eyes. “Harry,” her voice was more of a bird-like squawk.

I stayed frozen, watching the girl march over to him, entangling her arms around his waist. “You do realize it's bad luck for the groom to see his bride the night before.” Harry didn't fight back when she pulled out a silk cloth, wrapping it around his eyes, her hand slipping over his mouth. Esme’s lips found his ear, and I heard every word. This was the first time I'd heard her actually scared.

“Since you're insistent on ruining our perfect day, I want to give you your wedding present early.” Esme’s voice was silky smooth, sultry. She held him like a toy, rocking him side to side. Harry didn't move, crumpling in her arms. His frenzied eyes found mine.

Kill her.

“Come on,” she crooned, “Dad is waiting for you.”

I wanted to kill her right there, before she could drag my friend away.

But something snapped in my head, and I was back on the beach.

This time the tide was in, and I was sitting alone.

Behind me, Esme was the only one sitting by our fire.

“Thea!” she shouted, waving at me to join her.

The tide was at my feet, but I couldn't even feel it anymore.

There were no stars.

“Thea.”

Reality was being cruel to me.

It wouldn't let me sleep.

This time, I awoke under a beautiful blue sky.

Above me was a flower arch made of roses.

Rows of strangers with wide smiles sitting under trees entangled with lights.

Standing on my left was Ariosa. Her red hair was piled on her head, perfectly fitted with a flower crown. Her smile was too wide, intricately made up eyes half lidded, and I was sure she had wet herself through her wedding dress.

Ariosa wasn't really herself anymore, her gaze penetrating right through me.

I could see dark red smearing the top of her head.

Neither was Wylan, sculpted in a rich black suit. The boy was unrecognisable, hiding behind a mop of blonde curls, and a nose job I knew he didn't need. Wylan had grown up, maturing into a handsome man. But once I was staring at him, I couldn't stop. I glimpsed tell tale spots of blood staining his collar.

His grin was dazed, drool seeping down his chin. Wylan was standing at an angle, swaying back and forth, that glitter which was my best friend, gone.

“Thea!”

I blinked. Esme was inches away from me, the bride.

“Pay attention!”

I found myself nodding obediently.

In a few simple words, she was going to become my wife.

The knife was tucked into my dress.

Harry was standing next to me. I didn't want to look at him, because I knew what Esme’s wedding gift was. In the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a thin line of black trickling down his temple, scarlet bandages hidden under that hideous fucking flower crown.

His eyes were lazily following a butterfly, and he could barely stand still. Harry was the one who tried to get away, who clawed his way out of her control. Esme had decided to take his free will by force.

The others spoke their vows, like they had been cemented inside their minds.

“I…”

Harry Sullivan.

Ariosa Carlisle.

Wylan Sutton.

Thea Samuels.

“Take Esme Analise Lockhart to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death.”

“I…”

Harry blinked, his lips forming a smile.

“I… do.”

Ariosa giggled all the way through her speech, which was unintelligible.

Wylan sealed his vow, grinning through a mouthful of scarlet.

I think seeing him is what jerked my thoughts to fruition.

She had taken my friends, ripped away their youth, and now took their minds.

I think I said I do.

The wedding party exploded into cheering, and we were showered in confetti.

The officiator turned to me, and I saw bright, intense red.

Fuck. I don't even remember moving.

I had to cut every order she had ever demanded of us directly from her mouth. Parted by death. The officiator’s words were ringing in my skull.

We were free.

She cut into my head and turned me into the perfect wife.

She turned my best friend's into mindless shells.

The wedding party was screaming, and so was I.

Help.

Blood was slick between my hands, but it felt good.

I need help.

There was no sign of my parents, anyone I knew. I didn't even see Esme’s father. I kicked off my heels and ran, and luckily, Ariosa thought it was a game, following me, grabbing Wylan.

Knowing that I would regret it if I left him, I pulled a barely responsive Harry along too, who awkwardly stumbled after me. We made it out of the hotel grounds, and I called the police, who immediately sent us to urgent care.

I spent two weeks in the emergency room, and I got two visitors. Emma, from high school. She hugged me, and so did her five year old girl. The second visitor was a surprise. Ben, Harry's old boyfriend who was now a cop, had been tracking us down since our “death” when we were seventeen. Apparently, Esme faked our deaths.

Ben told me my parents left town a year after my death. He had contacted them multiple times, but no reply.

They weren't interested.

Which was understandable.

If someone told me my dead daughter was in fact alive and forced to marry her best friend, I wouldn't engage either.

I asked Ben if he'd been to see Harry, and he nodded, his cheeks going pale.

He told me the words I didn't want to hear.

Harry wasn't Harry Sullivan anymore. The doctors explained it in more medical terms, a foreign object being obstructed through the skull and damaging the frontal lobe or something like that, I wasn't really listening. Ben started talking about serious damage to the brain, and I was on my knees on cool tiles, choking up my lunch. I knew exactly what it was.

Harry had been partially lobotomised, in a desperate attempt to subjugate him.

So, if my friends were lobotomised, what happened to me?

I was drilled through the head. I got the same treatment.

So, why was I awake and conscious, and they were braindead?

I've been living with Ben for the last two years.

Ari and Wylan have recovered, in a way.

I say in a way because I'm lying to myself.

They're completely different people. Wylan is erratic and acts like a child, and Ariosa repeatedly tells me how much she hates me.

Their lack of emotion scares me. The doctors are puzzled. They didn't think it was possible to make as much progress as they have, but Jason Song was also using technology that they had never seen Before. Ben argued that lobotomies don't control your mind, they destroy it. He was convinced something else was being used, which sent me to sleep for seven years, forcing my body into autopilot. It would explain Wylan and Ari’s behaviour too.

How they had somehow recovered, or sort of recovered from a lobotomy.

Harry spoke for the first time a few days ago.

I have a habit of visiting him when Ben isn't guarding his bed side.

I wasn't there when he spoke. I was buying soda when Ben stumbled out of the room, vomiting everywhere.

Unable to resist, I hurried inside.

Harry was sitting up, propped up on pillows.

His eyes were so much more alert, which gave me hope.

Until he opened his mouth.

Inclining his head, Harry frowned at me. Ariosa and Wylan have been looking behind me a lot. I thought they were staring into mid air, but Harry was staring at the exact same spot. Just behind my right shoulder. He spoke her name with a glitter in his eye, and I think in his mind, Harry could still see her.

And Esme was still the love of his –our– lives.

When I shut the door and sat down, his expression darkened.

I hate that I can see so much of her in him.

And it terrifies me.

Harry was looking behind me, craning his neck.

“Where did my wife go?”

I told him she was dead, only for him to laugh.

“No she's not,” Harry said, like a child acting out. “She was just right there!”

I know Esme can't be alive, but Ariosa and Wylan say the same thing.

That she's always standing right behind me.

It's not every day half of humanity wakes up with the ability to control the opposite gender.

I tried it, of course, on my boyfriend. “Can you make me coffee?” 

I was met with a grumbled, "Make it yourself.”

“Jasper.” I crawled out of bed. Jasper didn't move, burying his head in pillows.

“Mm.” 

The words slipped from my mouth, effortlessly: “Jasper, suffocate yourself with your pillow please.” 

Jasper sat up with sleepy eyes. His laugh was incredulous. “What?”

I inhaled. Maybe it was something to do with my tone.

I twisted around and strode over to him in four strides, climbing onto the bed and straddling his lap. I stopped feeling things for him a while ago, but he still felt familiar and disgustingly comfortable, fitting against me like a puzzle piece.

Two days earlier, I sat in this exact spot and bawled my eyes out, screaming his name until it tasted like bile, like poison.

“Jasper.” I forced his name out like a command.

My boyfriend blinked back at me, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

I used to think he was beautiful. Thick, brownish-blonde curls and brown eyes that reminded me of coffee grounds.

Freckles speckled his cheeks.

Now, every time I looked at him, my chest ached.

“Don’t look at your phone.” That was my first command.

“Why?” He frowned, scanning his screen curiously. “Did something happen?” 

I tried again. “Jasper!” I grabbed his face, cupped his cheeks, and forced his head towards me. His half-lidded eyes found mine, more irritated than obedient.

I prodded him in the forehead.

Once.

Twice.

Touch was a vector, according to other girls sharing their experiences. One single touch, and the boy’s thoughts were theirs. 

Instead of compliance, Jasper was marginally irritated. He batted my hand away and laughed a little nervously.

“Can you…not do that?” 

Jasper was already reading through the headlines, noticing his friends weren't responding to his texts. His cheeks had gone significantly pale. "What the fuck?"

Six months later, the world was a whole lot quieter. It felt strange.

Monday morning; and I could sit in a coffee shop and dress exactly how I wanted. No judging looks or wolf whistles.

Every man nearby stood beside a woman.

The female owner greeted me and offered a free cupcake for both of us.

Her mindless boyfriend was the waiter. 

“I don't get it,” Annalise, my best friend, sat opposite me. Her colony of men sat around her, always close. Colonies were enslaved men. She had one for everything.

Nathan, to carry her groceries, Declan, as her personal Uber, and Cal, her personal shopper. There was one rule, however.

Unspoken among women.

If a claimed man was under a woman’s control, he was just that. An assistant, a worker, a cleaner. If consent wasn't possible, then relationships were banned. 

So far, this rule was respected. 

“What's so different about him?” Annalise’s narrowed eyes were fixed on Jasper, who looked uncomfortable as usual. 

He was nibbling on a courtesy cupcake, head bowed. Jasper wasn't vocal about his hatred for the new normal— in public, that was. However, at home, he was a panicking, angry, frustrated mess.

Every day, he woke up and demanded that I commanded him to do something crazy. 

Every time I tried, nothing worked. 

My boyfriend insisted on wearing shades and a cap to avoid stares from other women— as the only man free from a woman’s control. 

“Talk about me like I’m not here,” he muttered, breaking a piece of cupcake off and popping it into his mouth. Ignoring him, I sipped my iced coffee. “I have no idea,” I lied. Next to me, Jasper visibly paled. The truth was, of course, I knew why. Control worked with attachment.

Love. I didn’t love Jasper, and vice versa. Our last conversation before the colony began was a fight. I told him I hated him. He told me to go and fuck myself. There was zero attachment, nothing to bond us.

And no control was established. 

“So, Jasper,” Annalise continued, scrutinising him. 

She leaned across the table and prodded him between the brows. He just rolled his eyes and exaggerated the bug-eyed, mindless gaze of a claimed man. “If you’re free…” She made air quotes. Annalise cocked her head. “Why are you still here?”

Jasper shrugged. His gaze dropped to his lap. He avoided other guys like the plague.

I noticed he'd been stealing glances at Annalise’s colony the whole time, lips curled. “Where else am I supposed to fucking go?” His laugh was bitter. 

I grabbed his hand, and squeezed. “It's okay,” I said. “You're here with me.” 

He averted his gaze. “Thanks.” 

It took a while. I took him on dates.

The movies, and to fancy restaurants. At first, he refused to touch me or kiss me.

He was still paranoid, still scared I'd take control.

Then I asked him something simple: “Can you grab the TV remote for me, Jasper?” 

And, like clockwork, he snatched it up. His eyes were flat, somehow, empty. His facial expression relaxed, shoulders slumping. “Jasper?” I whispered. He didn't respond.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

I cupped his chin. “Jasper, can you please take me to her?”

Jasper nodded.

He took my hand, led me out of the door, and into the backyard. Slowly, he knelt in my flowerbed and began to dig. I saw the trash bags first. Then the bloodstained fur. I slipped a knife from my belt and handed it to him. My chest ached. 

My heart splintered. Esme was my best friend. And he couldn’t stand it.

I came home from work one day and she was gone and he looked so guilty he could barely speak. I fucking knew he did it. 

I just had to confirm it myself.

Establish control.

“Start cutting,” I commanded as he absently pressed the knife into his cheek.

“Jasper, sweetie, I want you to do to yourself exactly what you did to her."

I thought I knew every inch of my boyfriend.

Every bruise, every scar, every tattoo intricately etched into his skin. I knew my boyfriend's body better than my own. Caelen was, in my opinion, a work of art, one I loved to show off whenever we were out, and even more when we were alone.

I sat perched on the edge of our bed in the penthouse suite, on the highest floor of the tallest building. I was wearing a robe more expensive than my mother's mortgage, and my only job was to film Caelen coming out of the shower.

It was for some shampoo partnership. I couldn't help getting flustered. I couldn't believe he was mine.

"Are you ready?" Caelen yelled from inside.

"Ready," I said, holding my phone vertically.

Caelen stepped out wearing his usual awkward smile.

He'd never been good in front of a camera. I guessed that was because I was the influencer, and he just kicked a ball around. Standing at six-foot-something, with smooth golden skin and a face straight out of a Dior commercial, he was impossibly handsome. I zoomed in, capturing airbrushed perfection: cheekbones sharp enough to slice right through me, abs for days.

I couldn't resist a grin.

"Stop with the stupid smile," I laughed. "You look awkward!"

He rolled his eyes, tipped his head back, and forced a wide, cheesy grin.

“Happy?” he said through his teeth. “I’m pretty sure this shampoo is giving me an allergic reaction.”

I lowered the phone.

“Babe.” I couldn’t resist a laugh. I could see suds slipping down his temples. “Did you actually put it on your head?”

He frowned, eyebrows furrowing.

“Well, yeah, that’s what I was supposed to do—”

“You just had to soak your hair,” I laughed when he threw me the puppy-dog eyes. “You didn’t actually need to apply it, you idiot.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Caelen groaned, and I snapped another photo. His expression was perfect; mildly amused, which would get the fangirls excited, but also that slight quirk of irritation. “Stay like that,” I ordered him.

“Keep that exact position. Your followers love the tantrums.”

“They’re not tantrums,” he grumbled.

But he did freeze in place, even exaggerating his anger a little.

“How’s this?” He glared straight into the camera, lips curving into a smirk. “I don’t get it! Why do they LIKE my anger?”

I typed a snappy caption:

“doesn’t my boyfriend look GORGEOUS with @luxshampoo? His hair is SO glossy 💕”

“Ivy.” Caelen groaned, running his hand through damp strands of hair.

I snapped another photo.

Perfection.

I peeked over my phone, raking my eyes over beads of water sliding down his torso.

“Because.” I stood and wrapped my arms around him, pulling him onto the bed.

He fell awkwardly on top of me and immediately straddled my hips, his lips finding my mouth. I lost my breath, then my words, when he kissed me.

“You look fucking sexy.”

I expected sex, but we just lay together, him sprawled across me, while I dragged my fingernails down every inch of his skin, enjoying his low moan. I reached his ankle, momentarily confused by the new tattoo.

“Oh?” I laughed, leaning closer to inspect his most recent.

It was different from his others.

Simple block numbers: 14569.

Maybe my birthday, or our anniversary? But the numbers didn’t match either. My mind immediately went there. Of course it did.

I wasn’t the first girl to know every inch of him. In the public eye, he’d had three girlfriends.

I was the one he had proposed to on a beach in Bali.

I was the one wearing a 300k ring.

“Babe,” I said, running my fingers over each number. I noticed the ink wasn’t as new as I thought. I could see where it had faded. “What do these numbers mean?”

“Hm?” Caelen mumbled, half asleep. “What numbers?”

Something cold crawled through me.

I sat up.

“The numbers,” I said. “On your ankle.”

“Oh.”

Caelen shrugged, burying his head under the pillow. I noticed he’d stiffened, goose flesh creeping across his arms.

He didn’t respond for a moment and exhaled into his pillow. “I don’t know. Fuck, man, I probably got it when I was drunk.”

I chose not to push.

Caelen wouldn’t lie to me, right?

He jumped up, grabbed his sweatpants and threw them on.

“I should start packing,” he said, his back to me.

I had to force a smile back. I had forgotten about his meeting.

“Right.”

I hugged him and then helped him pack.

But he was different, suddenly. I knew he was nervous about possibly signing for another club, but he didn’t talk all day. It was the numbers, I thought, nausea twisting my gut. He was different.

Colder.

I asked him again, cornering him in his closet. But I couldn’t get my words out; my lips were numb, my words tasted of bile.

“If you’re going to ask me what the number is, don’t,” he muttered, refusing to look me in the eye.

I didn’t, twisting around and leaving him to his adult tantrum.

When it was time for him to leave, I kissed him goodbye.

“Those numbers,” I breathed into his lips.

Again, he froze, his breath shuddering.

“Caelen, was that tattoo for  another girl?”

He smiled, to my surprise.

“I wish we had more time, Ivy.”

“What?” I laughed. “So, there WAS a girl or IS?”

He didn’t respond, just tossed me a smile and walked away.

I presumed it was over. 

I headed to the hotel pool to overthink.

Harry, Caelen’s teammate, was sitting on the edge of the deep end, frowning at the water. “You look like you’re having fun,” Harry muttered. He wasn’t even looking at me; his gaze was glued to the sparkling blue depths, eyebrows furrowed, lips curled, like he was figuring out how to dive in without getting wet. 

“Caelen’s acting weird,” I said, dropping down next to him. 

He laughed, kicking his legs in the water. “When is he not?” 

I was about to pour my heart out when I saw it. Five numbers etched into Harry’s ankle: 18970.

“That number,” I teased. “Is that a soccer player thing? Do you all get tats?” 

Harry didn’t reply for a long time. His legs stopped moving. The water around him settled. “Ivy,” he said, his tone almost sardonic. Mocking. “Have you ever been to a transfer window?”

“Like, for soccer?” 

Harry’s lips twitched. “Football,” he corrected me. He wasn’t smiling, glaring down at the water. “We play for the Premier League.” 

“Well, sorry I don’t know football terms. I’m from LA.”

I kicked him playfully.

“Where were you born?”

Harry didn’t look at me. 

“Wolverhampton.”

He turned to me.

“You’re an influencer.” 

Harry pulled his legs from the pool and stood up. “Come to the transfer, and bring your phone.”

After asking around, I discovered soccer transfers were boring.

Still, I attended the event in downtown LA. The auction itself was held in a large glass-walled room with three floors overlooking the event. I was allowed in on one condition. I had to hand over my phone. Smiling, I did, then pulled out my second phone and slipped it beneath my dress while security checked for secondary devices. I was handed a beaded mask with a lion's face. 

The auction didn't start with an announcer, or music. Around me, hundreds of people, with the majority of them wearing masquerade masks, silently watched a man appear below us. “The transfer window has closed,” he announced, his voice echoing.

I peered over, looking for Caelen. 

To my confusion, two figures appeared. 

One was a smartly dressed woman. The other, my boyfriend.

The woman wore a red gown.

Caelen was completely naked. 

I peered closer, a sour bile rising in my throat.

He wasn't walking, instead, being violently dragged into the spotlight.

Then I saw his skin; I saw where he'd been scribbled on with red marker, highlighting and circling parts of him; his jawline, eyes, lips, nose, are marked. While his legs and arms bore arrows and crude writing.

The announcer smiled wildly, as my boyfriend mindlessly stepped into the light. “All right, for 2 million, we have a full-body transfer, save for the head. The torso and muscles are well defined. Striker. Played for Chelsea for two seasons on loan. Turn AROUND,” he ordered my boyfriend, who obeyed, throwing out his arms. 

“Caelen!” I choked.

A meaty hand muffled my scream. 

“He can't hear you,” a British accent hummed. The man behind me grinned through his goat mask. “Before the auction, those men are hollowed out,” he laughed. “Unless the brain is being sold, though it's rare, of course,” he laughs.

“Have you ever heard of an intelligent footballer? They want learned tactics. Wipe the personality, all that fucking ego, and keep the good stuff.”

The announcer continued below us. “Premier-league ready legs.” 

The  man in the goat mask threw up his hand gleefully. 

“6 million,” he yelled, “I'll take the striker's legs and torso.” 

“Sold!”

Before I could figure out what was happening, a laser beam shot straight through my boyfriend, slicing him into four neat chunks.

There was no blood, no gore, just his unwound body lying in dismembered pieces for thousands of greedy eyes.

But I noticed scars, pieces of him that were mismatched and wrong, like a jagged puzzle piece, shades of different skin tones stitched together, making him up.

His right shoulder was darker than his left, his lower torso bronzer than I remembered, a mismatched scatter of freckles scattered across his back.

I exhaled, had to keep it together, my breaths coming out in sharp gasps through my mask. 

Who was my boyfriend… made of? 

“Next.” The announcer yelled, while Caelen was shovelled into a white bag. 

I was on my knees, all of the air knocked from my lungs. 

Another spotlight.

This time, Harry stood, thick red hair catching the blinding allure, his hollow eyes finding oblivion.

The only thing highlighted in black marker were his calves. “Twenty seven years old.” The announcer said, “Right leg. Elite acceleration. Minimal ligament damage. Estimated career lifespan: four seasons. Currently plays for Tottenham Hotspur.”

Harry was shoved onto his knees, right under the lazer. “Midfielder.” 

“5 million!” A woman across from me yelled, “For his legs.” 

Harry’s wandering gaze met mine. He was awake.

His lips quivered as the laser came down. He was smiling. 

“Ivy!”

Harry was shoved into his knees, his breathless sob reaching me.

I already knew what to do; already pulling out my phone, my hands trembling. Another flash of blinding light seared my eyes. Harry’s scream ricocheted. “Fucking film EVERYTHING!” 

With the last of my voice, I spoke up, forcing my tone into commanding.

"I'm live streaming right now," I yelled, my voice echoing around the room.

The laser, to my surprise, flickered off.

I held myself. Harry dropped onto his stomach, his hands over his head, his sobs reverberating through the room.

The organisers fell into a panic. The woman in the red dress grabbed Harry, yanking him behind her, slamming her hand over his mouth. "If you do anything to him," I said, watching floods of confused viewers join the live, "the world will see it."

I picked her up outside a hotel.

I already knew she’d been thrown out.

The clerk stands in the doorway, arms folded, a phone to his ear.

She looks exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes, but she’s wearing a smile that’s already resigned. Fifteen or sixteen, around my age. Ready to give up.

She’s wearing a summer dress and sandals, and I can tell she hasn’t had a shower in weeks.

Her dress sticks to her, thick brown curls glued over her eyes, and a blooming red sunburn stains her skin. I wonder how long she's been hiding in the hotel.

Teenagers are public enemy number one, so it's not surprising the clerk’s beady eyes follow her to the passenger side of my beaten up bug.

“Hi!” She grins, relief bleeding from her tone that's almost a sob.

She jumps into my truck. “I'm Cinna.” She introduces herself with a fake name. Cinna is her favorite character in her favorite book tucked at the bottom of her pack. Her real name is Addison Hart.

16 years old.

She escaped a nullification camp with six dollars, a stolen iPhone 17, and a Polaroid camera.

She apologizes for her lack of hygiene with a laugh, and I smile and blast the AC.

“Don't worry about it,” I tell her, gesturing to my shorts and t-shirt combo I've been wearing since I found a lake off route 46.

Since then, it's just been hoping for rain, and sneaking into motel bathrooms.

Addison, sorry, Cinna, twists in her seat and asks me point blank:

“Dude,” she laughs, but she's blushing, embarrassed, already shifting uncomfortably. “Do you have any pads?”

I'm kinda surprised her life on the run hasn't significantly fucked with her cycle.

I haven't had a period since I was sixteen.

But I smile, nod, and gesture to my glove compartment. “I have tons.” I laugh when she snatches one up, her smile widening.

“I pick up a lot of kids,” I tell her. “I've lost count how many times I've been asked, so I raided a hotel bathroom.”

Addison squeaks excitedly, and leans back in her seat, squeezing the pads to her chest like a newborn baby. “You are an angel!” Then she blinks. Surprised. “Wait!”

Her eyes widen, and she sticks her head out of the window. “A beaten up red truck, and a teen driver!” She gasps. “Are you her?”

“That's what I've been reduced to?” I say. “Her?”

Addie grins. I catch her snatching up a cereal bar and stuffing it in her mouth. She doesn't even chew.

“You're the one who takes kids to a safe-haven,” she says through a mouthful, spitting crumbs everywhere. “I heard about you from a guy who was…” she drifts off, her smile fading, crawling from her face. “Anyway.” Addie demolishes the cereal bar in a single bite. “He said you're like, I dunno, a Gen Z Katniss.”

“I'm just a transporter.”

I tap the steering wheel, fiddling with the radio. Taylor Swift sputters through the static, and we both groan.

Addison pulls a face, and I know exactly what she's going to say. “I can't believe she sold out,” she whispers. “I fucking hate that stupid message she tacks onto the end of her songs.” Addison mimics the radio. “If any of my fans are out there, just know you're loved, and coming home will keep you all safe!”

“She was forced to, you know,” I remind her, as an ex-swifty who burned all of my albums. “They threatened her family.”

“I don't care." Addison grumbles. We’re both avoiding the elephant in the room.

It's comfortable, better, to talk about issues that don't matter instead of issues that do. “They're all the same.”

“So, where are you headed?” I ask.

Addison smiles, throwing her feet up on the dash. “The safe-haven! You can take me, right?” Her eyes widened. “Wait, do I need an ID? My mom burned all my shit before she sent me to—”

“No ID.” I say before she goes off on another tangent. She reminds me of Asa, my ADHD riddled bestie. Asa’s parents shot him in the head when he was asleep. “You're fine. I'll just drop you off.”

“Yay!” Addie cranks up the radio.

Oasis. She sticks her head out the window and screams the lyrics.

I can't help singing along loudly, slamming my hands on the wheel.

It's just us, the long, dusty dead road, and a band none of us have cared about until now. “This was my mom’s favorite song!” Addie yells, laughing. Her hair whips my face. “I said, maaaaybeeeeeee!”

After absolutely destroying our voice-boxes singing to every classic, she leans back in her seat.

“Sooo.” She says, playfully kicking me. “What kinda kids have you picked up?”

I have to think about that.

There's been a lot.

“There was one kid called Elliot,” I began. “Total asshole. He could, like, do this,” I mimic Elliot’s power, snapping my fingers. “Literally like a human firecracker.”

I'm pretty sure Elliot’s blood still stains her seat.

It's okay, though. She won't see it. His body is still in the back.

Addie laughs. “Was he at least HOT?”

“Ew!” I giggle. “No. Not my type.” I sigh, stretching.

“Then there was Aris. She reminded me of a princess.” I smile at the thought of her lying in a ditch, just off route 46. “Her power was x-ray vision. She was cute.”

“Where are they now?” Addie asks.

“Exactly where I'm taking you.”

“Sounds fun!” Addie kicks her feet. “Do you wanna guess what my power is?”

She's so innocent, so fucking stupid. I almost feel bad for what I'm going to do.

I can't wait until I carve it from her skull.

I take the powerful ones for myself, and deliver the rest to our great president.

“Shoot.” I laugh. “Can't be worse than Elliot The Firecracker.”

Addie's smile widens. “Telepathy, babe.”

Zander is crying again.

Usually, I ignore him. Apparently, it's a “side-effect.”

It’s not cute crying either. 

I paid 2000 dollars (and insurance!) for a faulty product.

Crying, panic attacks, shaking, and yelling out random shit in public.

I took Zander on our very own cute little date to a coffee shop, and he acted like he'd never eaten food before, choking on his spaghetti, falling out of his seat, and asking the waiter for help. 

Tonight, I lock him in the bathroom. 

Zander rams his head into the door maybe three times, and then goes eerily quiet.

“Stay, Zander,” I tell him firmly, per the instructions.

A few minutes pass before his quiet response.

Zander is smarter than I thought, able to stifle his sobs and straighten his words to pretend he isn't crying. I’m surprised he even knows how to play pretend. “Okay,” his voice trembles. “I'm very sorry, Ree.” 

I open the door six episodes later to find him sitting on the edge of the tub, head of prickly brown curls resting in his lap.

His eyes are open when I crouch in front of him. I force his head up and Zander’s gaze strays, lost, somewhere stuck in an oblivion only he could see. 

Zander’s eyes are my favorite. I made them myself. As if he can read my mind, Zander purposely squeezes his beautiful eyes shut. 

His breath shudders. 

His body trembles, hands pressed into the silver bars on the tub. 

I lean back. My blood boils.

What a waste of 2000 dollars. 

I didn't pay for crying. 

We’re not supposed to cause physical harm to our Boyfriend’s but I can't stop myself. I place my hands on his shoulders and squeeze where I know it will hurt. 

The nerves in the Boyfriend’s body are very delicate. His eyes widen, his lips curl— and all I can think is, “I like this.” 

I want to do it again, even when he squirms in my grasp, when he whimpers and tries to get away. 

He's not human, The thought begins to pollute.

Intoxicating and yet euphoric. 

“Ree,” his voice is small, more of a breath. He squeaks when I squeeze him tighter, until my fingernails nip into his bare skin. 

But he doesn't have skin. 

His skin is synthetic.

His blood is animal mixed with food coloring. His organs don't beat. They tick.

His responses aren't real. They're patterns and algorithms. “Ree,” tears spring to his eyes. “I am feeling very… uncomfortable.”

I laugh. Per the instruction manual, he’s not allowed to refuse commands. 

He can't tell me I'm hurting him. 

But he's not really human, so he's not hurting.

He's not human, so I can do anything to him.

“Zander,” I press my forehead to his and loosen my grip on him. “Am I hurting you?” 

Zander shakes his head and flashes me that award-winning grin I paid for. “No, Ree, of course you're not hurting m…me—!” I squeeze again, and he shudders. 

His smile widens. I can practically see the cogs in his head turning. 

He's identifying patterns in my replies and trying to find the best one. “You're not hurting me.” Zander’s right eye twitches. His lip curls. “I love you, Ree.” 

“Oh, you do?” I retract my hand. “What do you love about me?” 

Zander’s smile returns. He opens his beautiful blue eyes, and I reach out and wipe away his tears.

“You are the sun, my love,” he whispers. “I met you in a forgotten world, and while my memories of you are fading, they always bring your beautiful face, your smile that shines just like the sun itself.” 

“And?”*

Zander blinks. “And…” he stands too, wraps his arms around me and buries his head in my arms. “And…you are the shining sun—”

“No, you've SAID that. You're repeating yourself!” My hand whips out and I slap him across the face. He stiffens, his bottom lip wobbling, and then grins wider. 

“I apologize, Ree.” 

“Yeah, you better be sorry, you no-good piece of shit.” 

I slap him again. “Do you realize how much I paid for you? For some… rotten corpse with Claude AI forced into its brain? You’re supposed to be my husband, my literal FAVORITE character! You’re Zander! The God of Pluto! You’re supposed to know everything about me, and all you do is fucking cry.”

Zander hesitates. “I am… I am sorry, Ree—” 

“Don't apologize!” I snap and he flinches. “Please tell me one memory we have together.” 

“Of course, a memory.” Zander sighs. “Well, there's so many!” He laughs, and then hiccups. “Ree, we will be here all day if I tell—”

“Just one memory, Zander,” I grit out. “It can be about anything. We have a whole history together! I've been playing you since 2024! I downloaded you, and you became my bias because of your soft voice.” I run my fingers through his hair.

“You're not like the others, Zander. I have photocards, and... and I've been to so many conventions! I've given my life to you, Zander. I love you.”

“Moons.”

His flat response surprises me. 

“Gods.” Zander sighs. His eyes flicker. “Whatever.” 

I knew it. 

He's faulty.

I raise my hand, and slap him again. But this time his wrist catches mine. Zander moves closer, his lips finding my ear.

I shiver. He's going to tell me he loves me. That he's always loved me. 

“Riana,” he breathes. 

I swallow, my cheeks heating up. “Yes?” 

“This has gone on long enough.”  Zander spits. “For the THOUSANDTH time, I'm a cosplayer. I PLAY this fucking character. You need to let me go.”

He's right. 

Boyfriends are like, 4000 dollars. So, I have to settle for a fake one. 

But sometimes… he breaks fucking character. 

I straighten up, and pull my gun from my skirt.

Zander’s lip twitches.

“Tell me our lore, baby,” I smile and jut out my bottom lip. “Pwease.”

Dad's had friends in our basement since I was a little kid.

The one rule in our household was to never question them. Ever.

I remember being six years old, eating chocolate frosting in our kitchen.

It was raining outside, and Mom was teaching me how to bake cookies.

She was making shapes in the dough, and I was sneaking chocolate chips from the pack.

It was warm and cosy, an upbeat song on the radio. I was feeding chocolate chips to my teddy bear when the sliding glass doors behind me opened, a violent blast of wind whipping my hair from my face.

I only had to see the silhouette of my father to know he had brought friends. I didn't like it when Dad brought friends over. Especially new friends.

Mom slammed the oven shut, and switched off the radio, maintaining her smile. I let her gently pull me over to the dining room table, situating herself in front of me. I pretended not to notice my mother’s frantic eyes, her lips silently telling me to stay as quiet as a mouse.

Dad strode through the door, his arms wrapped around a girl, who was soaking wet. Her shoes were filled with rainwater, squelching with every step. “Don't say a word,” he grunted to the girl, pulling her further into the light.

All I could see was a mop of dark blonde hair glued to her face. The girl seemed… dizzy, like she was going to fall, swaying left to right, stumbling over herself.

She moved like a puppet, one foot in front of the other.

When my father made a hissing sound, her head jerked up, and I saw an identity.

Pretty features and made up eyes, a mouth that I knew was used to laughing, used to smiling, now hollow. She must be sick, I thought, casting my gaze to my lap.

In the corner of my eye, two figures followed, shadows bleeding into reality under fluorescent light. This time, two men fell in step. No. They were younger, my older cousin’s age.

The three of them were college aged. I glimpsed intricate black lines tainting one of the boy’s arms, creeping all the way down to his wrist, entangling around his fingers. One of the boy’s staggered, and my Dad barked at him to keep moving.

My six year old self never acknowledged the gun sticking into the girl’s back. Or when he pushed the girl down through the basement door, protruding the gun into one of the guys heads. Mom told me to look away.

She told me to look at the pretty cookie she made in the oven. I followed her gaze, admiring my cookies. The one at the very edge of the tray was a funny shaped heart.

I could sense my sharp breaths, my hand clammy in my lap. The boy didn't move at first, coming to an abrupt stop.

“Walk, kid.” Dad ordered.

Mom let out a hiss next to me, her hands tangling in her lap. The boy’s voice surprised me, a low murmur. “And if I… if I don't, old man?” he sneered. “What are you gon’ do to me?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, counting my breaths. Daddy was just bringing his friends to play.

I was suddenly too far aware of my father clicking off the safety. Back then, the click meant nothing to me. But looking back, this sound still gives me nightmares.

“You know what I'll do.”

The boy dropped his arms to his sides, and with a reluctant hiss, followed my Dad. Dad wasn't supposed to be friends with teenagers. His other friends were teenagers too.

He took three girls into the basement several weeks prior, and they were yet to come back up.

I was still waiting for them to appear, the knots in my tummy getting worse as the weeks went by.I liked Dad’s other friends.

They didn't have names, and even if they did, Dad refused to tell me.

There was a hard faced brunette, a dazed looking freckly blonde who kept asking me where her parents were, and my favorite, who had pigtails like me, until she lost all of her hair.

I also nicknamed them Scary Eyes, Freckles, and Pigtails.

When I asked Pigtails where all her hair had gone, her eyes darkened, but she didn't say anything. The three girls were sick, their colors reminding me of my favorite cartoon. Blossom. Freckles coughed splattered red into her hands.

Bubbles. Pigtails couldn't walk straight, yellow froth bubbling through her lips and down her chin.

Buttercup. Scary Eyes’s teeth were black, like she had been chewing candy.

I wondered if my Dad’s friends were dying.

The girl’s skin was pale, ghostly, almost translucent. When Mom and Dad were at work, sometimes the three came upstairs.

They were getting sicker. Scary Eyes had to hold onto Pigtails, the two of them stumbling up the stairs.

Freckles was wearing a metal crown thing that she couldn't tear off.

Dad told me his friends were sick, and he was going to make them better.

I thought they were going to run away, but they just ate cookies and drank soda like they hadn't eaten or drank in days, asking me questions I didn't understand.

Freckles tried to call someone, but the phone was dead.

Scary Eyes asked if I had a computer or cellphone, and I told her I wasn't allowed them because I was too young.

She started to get mad, her expression twisting. “How do we get out of here?”

I was too busy frowning at the line of black seeping from her nose. She swiped it away with her backhand, lips curling into a snarl. “Well?”

Scary Eyes had a lot of nosebleeds. She asked me what her name was, and I told her it was Scary Eyes.

I don't think she liked that response. She got angry, throwing a vase at me, though I don't remember her actually touching it or picking it up.

I was standing very still, watching her swipe blood from her nose, and then my mother’s favorite vase was flying into my face.

Before it could hit me, the girl dropped to her knees with a cry, and the vase hit the ground, shattering into pieces.

Pigtails hugged her, calming the girl down with whispered reassurances. “Get off of me!” Scary Eyes shoved her away, wild eyes landing on me.

“Why can't we leave?” she demanded in a shriek.

I told them I didn't know.

Where's the off switch?

Freckles could hardly stand up, her arms wrapped around her stomach, doubled over in pain. She tried to open the sliding glass doors, but they were locked.

So was the door to the upstairs. The girls were scaring me.

Scary Eyes was stifling a nosebleed, intense red seeping through her fingers.

Freckles grabbed me, shaking me violently. Her face was slick red, too red, like she was painted in it. “Kid, how the fuck do we get out of here?”

“She's a kid,” Pigtails said softly, “Go easy on her. It's not her fault.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?!”

They were my father’s patients, I thought, as a naive six year old. They were too sick to go home. Just like Dad told me.

Pigtails gave me her ID card in secret. She told me to get help, squeezing my hands tightly, her blood slicked hands were warm and wet. When I tried to tug away, she pressed her ID into my grasp, the plastic corner digging into my skin.

Pigtails’s eyes were glassy, seeping red streaked with black dripping from her nose.

She was crying.

“You need to be brave for me, Rosie, because if you're not, we’re not going to be okay.”

When I nodded, she wrapped her arms around me. “Can you give this to the cops and tell him we’re here?” she whispered. “That's all you need to do, sweetie.”

When I told Dad, he asked me to give it to him instead. “Denial is a common side effect of their illness,” he told me.

“They think they need to get out, and they thinkthey're in danger, when in reality, I’m saving them from their own poisoned minds.”

He cleared his throat, swiping his hands on a towel. “Some poisoned minds, however, cannot be fixed.”

I asked Dad what Pigtails’s real name was.

Dad smiled behind the surgical white of his mask, slipping the girl’s ID into his pocket.

“Well, what do you like to call her?” he said, washing his scarlet stained hands in the kitchen sink. Sitting on the countertop, I swung my legs, nibbling on a cookie.

Dad was always covered in tomato sauce after coming up from the basement.

“Pigtails.” I said, “Just like mine.”

Dad ruffled my hair. “Then that's her name.”

I found the girl’s ID in the trash a few weeks later, along with the others. Their real names were Violet, Risa, and Clementine.

I never saw my father’s friends again. Dad was busy for the rest of the week, bringing up trash bags from the basement. Mom was crying and wouldn't leave her room. I thought the girls would come back up the stairs, all better.

But they didn't. I waited outside the door with cookies every day, but the basement stayed shut. And now dad was replacing them with three strangers.

Brand new friends. Initially, I wasn't fazed. I was a kid, so I figured the three had gone home without me realizing.

But now Dad was bringing in new friends, and my tummy was starting to twist. I was aware of my Mother situating herself in front of me, her eyes were dark, underlined with shadows.

I watched my father drag the soaking wet girl towards the basement door, the boys following in slow strides.

Dad’s new friends didn't look happy to be in our kitchen. The three of them looked like they had been to the beach.

The girl was wearing shorts and a tee, feet bare, her hair hanging in thick clumps in front of her eyes.

One of the guys wasn't even wearing a shirt, only long cut shorts, raybans perched on thick brown hair. The other, hiding behind sandy colored curls, wore a short sleeved tee, a beach towel still wrapped around him.

Dad must have picked them up at the beach. Before I could break the rules and question who they were, Mom grabbed my face gently and turned my head to look at her. In the corner of my eye, one of the boys dropped to his knees, and my Dad wrapped his hand around the boy's shoulder, yanking him to his feet.

“Fucking move, boy.”

Dad’s voice was a low growl I didn't know.

“Rosie.” Mom’s voice cut through the silence. She tightened her grip on my face, her nails sticking into my skin. It hurt, but I didn't tell her that.

Mom’s hands moved down to cradle my cheeks. “Keep looking at me,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Okay?”

I did, tearing my gaze from the dark haired boy who dropped his glasses. The sound of them hitting the ground made me wince.

I watched him duck down to pick them back up. Before my father stamped on them.

“Rosie.”

Mom said my name again. I felt her fingers grasping my arm. Her voice sounded strange, like waves crashing onto a shore. The boy straightened up and did exactly what my father told him.

“Hey,” Mom hummed. “Eyes on me, baby.”

Mom and I talked about my favorite cookies until my words were tangled on my tongue and I couldn't talk anymore, and behind me, the basement door opened. One shadow was shoved through, and then another. The final shadow strayed back for a moment, and I felt his eyes burning into the back of my head.

I sensed his slow steps, dragging himself, before my Dad dragged him through. The door slammed shut, and I immediately twisted around, jumping from my seat to pick up the broken glasses. Mom’s arms were wrapping around me, pulling me to her chest. She was trembling.

“Okay, sweetie,” her voice was the comfort I needed.

“Why don't we decorate our cookies?”

Dad’s newest friends became a permanent part of our family. Their screams kept me awake at night. But Dad reassured he was just playing games with them. They didn't age.

I turned seven and then eight years old, my birthdays coming and going, and Dad’s friends looked exactly the same.

Unlike with the others, I was allowed to talk to them.

The basement door was always open, so, after dinner, I grabbed as many snacks as possible, and slid down cold, concrete steps. The three of them were behind a big glass screen, like a human zoo.

Dad told me they were sick, and he was making them better. At first, Dad’s friends were boring. All they did was cry. The girl sat in the corner with her arms wrapped around her legs, head sandwiched in her lap.

She was wearing different clothes, a stained white shirt and pants. I thought she suited her other clothes better.

At least Dad was looking after them, letting them change. The boys wore light blue, more akin to hospital scrubs.

I noticed the pretty black lines on one of the boy’s arms were gone, strips of stained white wrapped around his wrists.

I started to call them Dark Hair and Gold Hair in my head. Dark Hair lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. Gold Hair curled up like a cat, his face buried in his knees.

The more I visited them, the sicker my Dad’s new friends looked. Like they were being drained of life, all of the color sucked from their cheeks.

The exact same thing had happened to Dad’s other friends, though Freckles’s skin was almost see through the last time I saw her. Her eyes were glassy, and I wasn't even sure she could understand me.

Scary Eyes spat out streaks of deep black. Pigtails was too sick to stand up.

Dad’s new friends weren't at that stage yet, but they were close. Dark Hair had stopped acknowledging me completely. His eyes found nothing.

No-one.

Not even me when I kicked the glass

It was in their eyes too.

When Dad first brought them in, the three of them were vocal, screaming at me, pounding on the glass. Mom told me they were in denial that they were sick.

In their heads, they thought my father was imprisoning them. It is an illness of the brain, Rosie, she told me.

But as days and weeks and months went by, they started to resemble dolls with no strings, pressing their faces against the pane, staring at me dazedly, a vacancy in their eyes that felt like oblivion was staring back.

On the day after my seventh birthday, I skipped down to the basement after breakfast to find my father finishing up.

He pushed past me, grumbling at me not to get too close.

I wanted to talk to Dark Hair about my favorite episode of Phineas and Ferb.

But when I opened my mouth, I knew something was wrong. The lights were too bright, too in my face. I noticed Gold Hair at first. He was sitting cross legged, head tipped back. I think he was praying.

The girl was sleeping, though I could see her shaking. I could hear her sobs. My gaze crept across the glass screen, my breakfast creeping into my throat. Dark Hair was wearing Freckles’s metal crown.

This time, it was glued to his head. Freckles hated it.

I used to watch the girl try and violently tear the thing off her head, scratching at the cruel pincers glued to her flesh. The boy didn't even notice it.

Maybe he did at some point. I could see the haunted glint of something alive, something writhing and aware, behind gnawing, empty holes staring back at me.

The claw marks on his head were evident of that, showing that he too had tried to rip it off. In the days following, even that began to dissipate, before I found him staring standing with his hands on the glass.

Freckles' crown was tighter on his head, blood coating clenched teeth. Blood. Just like Freckles. Gold Hair started to barf black around the time he was fitted with the metal crown. The girl had a scary cough when I visited days later.

She had a scary bandage over her throat. Mom and Dad made the rules very clear. I could not under any circumstances question Dad’s new friends. But I couldn't help wondering why all of my father’s friends were getting sick.

They weren't sick before the basement, and the crown of metal.

So, I decided to ask Dad’s friends questions in an attempt to understand their relationship with my father.

Even when their hair was gone, scary metal crowns stuck to their bald heads, eyes overshadowed and sunken, Dad’s friends had not aged. I had grown taller.

I started a new grade, and had a whole new group of friends. I had aged four years, and they were stuck in time.

As usual, the three of them weren't speaking, either curled up, or in the dark haired boy’s case, standing with his arms folded, head slightly inclined. I noticed candy seemed to get his attention, so I brought my secret weapon.

Sour Patch Kids. I did bring them some of my 9th birthday cake, but after multiple attempts, I couldn't get it past the glass screen.

I had been visiting them for four years, and they still looked exactly the same. Pressing my palm to the glass was my way of greeting the three without scaring them.

“Who are you?” I asked, waving a Sour Patch Kid in front of them. I was met with blank eyes. Dark Hair didn't even notice the gummy. I couldn't remember the last time any of them spoke.

They did speak, and could.

I could hear them at night, screaming, their banshee wails rattling my skull. They screamed for death, begging my father to stop. I wrapped a pillow around my head, burying under my blankets.

Dad was fixing them, and fixing hurt.

“Hello?” I knocked gently on the glass, popping the candy into my mouth. “Can you guys tell me your names?”

No response. Dark Hair was staring at me like I was a space alien, his head slightly inclined. The others were sleeping as usual, snoozing together. So, I tried again.

“Were you going to the beach?” I asked, and to my surprise, Dark Hair’s expression twitched, his eyes flickering.

His half lidded eyes found me, dazedly. “The beach?” I repeated, revelling in the sudden spark in his eyes. This was progress, after nothing for so long.

“Is that where my Dad found you?”

Dark Hair blinked, his fists tightening. “Coach…ella.”

I frowned. “What's that?”

The boy shook his head, a thin line of red dripping from his nose. “Coachella.”

His voice was a croak, eyes widening, like he was waking up from a long dream. The boy’s gaze flicked behind me, like he could see something I couldn't. “We… we need to get to Coachella, right?” His hands bunched into fists, “We were… on our way to Coachella.”

“I still need to buy my ticket,” the girl giggled into the floor, “And we haven't figured out where we’re staying.”

“The hotel, moron.”

Blonde Hair sat up suddenly, a small smile pricking on his mouth. It didn't match his eyes. When I pressed my face into the glass pane, the three of them looked almost like themselves again.

Almost, and yet I couldn't ignore the crowns of cruel metal, the strips of white wrapped around their heads.

They were still my father’s patients. But I had never seen so much emotion before, even if it was just splinters.

Footprints.

“We’ve had this conversation multiple times. I'm the designated driver, so I get leader privileges and can tell you guys what to do.”

I took a slow step back, a shiver creeping down my spine. Dark Hair scoffed, but his expression, unlike his voice, was empty.

He was looking straight through me, his voice was more of a memory, a ghost. “What's wrong with camping? We need to get the full Coachella experience, right? Tents are like, ten fucking dollars, bro.”

“Well, you can go camping and get the full experience,” the girl said, “Meanwhile, the two of us with brains will get a hotel and avoid getting roofied.” That was all they said, the same thing over and over again.

The same conversation, the same disagreements. The same laughter. Like three broken records. There were three words that I picked up on.

Coachella.

Ticket.

Hotel.

So, that's what I named them.

I was sick of referring to them as Dark Hair, Gold Hair, and Girl. After a while, the three started to become a little more responsive. “Hey, kid.” Coachella surprised me one day with my name.

I appreciated that his hair was growing back under his metal crown. He still hadn't aged, his face stuck in time. Coachella knelt on the ground, tapping on the glass.

“It's Rose, right?”

“Rosie.” I corrected him.

He scoffed. "Same thing."

It was my thirteenth birthday, and I was showing Ticket how to play Fortnite on my Switch. Ticket was ignoring me, curled up on the ground.

Hotel was snoozing on his lap. He stopped replying when I delved into Fortnite lore. It's not like he was talkative in the first place, though he did offer small grunts, acknowledging my words.

The two of them weren't as responsive as Coachella, who was slowly regaining color in his cheeks, awareness in his eyes.

It wasn't the awareness of the boy who my father dragged down to our basement, it was…new. Like he was a whole different person. Coachella was the only one who wore the crown of metal.

Hotel had a plastic tube stuck in her arm, and Ticket had a blinking device stuck to his left temple. Daddy really was treating their sick brains. I had to smile.

And he was fixing* them.

“Come over here.” Coachella gestured toward me, knocking on the pane.

I blew a raspberry, my gaze glued to my game. “Why should I? I could get your mind sickness.”

“I want to show you a magic trick.”

I lifted my head. “Magic isn't real.”

“You would be surprised, kid.”

“Oh?” I slowly made my way over to the glass.

His eyes darkened. “Do you know how to get us out of here?”

“Why would you want to leave?” I asked him. “Dad is making you better.”

He let out a bitter laugh, drawing a smiley in the condensation. “What if I can prove your Dad is a bad man?”

Something sour filled the back of my throat. “My father is not a bad man.”

His lip curled. “Then I'll show you my magic trick.”

Coachella knocked on the glass, his voice suddenly a lot louder in my head, slowly bleeding into my brain. It felt real, physical, like a bug skittering across the meat of my brain. “Why don't you come closer?”

I did, my body no longer in control. In two heavy steps, I was standing nose to nose with him. He smiled, and with a jerk of his head, my feet were slowly leaving the ground. I couldn't resist a shriek of excitement, my arms trembling, windmiliing.

I was flying.

Up, up, up, I flew, throwing my arms out, led by his surprisingly soft eyes.

I was so excited to hit the ceiling, when Coachella staggered back suddenly, and I dropped to the ground, straight into my dad's arms.

Coachella dropped to his knees, crying out, and tearing at his hair. "Fuck!"

I caught a single slither of red creeping from his nose. His gaze found mine, tragic, pleading, and pissed.

"Sit down." Dad ordered.

For a moment, the boy refused.

He jerked his head again, this time violently, eyes narrowing. But nothing happened. There was a sound, like electricity hissing, and Coachella hit the floor, burying his head in his knees.

"Do not touch my daughter again," my dad spat. "Do you understand me?"

I was dragged back upstairs, before I could tell my dad Coachella was hurting. The basement was locked, and I was officially forbidden from going down there.

It's been a year since I was locked out of the basement. I still heard their screams at night, so loud, raw and real, like all they felt was agony. I told myself my father was helping them. But for this long?

Last night, when I jumped off of the school bus, Mom was waiting for me.

She told me to go straight to my room, and already had snacks for me to eat until dinner. Mom said I had to stay in my room all night. Dad was having friends over. I entertained myself for most of the evening, though when it reached 9PM, I heard voices coming from downstairs.

My excuse was that I felt nauseous if my parents caught me, though when I stepped into the kitchen, dodging behind the refrigerator, our dining room was filled with men and women in fancy clothing, suits and cocktail dresses.

“Drink?”

The server looked a little too young to be handing out glasses of champagne.

“I'm fourteen.”

He scoffed. “So am I. What's your point?”

I opened my mouth to reply, when Dad’s voice startled me. “Follow me, everyone.”

The server was quick to put his drinks platter down, eyes darkening. “Showtime,” he muttered, pulling a phone from his pocket.

“Thanks for coming.” Dad told the small crowd, leading them down to the basement. I followed hesitantly, hiding behind Server Guy. “Can I please reiterate that electronic devices are prohibited in this space, and if you are caught, you will be paying a penalty.”

I waited for Server Guy to dump his phone, but he didn't. In fact, he slipped further into the crowd, grasping the phone in his hand.

Against my better judgement, I followed him. After a moment of standing behind the guy, he was either talking to himself, or talking to someone else.

“Let's start the auction.” Dad stepped onto stage, microphone in hand.

Auction?

The lights dimmed, small-talk and chatter coming to a halt. Coachella appeared, his eyes a lot more animated. Alert. I hadn't seen them in a whole year, and they still hadn't aged. Ticket was shoved onto the stage. Then Golden Hair.

The three of them were decently dressed. The guys wore suits, and Hotel was wearing a dress more expensive than our house, dark blonde hair tied into a ponytail. Her dress was black obsidian, pooling underneath her. There were no metal crowns, no strips of white wrapped around their heads. I could actually see Coachella’s eyes, his dark brown hair cut and styled.

They looked human again, like actual teenagers. Even if they had been teenagers for nine years. “S3. Show them what you can do.” Dad’s mouth curved into a smile.

“How about the young man in the audience who is currently filming this?”

Coachella thrust two fingers into his right temple. Finger guns. “Bang.” he said.

For half a second, I thought nothing had happened. But I was aware of a ringing sound in my head. Getting louder.

And louder.

It wasn't until I blinked away streaks of crimson. My shaking hands coming up, up, up, to cradle my own face.

When I realized the server was gone, lost in a vivid explosion of red. His phone was on the ground, still connected to someone, the screen cracked. Someone shoved me back, picking up the phone.

I felt so small, so tiny, insignificant. Disgusting, as my father’s daughter. “Was our guest livestreaming?” Dad asked the man.

“Nope.” The man stuffed the phone in his pocket. “Just normal iPhone footage, sir.”

“Good! Then let's continue with the auction.”

I stood frozen for what felt like a century, staring at the boy’s torso, and what was left of his head, a sludge of pinkish red poking from pearly white. The ringing sound in my ear turned shrill, and a screech clawed its way up my throat.

“Starting bidding at three million dollars,” my father said, the crowd murmuring. Through sharp red drowning my vision, I didn't see fear on these people's faces.

I saw interest. “S3 is the very first psychokinetic.” Dad boomed into his mic. He nodded to Coachella. “Would you like to demonstrate?”

Coachella met my gaze, his lips twitching. Slowly, his fingers once again pulverised his temples. I found myself staggering back, unable to breathe.

“S3–” my dad started to say. “I said, would you like to demonstrate–”

“Bang.”

Dad was standing there one minute, and was gone the next. This time, his whole body ripped apart, nothing left behind.

I didn't cry.

I should have cried. I should have screamed and wailed. But I didn't. I was half aware of bony arms shoving past me, a sudden whiff of my mother’s favorite perfume hitting me in the face. “I apologize for that, everyone.” My Mom projected her voice, allowing the crowd to part for her.

Mom’s shoes went click clack across the stage. She kept her head held high, before bending down and picking up my father’s blood slicked microphone.

My mother was dressed up, a slender red dress and heels, her hair tied into a knot. Mom’s smile was bright, her eyes wild. My legs felt like they were going to give-way.

Mom wasn't trembling with fear when Dad first brought his new ‘friends’ in. She was excited. Thinking back, the way she squeezed me to her chest, her shaking hands going to my cheeks.

Her smile I thought was forced, was to calm me down and reassure me. It was for them.

Just seeing them filled her with anticipation.

Intoxication.

When Coachella tried to run, Mom grabbed him by the hair, violently dragging him back, pinning his hands behind him. “As my husband was saying,” she said hurriedly, flashing the crowd a glittering smile. “Let's start.”

“Let me go!” Coachella shrieked, “You fucking bitch--"

She slammed her hand over his mouth, forcing the others to their feet.

“Starting bidding at four million dollars,” Mom gasped out. “Going once…”

“Call the police!” Coachella muffled to me.

Two more people in the crowd exploded, scarlet splattering the walls. I saw one man get a face full of it, his eyes dripping.

But he didn't even blink. Coachella didn't give up. “Someone! Call the cops! Tell them my name is–”

Mom kicked him in the face, forcing Coachella into his stomach. When he jumped up, she whipped out a gun, sticking the handheld in his temple.

“Starting at three million,” she said loudly. “Anyone want to go higher?”

When a suited old man in the audience raised his hand, announcing a price, I felt sick to my stomach. “Five million.”

A woman in a fur coat raised hers. “Five point four million.” Mom dragged Coachella back, her eyes finding mine. “Go upstairs, Rosie.”

I did. I can still feel blood on my face, even now, after so many showers.

Right now, the basement is still out of bounds.

The auction has been going on for three days, and blood still coats the basement floor. Expensive heels tread in human remains, congealed blood.

Mom keeps smiling. And these psychos don't even care.

I'm so scared. I don't want to be scared of my mother, but I am. I think she was behind the death of my father. I don't know what to do. I'm sitting here and can't stop shaking. I feel sick.

Mom acts like nothing happened, but I'm not allowed to go outside on my own. I can go to school, but only accompanied by my cousin.

Mom took my phone, but I found my old one in my drawer. Coachella was right.

My Dad was a bad man.

But my Mom is fucking evil.

I swapped bodies with the WORST person imaginable.

“What the FUCK?”

An all-too-familiar voice rattles my skull. 

Nicholas Isaacs, the school bully, is at it again.

Abigail, who spent the entire class tapping her pen, is about to face his wrath. 

“I SAID stop FUCKING TAPPING.”

Our teacher, Mr. Spade, barely glances from his laptop.

“Nicholas.” His voice is an exhausted drone, chin resting on his fist. “Get out of my classroom.” 

“I told her to fucking STOP!” He protests. “It wasn't MY fault!” 

Nick wasn't always a bully. He used to be quiet, a freckly, redheaded lost boy who talked about Pokémon. One day, he stood up in class and screamed, slamming his hands over his ears before swinging his fist into the face of the boy behind him.

Ever since, he’s been an unstable time bomb with anger issues.

“I don't care,” Mr. Spade sighs. “Leave.” 

Nick sputters, grabs his bag, and storms out of the classroom.

Thankfully, class ends, and I escape the classroom quickly, darting toward the upper staircase. 

I start downstairs quickly, taking two steps at a time. 

What I don’t see is a shadow turning to run up the steps, a miniature Pikachu bouncing from the keyring on his backpack. I see a flash of his eyes widening, lips parting as if to say, “Oh, fuck.”

Impact is like a freight train smashing straight into me. 

Neutron star collisions explode across my vision. 

Everything stops.

Time passes. I'm vaguely aware of paramedics crowding around me.

Pain.

Agony, like lightning bolts rattle up and down my spine. 

“It's okay, honey.” A low hum grazes my ears after a while of darkness. A woman. 

Her fingers entangled with mine are warm, but my body retracts, trying to pull away.

Sickly light bathes my face when I force my eyes open.

A red mop of curls frame a startlingly pale face.

Her face is familiar, somehow. Freckly.

“You fell down the stairs at school, Sweetheart,” her voice is barely a breath, a breeze in my ear. “But don't worry."

The woman reaches out and scrapes my hair from my forehead. Just the movement, the slight flinch of my head, sends pain radiating through me. Nuclear pain that sends my thoughts spinning.

“Just a few scrapes, honey. Nothing major.” 

I grit my teeth, pushing my tongue through my lips. “Where….?” 

Then my words fall as flat as my voice. Slowly, I stare down at my body. The light blue gown sculpting a thinner, more skeletal frame. My hands aren't mine. 

My fingernails are worn, chewed into hangnails. 

My reflection sends me reeling. 

A wash of red curls droop in front of wide, horrified eyes. 

A nose sprinkled with freckles, and dry cracked lips parted in a cry. 

Nicholas Isaacs.

“Nicholas?” The woman sounds worried.

She stands and wraps her fingers around my wrist. More pain. This time it's in my lower back. It feels like something is there, moving under my skin. I have to swallow the cry clawing at the back of my throat.

“Its okay, Nicholas,” the woman lowers her voice, her lips grazing my ear. “I promise I haven't told the school about you.”

“Alice.” I croak my own name before I can swallow it. “Where's the… umm… the girl I crashed into.” Nick’s body is already panicking, heart palpitations rocking my—his—  chest. I try to smile, try to play him to the best of my ability. “Mom.” Because I presume that's who this woman is. 

“The girl who fell down the stairs with me,” Nick’s breathing accelerates. His body is scared. “Where did she go?”

She shrugs. “Alice Cameron was discharged earlier.” 

That psycho left with MY body?

I can't stop myself, already suffocating. “Okay, so…” I pant. “Do you know where she went? Because she can't just DISAPPEAR, right? It's a small town. She’ll be here somewhere—”

My words choke back when her palm hits my right cheek hard enough to send me stumbling back. “Wow.” Nicholas’s mother’s smile curls. “You're quite the chatty one today, aren't you?” 

I open my mouth, but I’m paralyzed. My cheek stings.

“Get dressed.” Nicholas’s mother dumps a bundle of clothes into my arms.

Inside the restroom, I strip off my gown, running my fingers over skin that is raw and delicate, before throwing on a shirt and sweatpants. Something catches on the material, moving, undulating down my spine, and I reach behind me, running my fingers down ridges, bloody flaps of skin.

It takes me a while to figure out what the feathery appendages splitting from the boy’s spine are. I twist around toward the mirror, running my fingers over raw bone.

Another electroshock rattles me, but I can’t stop myself.

I prod them, and slowly, they unfurl, jagged, splintered edges, ugly and yet somehow beautiful, expanding until they graze the bathroom tiles, scraping the ceiling.

Wings.

“Nick.” The woman snaps outside. “Come on.” 

Fuck.

Blood splatters the faucet as I try and fail to push the wings back in until I’m on my knees, breathless, and they retract on their own. I throw on the shirt and the sweater, splash water over my face, and follow Nicholas’s mother out of the hospital.

She gestures me into the back of a sleek-looking car, and I have no choice but to slide into the back.

“Your father has almost finished with Simon,” Nick’s Mom announces as the car roars to life. 

She reverses from the parking lot. “His body is failing, of course.” She sighs. “The poor angel can't even fly. But another dead kid is just a step toward achieving greatness.” 

Her words collapse into static as we reach the highway.

I press my head against the window and watch traffic fly by. 

A blur of brunette curls catches my eye. 

A girl teeters on the edge of a towering building. 

No. 

A boy wearing my face teeters.

She spreads out her arms, as she is an angel.

Closes her eyes.

And falls.

“What the FUCK?”

An all-too-familiar voice rattles my skull. 

Nicholas Isaacs, the school bully, is at it again.

Abigail, who spent the entire class tapping her pen, is about to face his wrath. 

“I SAID stop FUCKING TAPPING.”

Our teacher, Mr. Spade, barely glances from his laptop.

“Nicholas.” His voice is an exhausted drone, chin resting on his fist. “Get out of my classroom.” 

“I told her to fucking STOP!” He protests. “It wasn't MY fault!” 

Nick wasn't always a bully. He used to be quiet, a freckly, redheaded lost boy who talked about Pokémon. One day, he stood up in class and screamed, slamming his hands over his ears before swinging his fist into the face of the boy behind him.

Ever since, he’s been an unstable time bomb with anger issues.

“I don't care,” Mr. Spade sighs. “Leave.” 

Nick sputters, grabs his bag, and storms out of the classroom.

Thankfully, class ends, and I escape the classroom quickly, darting toward the upper staircase. 

I start downstairs quickly, taking two steps at a time. 

What I don’t see is a shadow turning to run up the steps, a miniature Pikachu bouncing from the keyring on his backpack. I see a flash of his eyes widening, lips parting as if to say, “Oh, fuck.”

Impact is like a freight train smashing straight into me. 

Neutron star collisions explode across my vision. 

Everything stops.

Time passes. I'm vaguely aware of paramedics crowding around me.

Pain.

Agony, like lightning bolts rattle up and down my spine. 

“It's okay, honey.” A low hum grazes my ears after a while of darkness. A woman. 

Her fingers entangled with mine are warm, but my body retracts, trying to pull away.

Sickly light bathes my face when I force my eyes open.

A red mop of curls frame a startlingly pale face.

Her face is familiar, somehow. Freckly.

“You fell down the stairs at school, Sweetheart,” her voice is barely a breath, a breeze in my ear. “But don't worry."

The woman reaches out and scrapes my hair from my forehead. Just the movement, the slight flinch of my head, sends pain radiating through me. Nuclear pain that sends my thoughts spinning.

“Just a few scrapes, honey. Nothing major.” 

I grit my teeth, pushing my tongue through my lips. “Where….?” 

Then my words fall as flat as my voice. Slowly, I stare down at my body. The light blue gown sculpting a thinner, more skeletal frame. My hands aren't mine. 

My fingernails are worn, chewed into hangnails. 

My reflection sends me reeling. 

A wash of red curls droop in front of wide, horrified eyes. 

A nose sprinkled with freckles, and dry cracked lips parted in a cry. 

Nicholas Isaacs.

“Nicholas?” The woman sounds worried.

She stands and wraps her fingers around my wrist. More pain. This time it's in my lower back. It feels like something is there, moving under my skin. I have to swallow the cry clawing at the back of my throat.

“Its okay, Nicholas,” the woman lowers her voice, her lips grazing my ear. “I promise I haven't told the school about you.”

“Alice.” I croak my own name before I can swallow it. “Where's the… umm… the girl I crashed into.” Nick’s body is already panicking, heart palpitations rocking my—his—  chest. I try to smile, try to play him to the best of my ability. “Mom.” Because I presume that's who this woman is. 

“The girl who fell down the stairs with me,” Nick’s breathing accelerates. His body is scared. “Where did she go?”

She shrugs. “Alice Cameron was discharged earlier.” 

That psycho left with MY body?

I can't stop myself, already suffocating. “Okay, so…” I pant. “Do you know where she went? Because she can't just DISAPPEAR, right? It's a small town. She’ll be here somewhere—”

My words choke back when her palm hits my right cheek hard enough to send me stumbling back. “Wow.” Nicholas’s mother’s smile curls. “You're quite the chatty one today, aren't you?” 

I open my mouth, but I’m paralyzed. My cheek stings.

“Get dressed.” Nicholas’s mother dumps a bundle of clothes into my arms.

Inside the restroom, I strip off my gown, running my fingers over skin that is raw and delicate, before throwing on a shirt and sweatpants. Something catches on the material, moving, undulating down my spine, and I reach behind me, running my fingers down ridges, bloody flaps of skin.

It takes me a while to figure out what the feathery appendages splitting from the boy’s spine are. I twist around toward the mirror, running my fingers over raw bone.

Another electroshock rattles me, but I can’t stop myself.

I prod them, and slowly, they unfurl, jagged, splintered edges, ugly and yet somehow beautiful, expanding until they graze the bathroom tiles, scraping the ceiling.

Wings.

“Nick.” The woman snaps outside. “Come on.” 

Fuck.

Blood splatters the faucet as I try and fail to push the wings back in until I’m on my knees, breathless, and they retract on their own. I throw on the shirt and the sweater, splash water over my face, and follow Nicholas’s mother out of the hospital.

She gestures me into the back of a sleek-looking car, and I have no choice but to slide into the back.

“Your father has almost finished with Simon,” Nick’s Mom announces as the car roars to life. 

She reverses from the parking lot. “His body is failing, of course.” She sighs. “The poor angel can't even fly. But another dead kid is just a step toward achieving greatness.” 

Her words collapse into static as we reach the highway.

I press my head against the window and watch traffic fly by. 

A blur of brunette curls catches my eye. 

A girl teeters on the edge of a towering building. 

No. 

A boy wearing my face teeters.

She spreads out her arms, as she is an angel.

Closes her eyes.

And falls.

Murder was legal in our town.

I grew up seeing it. At eight years old, I watched a man walk into our local café while I drank my peanut butter chocolate milkshake and killed two people dead.

There was no malice in his eyes, no hatred. He was just a normal guy who smiled at the waitress and winked at me.

Mom told me to keep drinking my milkshake, and I did, licking away the excess whipped cream while the bodies were carried out and the pooling red was cleaned from the floor. I could still see flecks of white in the red, and my stomach twisted.

But I didn’t feel scared. I had no reason to be. Nobody was screaming or crying.

The man who had shot them sat down to eat a burger and fries, not blinking an eye.

That was my first experience seeing death.

With no rules forbidding murder, you would think a town would tear itself apart.

That is not what happened.

Murder was legal, yes, but it didn’t happen every day.

It happened when people had the urge.

Mom explained it to me when I was old enough to understand. “The Urge” was a phenomenon that had been affecting the townspeople long before I was born, and there was no real way to stop it.

So, it didn't stop.

Mom told me she had killed her first person at the age of seventeen, her math teacher. There was no reason or motive.

Mom said she just woke up one day and wanted to kill him.

That specific killing became more of a bedtime story to lull me to sleep.

I didn’t like her smile when she told me about her killing. Sometimes I got scared she was going to murder me too.

Growing up, I was constantly on edge. Every day I woke up and pressed my hand to my forehead, asking myself the same question: Did I want to kill anyone?

Those thoughts blossomed into paranoia when I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. It’s not like I didn’t know what it was like.

Dad taught me how to use a knife and how to properly hold a weapon, and Mom gave me lessons in severing body parts.

Both of them wanted me to follow through with The Urge when it inevitably hit me.

I wanted to fit in.

When I started middle school, our neighbors were caught killing and cannibalizing their children, turning them into bone broth. I knew both of the kids.

Clay and Clara.

I played with them in their yard and ate cookies with them.

Clara told me she wanted to be a nurse when she grew up, and Clay used to tug on my pigtails to get my attention.

They were like siblings to me.

No matter what my parents said, or my teachers, my gut still twisted at the thought of my neighbors doing something like that.

Days after the cops arrived, I saw Mrs. Jenson watering her plants. But when I looked closer, there was no water.

She was just holding an empty hose over her prize roses.

I stood on my tiptoes, peering over our fence. “Mrs. Jenson?”

“I am okay, Elle.”

Her voice didn’t sound okay.

“Are you sure?” I asked. I pointed at the hose grasped in her hand. “You forgot to turn your water on.”

“I know.”

“Mrs. Jenson…” I took a deep breath before I could stop myself. “Did you like killing Clay and Clara?”

“Why, yes,” she hummed. “Of course I did.”

I nodded. “But… didn’t you love them?”

She didn’t reply for a moment before seemingly snapping out of it and turning to me with a bright smile. Too many teeth.

That was the first time I started to question The Urge.

It was supposed to make you feel good, acting like a relief, a weight lifted from your chest. Killing another human being was exactly what the people in our town needed. But what about killing their families and children?

Did it really make them feel good?

Looking at my neighbor, I couldn’t see the joy my Mom described. In fact, I couldn’t see anything.

Her expression was the kind of blank that scared me. It was oblivion staring back, stripped of real human emotion.

Mrs. Jenson’s smile stretched across her lips, like she could sense my discomfort. I noticed she had yet to clean her hands.

Mrs. Jenson’s fingernails were still stained a scary shade of red. Instead of replying, the woman moved toward my fence in slow, stumbling strides.

She was dragging herself, like moving caused her pain—agony I couldn’t understand.

It was exactly what my mother had insisted didn’t exist when killing: pain.

Humanity. All the adults told us we would not feel those things when killing. We wouldn’t feel regret or contempt. We would just feel good.

It was a release, like cold water coming over us. We would never feel better in our lives than when we were killing and our first would be something special.

When Mrs. Jenson’s fingers, still slick with her children’s blood, wrapped around the wooden fence, I found myself paralyzed.

Her manic grin twisted and contorted into a silent wail, and once-vacant eyes popped open like she was seeing me for the very first time. “I want to go home,” she whispered, squeezing the wooden fence until her own fingers were bleeding.

“Can you tell them to let me go home? I would like to see my children. Right now. Do you hear me?”

Mrs. Jenson wasn’t looking at me. Instead, her gaze was glued to thin air.

She was crying, screaming at something only she could see, and for a moment, I wondered if ghosts were real.

I twisted around to see if there were any ghosts, specifically the ones of her children, but there was nothing. Just fall leaves spiraling in the air in pretty waves.

“Mrs. Jenson is sick,” Mom told me once I was sitting at the dinner table, eating melted ice cream. It tasted like barf running down my throat.

I didn’t see Mrs. Jenson after that.

Well, I did.

She looked different, however.

Not freakishly different, though I did notice her hair color had changed.

I remembered it being a deep shade of brown, and when my neighbor returned with an even wider smile, it was more of a blondish white. When I questioned this, Mom told me it was a makeover.

The Urge affected people in different ways, and with Mrs. Jenson, after having her come-down, she had decided on a change. Mom’s words were supposed to be reassuring, adding that there was no reason to be scared of The Urge.

But I didn’t want to be like Mrs. Jenson and have a mental breakdown over my killing. I wanted to be like Mom and have a glass of wine and laugh over the sensation of taking a life.

Mrs. Jenson was my first real glimpse into the negativity of killing.

Dying, for example, wasn’t feared.

From a young age, we had been taught that it was a vital part of life, and dying meant finding peace.

When I first started high school, I expected killing to happen.

Puberty was when The Urge fully blossomed.

Weapons were allowed, but only outside of classes. In other words, under no circumstances must we kill each other in class, but the hallways were a free-for-all.

I saw attempts during my freshman year, but no real killing.

Annalise Duval was infamously known as the junior girl who rejected The Urge and was thrown out of school.

Struck with the stomach flu on the day of her attempted killing, I only knew the story from word-of-mouth.

Apparently, the girl had attempted to kill her mother at home, failed, and then bounded into school, screaming about laughter in the walls and people whispering in her head.

Obviously, my classmate was labeled insane, and judging from her nosebleed, the girl’s body had ultimately rejected The Urge, and her brain was going haywire.

Nosebleeds were a common side effect.

I heard stories from kids saying there was blood everywhere, all over her hands and face, smeared under her chin.

She had been screaming for help, but nobody dared go near her, like rejection was contagious. Annalise survived. Just.

I still saw her on my daily bike ride to school.

She was always sitting cross-legged in front of the forest with her eyes closed, like she was praying.

The rumor was, after being thrown out by her parents, the girl wandered around aimlessly, muttering about whispering people and laughter in her head.

It was obvious her rejection had seriously affected her mental state, but I did feel sorry for her.

On my fourteenth birthday, I confused a swimming stomach and cramps for The Urge, which turned out to be my first period. I remember biking my way home, witnessing a man cut off another guy’s head with an axe.

It’s funny. I thought I would be desensitized to seeing human remains.

I saw the passion in the man’s face as he swung the axe, digging in real hard, chopping right through bone and not stopping, even when intense red splattered his face and clothes.

He didn’t stop until the head hit the ground, and that sent my stomach creeping into my throat.

Then, it was the vacancy in his eyes, the twitching smile as he held the axe like a prize.

Part of me wanted to stay, to see if he had a similar reaction to Mrs. Jenson.

I wanted to know if he regretted what he had done, but once I met his gaze, and his grin widened, the toe of his boot kicking the guy’s motionless body, I turned away and pedaled faster, my eyes starting to water.

It wasn’t long before my lunch was inching its way up my throat, and I was abandoning my bike on the side of the road, choking up undigested mac 'n' cheese onto the steaming tarmac.

I didn’t tell Mom about the man, and more importantly, about my odd reaction to his killing. I wasn’t supposed to feel sick to my stomach. Murder was normal. I wasn’t going to get in trouble for it, so why did seeing it make me sick?

I had been taught as a little kid that visceral reactions were normal, and it was okay to be scared of killing and murder.

However, what our brains told us was right wasn’t always the truth.

Our teacher held up a teddy bear and stabbed into its stuffing with a carving knife.

We all cried out until the teacher told us that the bear didn’t care about dying.

In fact, it was ready to find peace, and it didn’t hurt him.

In other words, we had to ignore what our minds told us was bad.

Mom told me I would definitely start having conflicting feelings before my first killing, but that it was nothing to worry about.

I did worry, though.

I started to wonder if I was going to become the next Annalise Duval.

Maybe the two of us would become friends, sharing our delusions together.

My 17th birthday came and went and still no sign of The Urge.

I noticed Mom was starting to grow impatient. She had a routine of coming to check my temperature every morning, regardless of whether I felt sick or not.

“How are you feeling?” I couldn’t help but notice Mom’s smile was fake.

She dumped my breakfast on a tray in front of me, and when I risked nibbling on a slice of toast, she dropped the bombshell.

“Elle, you are almost eighteen years old,” she said. I noticed her hands were clenched into fists. “Do you feel anything?”

I considered lying, though then I would have to kill someone, and without The Urge, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to do that. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly, propping myself up on my pillows. “Most of the kids in my class—”

She cut me off with a frustrated hiss. “Yes, I know. They have all killed someone and you haven’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “People are starting to notice, Elle.”

She spoke through a smile that was definitely a grimace. “And when people start to notice, they get suspicious. I’ve been on the phone with three different doctors this morning, and all of them want to book you in for an MRI. Just to make sure things are normal.”

“MRI?” I almost choked on the apple I had been chewing.

“Yes.” Mom sighed. “We can’t ignore that things aren’t... abnormal. You are seventeen years old and haven’t had one urge to kill. The minimum for your age is one kill,” she said. “Minimum, Elle. You haven't killed anyone, and when I bring it up, you change the subject.”

I changed the subject because she started asking if I wanted to practice.

I wasn’t sure what “practice” meant, but from the slightly manic look in her eye, my mom wasn’t talking about dolls or teddy bears.

It was normal to practice killing.

There were even people who volunteered to be targets at the local scrapyard.

Most of them were old people.

Joey Cunningham started training to kill when he was twelve years old.

Five years on, Joey had accumulated a total of fourteen kills.

He never failed to remind everyone in almost every class. I could taste the apple growing sour in the back of my mouth.

Mom was just trying to help, and it’s not like I was doing this intentionally.

The idea of going to the scrapyard and killing people, even if they gave me permission to, wasn’t appealing in the slightest.

“I’m okay,” I said, and when Mom’s eyes darkened, I followed that up with, “I mean… I have spare time after class, so…?”

I meant to finish with, “Maybe,” but the word tangled in my mouth when I took a chunk out of the apple, and pain struck.

Throbbing pain, which was enough to send my brain spinning off its axis.

For a moment, my vision feathered, and I was left blinking at my mother, who had become more silhouette than real person.

I was aware of the apple dropping out of my hand, but I couldn’t think straight.

The pain came in waves, exploding in my mouth. When I was sure I could move without my head spinning, I slammed my hand over my mouth instinctively to nurse the pain, except that just made it worse.

Fuck.

Had I chipped my tooth?

Blinking through blurry vision, I knew my mom was there. But so was something else.

As if my reality was splintering open, another seeping through, I suddenly had no idea where I was, and a familiar feeling of fear started to creep its way up my spine. The thing was, though, I knew exactly where I was. I had known this town, this house, my whole life.

So that feeling of fear didn’t make sense.

The more I mulled the thought over in my mind, however, pain striking like lightning bolts, something was blossoming.

It both didn’t make sense, and yet it also did. In the deep crevices of my mind, that feeling was familiar. And I had felt it before. No matter how hard I squinted, though, I couldn’t make it out.

When I squinted again, a sudden shriek of noise rattled in my skull, and it took me a disorienting moment to realize what I could hear was laughter.

Hysterical laughter, which seemed to grow louder and louder, encompassing my thoughts until it was deafening.

Not just that. The walls were swimming, flashing in and out of existence before seemingly stabilizing themselves.

I blinked. Was I… losing my mind?

Maybe this was a side-effect of rejecting The Urge.

“Elle?” Mom’s voice cut through the phantom laughter, which faded, and I blinked rapidly. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

The word was in my mouth before the thought could cross my mind. I shook my head, swallowing. “Yeah, I’m… fine.”

She nodded, though her expression darkened. Scrutinizing. I knew she couldn’t wait to get me under an MRI.

“All right. Finish your breakfast. School starts in an hour.” Mom stopped at the threshold. “I really do think practicing killing will help a lot.

She left, and I rolled my eyes, mimicking her.

I flinched when another wave of laughter slammed into my ears.

Faded, but very much there. Definitely not a figment of my imagination.

Checking in my bedroom mirror, I didn’t have a loose tooth.

Even thinking that, though, panic started to curl in the root of my gut.

My brain wouldn’t shut up on my way to school, my gut was twisting and turning, trying to projectile that meager slice of toast.

Annalise Duval had complained of a loose tooth before she rejected The Urge.

Was that what was going to happen to me?

Was it all because of that stupid apple?

At school, I was surprised to be cornered by a classmate I had said maybe five words to in our combined time at Briarwood High.

Jonas Issacs was one of the first kids in my class to be hit with The Urge, and he almost ended up like Annalise Duval.

I don’t even think it was The Urge.

I think he was driven to kill through emotions, like so many adults had tried to tell us wasn’t real.

Jonas was a confusing case where a teenager had actually blossomed early, or not at all, and struck with his own intent.

Jonas didn’t need The Urge.

Halfway through math class, two years prior, I was daydreaming about the rain.

It rarely rained in Brightwood. Every day was picturesque.

But I did remember rain.

I knew what it felt like hitting my face, dropping into my open mouth and filling my cupped hands. I remembered the sensation on it soaking my clothes and glueing my hair to the back of my neck.

When I asked Mom if it was ever going to rain, though, she got a funny look on her face.

“Sweetie, it doesn’t rain in Brightwood.”

It never rained. So, where had I jumped into puddles?

My gaze was fixed on the windowpane, trying to imagine what a raindrop looked like sliding down the glass, when Jonas Issacs let out an exaggerated sigh behind me.

In front of him, Jessa Pollux had been tapping her pen on her desk.

At first, it wasn’t annoying, but then she kept doing it—tap, tap, tappity tap.

And then it became annoying.

I could tell it was annoying because Jonas politely asked her three times to stop making noise.

“Jessa, stop.” He groaned, half asleep in his arms.

When she continued, his tone hardened. “Can you stop doing that?"

She ignored him and, if anything, tapped louder.

I had grown up knowing that The Urge came without warning, motive, or reason.

It happened whether you liked it or not.

Jonas was different. His case was rare.

This time, he did have a motive, and despite what we were taught, that killing didn’t require a reason and wasn’t driven by negative emotion. Jonas was driven by anger.

This time, I saw it happen clearly.

When I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, I twisted around with the rest of the class to see Jonas halfway off his chair, his fingers wrapped around a knife. He was already smiling, already thrilled with the idea of killing.

The Urge had hit him.

Until that moment, he was a quiet kid who kept to himself.

Jessa knew instantly what he was going to do, even without turning around.

Like an animal, Jonas already had a tight hold of her ponytail and yanked her back.

Though in fight or flight, the girl was screaming and flailing.

She didn’t want to die, I thought.

Was that normal?

Mom always insisted that if it was our time, it was our time. If someone attacked us, even family members, we were to accept it.

I caught the moment her elbow knocked into Jonas’s mouth, just as he drove the blade into her skull.

Until then, Jonas had been consumed by a euphoric frenzy, intoxicated by the dark thrill of killing. It was as if the idea of ending a life had briefly elevated him to a state of pure euphoria.

Growing up, Mom’s stories spoke of finding a twisted pleasure in murder, and for a moment, seeing that look in my classmates eyes, I understood why she described killing like a rush.

It was a lunacy I didn't understand, complete unbridled insanity sending shivers down my spine. This was exactly what Mom was talking about.

She described it like floating on a cloud, lukewarm water pooling underneath her feet.

But just as abruptly as it had enveloped him, that otherworldly glow faded from Jonas’s eyes. He crumpled to his knees, one hand clamped over his mouth, the knife slipping from his grasp.

“That's enough.” Our teacher announced. “Jonas, go and clean yourself up.”

When he didn't respond, she snapped at him.

“Mr Isaacs!”

Then, he did, his gaze flicking to his blood slicked hands.

“Huh?”

He seemed like he was on another planet, swaying back and forth.

There was a moment when I met his half lidded gaze, and he slowly inclined his head, like he was confused. Scared.

When Jonas lifted his head, I saw thick beads of red trickling down his chin, pooling down his fingers.

It was the same look I had seen on Mrs. Jenson’s face.

Jonas blinked again, before noticing the blood.

“Fuck.” He whimpered, his voice muffled.

His eyes, filled with panic, flickered wildly. Without another word, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling toward the classroom door.

When I asked him what happened the next day, he explained it was just an "abnormal reaction" and that he was fine.

But Jonas’s words were strange.

He wasn’t even looking at me, and his smile was far too big. He got his first kill, though, so that gave him bragging rights as the first sophomore to come of age.

Jonas Issacs and Annalise Duval both had similar experiences.

One of them had clearly lost their mind, while the other seemingly avoided it.

And speaking of Jonas, it wasn’t the norm for him to be talking to me at school. But there he was, blocking my way into the classroom.

“Hey.” He quickly side-stepped in front of me when I tried pushing him out of the way.

There had been a time the year before when I considered asking him to prom.

He was a reasonably attractive guy, with reddish dark hair that curled slightly as it peeked out from under a well-worn baseball cap, a crooked smile that was never genuine, always leaning more toward irony.

But then I remembered what he did to Jessa.

I remembered the sound of his knife slicing through skin, cartilage, and bone, and despite her cries, her animalistic wails for him to stop, he kept going, driving it further and further into her skull.

I couldn’t look him in the eye after that.

Jonas inclined his head. “Can we talk?”

“No.”

My mouth was still sore, and I was questioning my sanity, so speaking to Jonas wasn’t really on my to-do list that morning.

Jonas didn’t move, sticking an arm out so I couldn’t get past him. “Do you have toothache by any chance?”

To emphasize his words, he stuck his finger in his mouth, dragging his index finger across his upper incisors.

“Like, bad toothache.” His voice was muffled by his finger. Jonas leaned forward, arching a brow. “You do, don’t you? Right now, you feel like your whole mouth is on fire, and yet you can’t detect any wobblies.”

The guy’s words sent a sliver of ice tingling down my spine. He was right. I hadn’t felt right since biting into that apple.

When I didn’t say anything, his lip twitched into a scowl. “All right. You don’t want to talk.” He raised two fingers in a salute. “Suit yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, mostly to humor him.

He shrugged. “Maybe wait a few days, and then come talk to me, all right?”

Jonas’s words didn’t really hit me until several days later.

I woke up with a throbbing mouth, knelt over the corpse of my mother.

The Urge had finally come. It was something I had been anticipating and fearing my whole life, terrified I wouldn’t get it and would end up ostracized by my loved ones.

I felt like I had done something bad, which was the wrong thing to think.

Killing was good, the words echoed in my mind. Killing was our way of release.

How could I think that when there was a knife clutched between my fingers?

The weapon that had killed her. Hurt her. How was this supposed to make me feel good?

My mother’s eyes were closed.

Peaceful. Like she had accepted her death.

The teeth of the blade dripped deep, dark red, and I knew I should have felt something. Joy or happiness.

Except all I felt was empty and numb, and fucking wrong.

Alone.

I felt despair in its purest form, which began to chew me up from the inside as I lulled from my foggy thoughts.

I wasn’t supposed to scream. I wasn’t supposed to cry, but my eyes were stinging, and I felt like I was being suffocated. I saw flashes in quick succession: a room bumbling with moving silhouettes, and the smell of... coffee. Mom never let me try coffee, and I was sure we never had it in the house.

So, how did I know the feeling of it running down my throat?

Just like in my bedroom, the walls started to swim.

This time, I jumped to my feet and leaped over my mom’s corpse, slamming my hands into them. They were real.

Almost as if on cue, there it was again.

Laughing. Loud shrieks of hysterical laughter thrumming in time with the dull pain pounding in my back tooth.

Blinking through an intense fog choking my mind, my first coherent thought was that yes, Jonas was right.

I did have a loose tooth, and when I was sure of that, I was stuffing my bloody fingers inside my mouth, trying to find it.

I grabbed the knife feverishly, my first thought to cut it out, when there was a sudden knock at the front door.

Slipping barefoot on the blood pooling across our kitchen floor, I struggled to get to the door without throwing up my insides.

Annalise Duval was standing on my doorstep. I had seen her in odd assortments of clothes, but this one was definitely eye-catching.

The girl was wearing a wedding dress that hung off her, the veil barely clinging to the mess of bedraggled curls she never brushed. Blinking at me through straggly blonde hair, she almost resembled an angel. The dress itself was filthy, blood and dirt smeared down the corset, the skirt torn up.

“Hello Elle.” The girl lifted a hand in a wave.

Her smile wasn’t crazed like my classmates had described.

Instead, it was… sad. Annalise’s gaze found my hands slick with my mother’s blood but barely seemed fazed. “Do you want to see the wall people?”

Until then, I had ignored her ramblings. But when I started hearing the laughing, “wall people” didn’t sound so crazy after all.

I nodded.

“Can you hear the laughing?” I asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Mmm.” She twirled in the dress. “That’s how it started for me. Laughing. I heard a looooot of laughing, and then I found the wall people.” I winced when she came close, so close, almost suffocating me.

“Nobody believes me, and it’s sad. I’m just trying to tell people about the wall people, but they label me as crazy. They say something went wrong with my head.”

Annalise stuck two fingers to her temple and pulled the imaginary trigger, her eyes rolling back, like she was mimicking her own death. “I’m not the one who’s wrong. I know about the wall people and the laughing. I know why I murdered my Mom.”

“Annalise,” I said calmly. “Can you tell me what you mean?”

“Hm?”

Her eyes were partially vacant, that one sliver of coherence quickly fading away.

Instead of speaking, I took her arm gently and pulled her down my driveway. “Can you show me what you found?”

Annalise danced ahead of me, tripping in her wedding dress. She cocked her head.

“Did you kill your mother too?” Her lips twitched. “That’s funny. According to the wall people, you’re not supposed to kill someone until the end of seasonal three.”

The girl blinked, giggling, and I forced myself to run after her. Wow, she was fast, even in a wedding dress. Annalise leapt across the sidewalk, twisting and twirling around, like she was in her own world.

Before she landed in front of me, her expression almost looked sane.

“I wonder which season it will be. Will it be Summer? Maybe Fall, or Winter. I guess it’s not up to you, is it? It’s up to The Urge.”

Laughing again, the girl grabbed my hand, her fingernails biting into my skin.

I glimpsed a single drop of red run from her nose, which she quickly wiped with the sleeve of her dress, leaving a scarlet smear.

“Let’s go and see the wall people, Elle,” she hummed.

As her footsteps grew more stumbled, blood ran down her chin, spotting the sidewalk.

I don’t know if coherency ever truly hit Annalise Duval, but knowing she was bleeding, her steps grew quicker, more frenzied, I quickened my own pace.

“Your nose,” was all I could say.

Annalise nodded with a sad smile. “I know!” she said. “Don’t worry, it will stop when I shut up.” Her smile widened.

“But what if I don’t shut up? What if I show you the wall people?”

To my surprise, she leapt forward and flung out her arms, tipping her head back and yelling at the sky. “What if I don’t shut up?” Annalise laughed. “What are the wall people going to do, huh? Are you going to explode my brain?”

When people started to come out of their homes to see what was going on, I dragged her into a run.

“Are you insane?” I hissed.

“Maybe!”

Annalise seemed to be floating between awareness and whatever the fuck The Urge had done to her. “Don’t worry, they’re just peeking.”

“What?”

The girl had an attention span of a rock. Her gaze went to the sky. “They’re going to turn the sun off so I can’t show you.”

Her words meant nothing to me until the clouds started to darken. Just like Annalise had predicted, the sky began to get dark.

Knowing that somehow this supposedly crazy girl knew when things were going to happen only quickened my steps into a run.

“Hey!”

Halfway down the street, Jonas Issacs was riding his bike toward us, which I found odd. Jonas didn’t own a bike. He rode the bus to school.

“Elle!” Waving at me with one hand and grasping the handlebars with the other, Jonas pedaled faster. “Yo! Do you want to hang out?”

“Peeking,” Annalise said under her breath.

Ignoring Jonas, I nodded at Annalise to keep going, though the boy didn’t give up.

We twisted around, and he caught up easily, skidding on the edge of the sidewalk. When he came to an abrupt stop in front of us, his gaze flicked to Annalise.

He raised a brow. “Shouldn’t you be praying in the forest?”

The girl recoiled like a cat, hissing, “Peeking!”

Jonas shot me a look. “Of all the people you could have made friends with, you chose Annalise Duval?” His eyes softened when I ignored him and pulled the girl further down the road. Jonas followed slowly on his bike.

“Where are you going anyway? Isn't it late?”

It was 4pm.

I decided to humor him. “We’re going to see the wall people.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” I turned my attention to him. “You asked me if I had a toothache, right?”

His expression crumpled. “I did?”

I noticed Annalise was clingier with him around, sticking to my side.

Every time he moved, she flinched, tightening her grip on my arm.

The girl was leading us into the forest, and I swore, the closer we got to the clearing, the more townspeople were popping up out of nowhere. An old woman greeted us, followed by a man with a dog, and then a group of kids from school. Annalise entangled her fingers in mine, pulling me through the clearing.

Jonas followed, hesitantly, biking over rough ground. “Once again, I think this is a bad idea,” he said in a sing-song voice. “We should go back.”

When it was too dangerous for his bike, he abandoned it and joined my side.

“Elle, the girl is insane,” Jonas hissed. “What are you even doing? What is this going to accomplish except potentially getting lost?”

“I want to know if she’s telling the truth,” I murmured back.

He scoffed. “Telling the truth? Look at this place!” He spread his arms, gesturing to the rapidly darkening forest. “There’s nothing here!”

“No.” Annalise ran ahead, staggering over the tricky ground. “No, it’s right over here!”

She was still fighting a nosebleed, and her words were starting to slur. The girl twisted to Jonas. “You’re peeking,” she spat, striding over to him until they were face to face.

“Stop peeking,” she said, her fingers delving under her wedding skirt where she pulled out a knife and pressed it to his throat. “If you peek again, I will cut you open.”

Jonas nodded. “Got it, Blondie. No peeking.”

Annalise didn’t move for a second, her hands holding the knife trembling. “You’re not going to tell me I’m crazy again,” she whispered.

“You’re not crazy,” Jonas said dryly.

“Say it again.”

“You’re not crazy!” He yelped when she applied pressure to the blade. “Can you stop swinging that around? Jeez!”

Annalise shot me a grin, and it took a second for me to realize.

Jonas was scared of the knife.

He was scared of dying, which meant, whether he liked it or not, the boy had, in fact, not gone through with The Urge.

I thought the girl was going to slash Jonas’s throat open in delight, but instead, she looped her arm in his like they were suddenly best friends.

“Come on, Elle!” She danced forward, pulling the boy with her. “We’re closeeeee!”

I wasn’t sure about that.

What we were, however, was lost.

When the three of us came to a stop, it was pitch black, and I was struggling to see in front of me. Annalise, however, walked straight over to thin air and gestured to it with a grin. “Tah-da!” Spluttering through pooling red, she let out a laugh.

“See!”

Jonas, who was still uncomfortably pressed to her no matter how hard he strained to get away, shot me a look I could barely make out.

“I’m sorry, what did I say? That we were going to get lost? That Annalise is certifiably crazy and is probably going to kill us?”

At first, I thought I really was crazy. Maybe Annalise’s condition was contagious.

I could hear it again. Laughing.

But this time, it was coming from exactly where Annalise was pointing. When the girl slammed her hand into thin air, there was a loud clanging noise that sounded like metal.

Slowly, I made my way toward it, and when my hands touched sleek metal, what felt like the corners of a door, more pain struck my upper incisors.

“Holy shit.” Jonas was pressing himself against the door, then slamming his fists into it. “The crazy bitch was right.”

His words hung in my thoughts on a constant cycle, as we delved into what should have been forest.

After all, we had been standing in the middle of nowhere. The laughter was deafening when I stepped over the threshold, and I had to slap my hands over my ears to block it out. Through the invisible door, however, was exactly what Annalise had described: wall people.

All around us were television screens, and on those screens were people. Faces.

They were not part of the laughter. The laughter was mechanical and wrong, rooted deep inside my skull. The faces that stared down at us were men and women, some teens, and even younger children.

Annalise and Jonas were next to me, their heads tipped back, gazes glued to the screens. Not the ones I was looking at.

The ones on tiny computer monitors.

When I finally tore my eyes from our audience, I began to see what made Jonas stiffen up next to me. One screen in particular, showed his face.

He was younger, maybe a year or two. No, I thought, something slimy creeping up my throat. It was from when he had killed that girl. His hands clasped in his lap were still stained and slick with Jessa Pollux’s blood.

The Jonas on the screen was far more relaxed, casually leaning back with his feet propped up on the table.

His hair was shorter, and his clothes were more formal than what I was used to seeing him in.

I usually saw him in jeans and hoodies, but this Jonas wore a crisp white collared shirt.

Something hung around his neck, a thin strip of black fabric with a shiny card at the end, reminding me of some kind of badge.

“Why exactly have you signed up for this program?” a man’s voice crackled off-screen.

"Duh." Jonas held up his scarlet hands, a grin twisting on his lips. His arrogant smile twisted my gut. "So I can get my Darkroom rep back."

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "That is going to happen, right? I don’t do this shit for free, and I’ve got one million followers to impress, man. Darkroom loves me."

Jonas scoffed, crossing one left over the other. "Even if I did go too far that one time, which wasn’t even my fault. What are you guys, fucking Twitch?"

“You are correct,” the man said. “Darkroom does benefit from its influencers. Our program aims to help satisfy certain… needs by broadcasting them right here.”

He paused. “You have killed five people before signing up for Darkroom, correct? Your parents?”

“Parents and brother,” Jonas's lips pricked into a smile. “I gutted them just to see what was inside, but of course, my TikTok got taken down by all the freaks in the comments trying to cancel me.” He rolled his eyes. “They worship you, call you a god, swear they’ll do anything for you-- and then fuck you."

I flinched when he leaned forward, his gaze penetrating the camera. This guy knew exactly how to act in front of one.

The slight incline of his head, trying to get the best angle.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course, young man.”

“Have you ever been called a God? Because it's a rush.” He laughed. “I made stupid videos, and these people worshipped me. They loved me."

Jonas clucked his tongue. “Buuuut the moment I show them my real self, they turn on me and try to end my career.”

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, glancing at the camera. “And then I found you guys! Who pay me to be my real authentic self. Now, how could I decline an offer like that?”

“And,” the man cleared his throat, “you will keep killing? We are aware the initial implant impacted your brain quite badly. In the subdued state, you will keep killing, as the so-called ‘urge’ says. However, in reality, we will be sending signals to your brain which will make you commit murder.”

“All right, I'll do it.”

“Are you sure? We couldn’t help noticing during your first kill, you seemed to… well, react in a way we haven’t seen before. It's possible there could be a potential fault.”

He cocked his head, like a puppet cut from strings. “Did the comments like it?”

“Well, yes—”

“Good.” Jonas held out his arm. “Do it again. And do it right this time. As long as I’m getting 40K every appearance, I’m good. You can slice my brain up all you want; I’m getting paid and followers. So.” His gaze found the camera.

“What are you waiting for?”

When the screen went black, then flickered to a bird's-eye view, and finally a close-up of my house, I felt my legs give way.

As if on impulse, I prodded at my mouth and felt for the loose tooth.

“That…” Jonas spoke up, his voice a breathy whisper. His eyes were still glued to the screen, confusion crumpling his expression.

“That… wasn’t me! Well, it was me... but I don’t… I don’t remember that!”

To my surprise, he turned to me, and I saw real fear in his eyes.

“Elle.” He gritted out, “that is not me.”

Instead of answering him, I turned away when alarm bells started ringing, and the room was suddenly awash in flashing red light.

“Peeking!” Annalise squeaked, hiding behind me.

Ignoring her, I focused on Jonas.

Or whoever the hell he was.

I slammed the door shut, throwing myself against it.

“You need to knock my tooth out.” I told him. “Now.”

The modeling industry is competitive. Everyone knows that.

And if they say it isn't, they're fucking lying.

If you say you wouldn't tear someone down to climb up that proverbial ladder, you're either naive or stupid, or both.

A scout approached me with a six-figure deal in a rundown McDonald's while I was halfway through my chocolate milkshake.

I was 21 years old.

A predatory smile split her scarlet lips apart. At the time, I didn't see a shark.

I saw a girl who was finally looking at me.

She told me straight. No contracts or waiting games. No auditions. Straight up:

“I like your face, babe.”

Then she slid over a polished card and took a long sip of her own shake, kissed her teeth, and said, “Sell us your face.” She stood, grabbed her sequin bag, and shot me one last smile. “Call me, honey bun.”

What did I say? Fuck yes.

Milkshake shot back up my throat in a slimy bile.

I was breathless, somehow, as if all of the air had been sucked from my lungs.

I ran after her. Desperate, yes. But good enough for her. “Yes,” I said, right there and then in the middle of McDonald's. I could already see the curl of her smile, even with her back turned. “Yes! I'll do it.”

Yes.

That one word catapulted me from my mother’s run-down one-bedroom apartment straight to Orange County.

Suddenly, the sky was so much brighter, and the people were beautiful

I was invited to parties to network and met influencers who treated me like a friend, who made me drink cocktails, who insisted on me doing lines in the bathroom. “You’re gorgeous, Noah,” the woman who introduced herself as Nancy told me from the front seat of her Tesla.

“The natural kind. You don’t need work done. Honestly, you’re a huge investment!”

She laughed. “Do you know how many people I manage? How many guys your age need thousands of dollars of work just to get that cute little smile?”

She turned to me, one hand on the wheel, her manicured fingers pricking my chin. “You’re one in a million, honey bun.”

I laughed too. “Thanks.” 

“Don't say thanks.” Her tone turned surprisingly cold. “It's cut throat, sweetie. You won't get fuck all without taking from others. You're too nice, kid.” Nancy’s gaze strayed on the road ahead. 

Her lip curved. “You're worth it, Noah. Don't let anyone take that away from you.”

This time, I didn't laugh along. I felt kind of sick. “Do you seriously think I got in this position because I'm talented? Because I'm smart? Because of fucking luck?” 

She shot me a grin. Shark. “Nope! Because I got rid of everyone else.” 

Her words sunk in like poison. I was reborn inside that car. 

Suddenly, I was the new name grazing headlines, the new “it” boy scattered across social media.

Every night was another trip.

Ben, another model, introduced me to the night life. Girls. Influencers.

Sex with strangers.

Intoxicating. That's how I would describe it.

Like injecting euphoria directly into my veins. 

Then he appeared out of nowhere, during a photo shoot, led by Nancy. A man who was hotter than me. More attractive.

Not fair. When she realized my body wasn't as perfect as she thought, I had weekly abdominal etchings. Just to keep my abs.

This guy was more naturally attractive, a sculpted fucking mannequin with a torso cut to perfection. “Guys,” Nancy grinned wide. This time, I saw her shark smile. Her fingers were wrapped around his elbow. “This is Callum!” 

Callum met my gaze. Brown eyes. Warm. Naive. Stupid. His stupid fucking smile boiled my blood. 

“Hey.” He waved, a little shy. He offered his hand, and I felt a little sick. My stomach fluttered. “Noah, right? I love your stuff, man.” 

I wore my professional smile, drinking him up and down. “Hey, man.” I offered him a high-five, and he clumsily missed it. “I'm kinda working.” I nodded to the photographer to continue, but Nancy was already sliding in front of me. 

“Actually, Noah,” she said, “we’re using Callum for this shoot now!” She trilled, and her introductory speech haunted me. "Don't worry, babe! You'll still get paid!” 

“No.” I spat out. “No, this is MY shoot.” 

“Noah.” Nancy’s tone splintered. “Leave. Honey bun.” 

Callum’s mouth curled into a smirk. He didn't speak, drinking ME up and down. And at that moment, the realization hit me.

Then again, when I was drunk, my head pressed against cold porcelain. 

I spat.

I want him. 

I spat again.

Dead.

I stood, my head spinning, my stomach fluttering. Fucking butterflies. I want his face. I want his skin. I fucking want him. 

“Noah?” Ben gave me a look when I left the stall. The walls were moving.

So was his face. 

“Are you… good?”

”Yes”, I heard myself say. 

”Yeah, yeah, of course I am, broshsnabdhajansbjsbsvava—”

Somehow, I ended up back inside the modeling studio.

Callum was alone, sitting on the floor cross-legged, glaring at his phone.

Somehow, my hands were wrapped around a blade. I started forward, and then fucking tripped.

Fuck.

The knife flew out of my hands, and Callum’s head snapped up. “Noah?”

I didn't speak. I snatched up the blade. Then I stabbed him. Once. Blood spurted from his mouth. But he was laughing.

Prick. I stabbed him again. Twice.

His smile widened as he went limp, and I found myself entranced by his torso, the ripple of his abs. Somehow, the blade plunged into his flesh, and I was laughing, finally, caught up in euphoria.

Fuck. I wanted him.

His skin was stretchy, a fleshy lump curled between my fingers.

But it was when his eyes were closed, and I was standing in streaming red.

My gut fluttered. My heart started to pound. I dropped to my knees.

Did I… want to be him?

Or did I want him?

Fuller stepped towards Nick.

It was the first time I’d seen him as a commander, not a teacher.

“I said, stand up straight, soldier.”

“What a fucking asshole,” the guy holding me hissed. His body went rigid when Nick obeyed, his palm pressing harder over my mouth, like he knew I was about to lose it.

I forced myself still, swallowing the urge to squeeze my eyes shut.

Nick stood motionless, arms by his sides, staring straight ahead into nothing. When Fuller pulled out a crumpled tissue to wipe the boy’s bloody nose, my stomach turned.

That smug, triumphant look, the same one he always wore in class contorted his expression.

He circled Nick like a predator, inspecting every inch of him.

Nick trembled, eyes flickering, lips quivering, whatever humanity was left inside him was slipping away.

Fuller didn’t care.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” he said, almost amused.

The man chuckled. “Even while suffering the first signs of defection, what appears to be a hemorrhage, you’re still standing. Impressive.”

Nick didn’t respond. I watched rivulets of red trail down the curve of his throat.

“One of our strongest minds,” Fuller said, pride swelling in his voice. 

He turned to the soldier beside him.

“This boy marks the beginning of something extraordinary. I want every defective recruit that’s still breathing brought in. He’s part of a batch with potential. Proof lies in his resilience, his ability to withstand defection.”

He shoved Nick, but my friend didn’t even flinch.

“If processing failed the first time, we’ll keep at it until it doesn’t. Recruit 13 is an anomaly we welcome. Run another cleanse to make sure the former personality has been fully erased.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nodded.

Fuller folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at Nick. “Recruit 13. How are you feeling right now?”

“I feel nothing,” Nick said flatly.

“Uh-huh.” Fuller stepped closer, until they were almost touching. “What about thoughts? Anyone come to mind? Friends? Family? You were quite vocal before we purged that personality. Do you still want to tear me apart, Nicholas?”

His tone turned mocking. “What was it you said when I strapped you down and gave you anesthesia you didn’t deserve? Ah, yes. You were going to rip out my eyes, stick them up my ass, and make me eat them.”

A sick satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He knew Nick would obey now, no matter what. Fuller shoved him back again.

“Such a sharp tongue, Nicholas,” he sneered. “I hope you know I enjoyed severing it from your filthy mouth.”

He leaned in, voice low and cruel.

“And I enjoyed stripping every independent thought that ever dared bloom in that hollow brain of yours.”

Fuller tapped Nick’s head with a smile. “You were born to be an Aceville soldier. And might I say, you’re my favorite one yet.”

The teacher seemed to revel in antagonizing the boy, yet I couldn’t ignore the flicker of urgency in his tone.

He wasn’t just enjoying the power he held over Nick, he was ensuring that every trace of the boy was erased.

“I said speak!” he snapped.

Nick answered through a mouthful of glistening, pooling red. “I have no thoughts, sir.”

Fuller’s grin made my stomach turn. “Does the name Benjamin Castor mean anything to you?”

This time he leaned in uncomfortably close.

The real Nick would have spat in his face.

“Your father hated you from the start,” he murmured. “As for your mother, the moment you were born, we slaughtered and then incinerated her.” He stepped back.

“Beth wasn’t on the same page as us. I worked with her. Agent Carter was one of our best. She could put a bullet in any kid’s skull without hesitation, but somehow, we lost her to you.” 

Fuller’s lip curled in disgust. “That’s right. Beth bonded with you while you were still inside her. I’d never seen anything like it. She actually cared for you, the genetically modified fetus we implanted in her. She saw you as more than a tool, more than a cog in our machine. She saw you as her son.”

He sneered. “A shame you survived the programming. Mother and son could have been reunited, the traitor and her failed experiment.”

My teacher’s words cut deep. Nick’s hope had been to meet the mother he never knew. 

Fuller wanted to see if any part of him would break, if anything remained to purge. 

He shoved Nick, but Nick didn’t budge. “You weren’t even born yet, and somehow you managed to turn one of our own against us.”

His laugh was sharp and bitter. “And what about Elizabeth Carter, your pathetic mother, who let emotion get the better of her and paid for it with her blood?"

“I feel nothing,” Nick said.

But I caught it, the hesitation, the small pause between his words.

Fuller didn’t notice. He straightened, giving a satisfied nod.

“Interesting. I thought some part of him might hold on, maybe wouldn't be affected by the new serum. But recruit 13 is empty. He’s defecting. Which means he needs to be processed immediately.”

His brows pinched. Then he twisted and swung a punch at Nick’s face.

I expected his fist to land and Nick to hit the ground, but my friend moved faster than I’d ever seen, springing to life. Only it wasn’t the kind of awareness I wanted.

It was whatever they had put inside him, the so-called sleeper, triggered by a direct attack. Nick was quick, his face blank as he ducked and grabbed the instructor by the neck, lifting him clean off the floor.

It didn’t seem real. Just weeks ago, Nick could barely carry me for a piggyback ride.

Now he was something else entirely, exactly what Fuller wanted him to be. The man let out a shriek of laughter, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yep,” said the guy holding me, pulling me down behind a tree. I could smell the metal from his gun as it brushed my ear. “Fuller’s just as batshit crazy as I remember, and he calls himself an agent?”

“Fascinating!” My teacher, still in Nick’s stranglehold, choked out. “This one is defecting, and his reaction times are perfect!”

He barked at Nick to let him go, and the boy’s grip around his neck loosened, allowing him to hit the ground. The teacher was barely fazed before going in again.

This time, he went for the kill, shoving the boy backward with one hand while reaching into his jeans with the other to pull out his glock.

Again, it was like watching a movie.

With vacant eyes and movements driven purely by reflex, Nick disarmed the weapon, slammed the teacher to the ground, and pressed the barrel into the back of his skull.

The teacher was playing with his toy. 

Next, Nick was ordered to disarm another soldier, this time without using his hands. To my shock, he managed it. With a simple jerk of his hand, the magnum slammed into the flesh of his palm.

As if driven by an invisible force.

“Okay, you’ve got to admit, that’s impressive,” the British guy whispered. “They must have upgraded the specs. I’m pretty sure our class never got whatever I’m looking at.”

After a moment, Fuller composed himself. “If his brain can submit again, and we manage to preserve the body, we’ve struck gold with this year’s recruits.” He straightened his jacket.

“Yes, we may have lost many due to errors,” he continued, eyes gleaming, “but our survivors? Look at them! I’ve never seen strength and reaction times like this, not to mention psychic abilities on par with our 2018 class. If we can capture every defector still breathing and reprogram them, this year will be our best yet. Nicholas is living proof.”

The boy holding me groaned. “Yeah, I’m not listening to this shit. That man is a psycho.”

When he dragged me back, my body reacted automatically. 

“No!” I tried to scream into his hand, but he was too fast.

I wanted to say I wouldn’t leave Nick to that fate again, but his hold on me was impossible to break. 

He pulled me into the trees once more. Twisting my head, I caught a glimpse of Nick being led away with the others.

I struggled all the way to the clearing, where he finally dropped me into a heap before letting out an exasperated breath.

I hit the ground face first, getting a mouthful of dirt and leaves.

When I lifted my head, a familiar blur of golden curls lay next to me. Bobby. She was on her back, eyes shut peacefully, scarlet trails staining her chin.

Bobby was still defecting.

“Sam.”

A familiar voice sounded, like wind chimes. “You don’t have to be so rough.”

When I glanced up, the blonde I thought I’d hallucinated earlier was standing over me.

Her face was unmistakable, pretty features carved into perfect, porcelain skin that was paler, a lot paler. 

She looked older, though only by a few years, early twenties maybe.

Her hair fell in unbrushed ringlets that she had to sweep out of her eyes, no longer in the childish ponytail I remembered from all those years ago. 

I was still seeing her younger self.

I had never forgotten her, Clara Danvers, sprinting across rough tarmac, frenzied, wide eyes. Those eyes had once been full of childlike fear. When I looked into them now, they were hollow, haunted.

For a moment, I was caught between wrapping my arms around the girl I’d thought was dead and jumping up to grab Bobby and run back to Nick. I needed to know he was okay. To know that he truly had been hesitating. That he was still in there somewhere.

I was shaking when the girl loomed over me, her arms crossed over a ratty jacket. She moved slowly, like I was a rabid animal. I wanted to scream at her and the guy for taking me away from Nick. But before I could, she held out a hand for me to grab.

Clara’s smile was kind. “You’re Adeline, right?”

I managed to nod, letting her pull me to my feet.

In the dim light of the afternoon bleeding through the trees, I could finally see the guy. 

I could tell just by looking at him that his younger self had been on the varsity team. Sam was an older version of Nick, with the same hollow eyes as Clara that aged him well past twenty-two. 

Blinking rapidly through the rays of sunlight seeping through the trees, I glimpsed short reddish curls slipping from beneath a baseball cap.

His features were kind, though a sardonic twist lingered in his lips.

I could tell that, once, this boy had laughed. Maybe even been the class joker.

It was hard to look at him without noticing the gnarly scar that sliced below his left eye and cut across his nose.

He lifted a hand in a sarcastic wave. “Thanks for biting me,” he muttered. Sam’s British accent was a lot stronger now that he wasn’t whispering. “Twice.”

Ignoring him, I shuffled over to Bobby. Her nosebleed was getting worse, I thought, and I knew what that led to.

But when I gingerly grazed the tips of my fingers under my own nose, I realized I was no longer bleeding. Not just that, the thunderclap headaches that had sent my thoughts spiraling were gone.

When I crouched in the dirt and pulled Bobby to my chest, Clara knelt beside me. “I’d keep your distance,” she said softly. “Right now, that’s not who you think it is.”

I got to my feet, struggling to stay upright. “Then who, or what, is she?”

“Right now?” Sam shrugged. “A defecting soldier.” He jutted his chin. “Just like your mate.”

“No,” I said, even when yes burned on my tongue. “No, she wouldn’t—”

“He’s right, Adeline,” Clara murmured. When I turned to look at her, her smile had curved into a frown. She folded her arms across her chest. “You need to understand that right now, that isn’t Robyn Atwood. At least, it won’t be until she dies.”

“What?” I whispered, a chill creeping down my spine. “What are you talking about?”

The two of them exchanged glances, and after what looked like a telepathic conversation between them, Clara sighed.

“Adeline, she’s going to be okay,” she said softly. “As long as her Zero is active, she’s fine.”

My hand grazed the back of my neck, and I was reminded of the thing inside me.

Mr. Fuller had called it that, a Zero. Whatever was inside Nick and Bobby. The entirety of my class.

Sam groaned and flopped onto the ground, picking up a stick and snapping it in half. 

Pulling resting his head in his arms, he sighed, a small, unguarded gesture that revealed the boy still inside him, the one who had been forced to grow up too fast.

“Oh, boy.” Sam shot Clara a crooked smile, resting his chin on his knee. “You're better at explaining. You know I suck at describing shit.” 

Clara nodded. “Fine.” 

She plopped down next to him, her dark brown eyes tracing the sky above us, distant and wistful. 

“I guess we should start from the beginning.” 

Her smile was bright, but her eyes betrayed her; she did not want to revisit what came next. 

“Like you, Adeline,” she said quietly, “I was a defect.”

She tilted her chin toward Sam. “We both were. They said my brain couldn’t handle it.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Suddenly I was back in the facility, my head pounding, blood dripping down my chin, my hand tangled in Nick’s. 

Her brain couldn’t handle it, Mr. Fuller had said with that smug smile.

Clara’s throat-clearing snapped me back. Her eyes had darkened.

Her head tipped back,  gaze flicking to the cloudless sky. “You already know the gist of it, so I won’t go into detail. Mr Fuller, my mother, and everyone I've ever known…” she sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut. “They killed my friends.” 

Her voice wavered. “There were thirty-six seniors in our class, and we’re the only ones who made it out.”

She steepled her fingers, a small, habitual motion that looked like something she did to keep herself from falling apart. Clara was her own anchor.

She pulled her knees to her chest, all of her trembling, like she was back there.

“They lined us up. Like you, we were just kids thinking we were at some kind of summer camp.” She shot me a grin. “I saw you that day.” Clara’s eyes filled with tears.

“Adeline Calstone watching me from the shadows. I didn't want to scare you. You were a kid, and I guess…” Clara let out a breath. “I guess part of me figured maybe summer camp wouldn't be so bad.” 

I revelled in the way she held herself together; a paper doll, fragile, fraying at the edges. But refusing to tear. “So, I let the teacher grab me.”

For a moment, I thought she would manage to tell her story without breaking.

“I had a boyfriend,” Clara whispered. Her eyes were faraway again. Lingering on the trees. “His name was Jonas.” Clara's tone splintered, breaking into a hiss.

“He was standing next to me. Jonas, my first love. My first kiss. He was my first everything. We planned to take a year out, travel the world. See every country. Make memories before going to college on opposite sides of the world.” 

Clara exhaled shakily. “I didn’t even have time to process it. One moment, Jonas had his arms around me, promising we’d escape. His head was on my shoulder, and he was screaming. He told them to stop, told them he surrendered.”

I watched her body jerk, her fingers trailing up and down her arm, like she could still feel him.

“The next, I was covered in his blood. Jonas was everywhere. He was in my hair, I could taste him in my mouth.”

Clara giggled. She was breathless suddenly, grasping onto Sam’s arm, squeezing until he murmured to her. “Jonas tasted like spaghetti sauce, and he felt like nothing.” Her voice cracked. 

“His brains were pooling beside me, Adeline, and they didn’t care. They just kept killing my friends.”

Her voice broke into a cry. “I begged them. I told them to fucking kill me too.”

“Hey.” Sam’s eyes were soft. “Hey, take it easy. What did we say? Not all at once.”

Clara nodded. “I’m okay.”

The girl sniffled, wiping at her nose. “Two of the soldiers were talking. I was the only one left standing. They were already ordering the others to start disposing of the bodies, and in that moment, I realized I had only two choices: stay and wait to die, or take a chance and run for my life.” 

Her smile was haunted. “I ran. I ran from them. Jonas, Liv, and Isabelle. I watched them drag away the bodies of my friends. Then I followed the others, the blues and purples, into the facility.”

Her relief was mine too. Sitting in that uncomfortable silence following her retelling the murder of her friends, was overwhelming. “That’s when I found Sam.” She drew in a shaky breath.

“Sam was alive. He was dragged right off the bus when he punched a teacher in the face, and knocked out.”

Clara let out a short, bitter laugh. “He was always getting into fights at school. I guess this time it saved him. They drugged him so he wouldn’t wake up and just threw him on the floor.” 

She sniffled again. “Sam was barely responsive, lying in a pile of our dead friends. But he was okay. He wanted to go back, wanted to take all of them out. Get our revenge.” She shot him a watery grin.

“Let’s just say Sam was pretty vocal under some serious anesthesia.” Clara’s smile faded. “I took a chance. Sam was the only one left, the only red that survived, and I lifted him into my arms and ran.”

Sam nodded, tracing his scar. He was smiling. “Princess Clara Danvers, who teased me in sophomore year, had saved me.” He pointed at himself. “Me. The damsel in distress.”

His smile curled. “You did drop me twice, though. I’m blaming my sudden influx of headaches on you.”

Clara gave him a playful shove, and comforted by her presence, he shifted closer, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. Sam leaned in, reaching for her hand. On the surface, they didn’t match: freak and valedictorian, outcast and princess. 

But somehow, they fit. 

I could see exactly what Sam was doing, making it easier for her to tell their story. 

I wondered if he was all Clara needed to stay afloat, to keep her breathing, to keep her head above water, just like Nick had been for me. 

When I lost Bobby, when she was taken inside to be processed, I had clung to Nick with everything I had. 

“Anyway,” Clara said, wringing her hands in her lap. “We got out.” She gestured behind her. 

“There’s nothing back there but a dead end. A ravine. Back then, we thought…” Her voice choked. 

“We thought it was the best choice. My mom wasn’t real. My family. My town. None of it was. It was all a setup for some messed-up experiment. We were completely alone. Nobody was coming for us and if they were, it was only for our fucking body parts."

Clara's gaze found the dirt.

"Eventually, Mom found us. She told me they wanted my heart to give to some kid in the real world. She said they had to take it while it was still healthy, before my body started rejecting the program. They wanted Sam’s organs for a full transplant.” 

Her hand went to her chest. 

“It was my heart,” she said softly, and I couldn’t help but notice her use of the past tense. “I didn’t care if I wasn’t supposed to be real, if we were just skins and pretty faces for their soldiers, and I was nothing but body parts ready for donation. They weren’t taking me. And they weren’t taking Sam.”

I was hit with a wave of realization. “You jumped.”

Sam nodded. “Wouldn't you?"

“The ravine wasn’t what we were expecting,” Clara said softly. “We expected to.. well, we expected to die.”

Sam leaned back on his elbows with a sigh. “Imagine our surprise when we didn’t get obliterated on sharp rocks and ended up in the sea.”

His laugh was easy, and I found myself drawn to it, a welcome distraction from their story. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” he added, tipping his head back and frowning at the sky. 

“Aceville’s an island. Those psychos bought it and built it to look exactly like a normal American town.”

I waited for Clara to continue, but her gaze seemed distant. Sam, noticing, took over. 

“Anyway,” he said, glancing at her, his eyebrows knitting together with concern. 

“Since we weren’t that far out, we swam to shore. And it turns out there’s an entire place built for this experiment. The people running it live there with their families, including kids, teenagers, and the elderly. It’s a whole community devoted to creating us.”

“Aceville soldiers are made here and then sent off to train as the country’s top defense.” He chuckled. “They really trust eighteen-year-old, brainwashed super soldiers with the nuclear codes.”

Clara shoved him. “Shush.” She rolled her eyes at me before continuing.

“We found an old abandoned house. I think it was here long before they built the research facility or the apartment blocks for the workers’ families.” Her expression darkened. “But we were dying,” Clara whispered. “We were vomiting blood, with headaches like thunderclaps. Bleeding out of every orifice–”

“Clara.” Sam rolled his eyes. “I've just had my lunch.” 

She elbowed him. “We were too weak to find food or water, so that night we just lay on bug-infested floorboards, waiting to die. The roof had caved in, so we could see the stars.” The girl smiled faintly. 

“It was… pretty. Peaceful. Painful. I remember having to gag my screams, rolling back and forth as my body bled out. But it was so human, and I would give anything to feel it again.”

Clara's voice faltered. “That night, I knew I was going to die. I told Sam I loved him. I fell asleep knowing my heart was still in my chest and that it was still mine.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “I was at peace knowing I could die far away from that awful place.”

“And surprise, surprise?” Sam sent me a smirk.

I frowned at him. “You didn’t?” I caught myself. “You didn’t die, I mean.”

He shook his head. “Oh no, we did.”

His words sent my thoughts into a tailspin.

“I don’t understand.”

“Duh.” The boy’s smile was teasing. “Haven’t you worked it out yet? We died.” He threw a branch at me. “You see dead people.”

“Ignore him.” Clara turned and prodded him in the cheek.

“Ow.” His response was more sarcastic than pained.

“But he’s not wrong.” Clara gave me a weak, uneasy smile. “First of all, it’s not technically dying,” she said.

“Think of it more like rebooting. The defections did kill us, yes, but we were brought back. The thing in our necks, what they call a Zero, was implanted for one purpose. Humans naturally die, right? We all have an expiration date.”

She drew idle circles in the dirt. “Aceville soldiers don’t. Not because of who we are, but because of what they made us for. If we’re shot in the head, we come back minutes later, stronger than before."

"Mr. Fuller was right. They strip away our humanity so it doesn’t hurt. When you die and come back enough times, it stops mattering. In a way, it’s merciful, the mind control, I mean. It dulls everything."

Something was wrong. I realized it too late.

I should have seen it earlier, when Bobby was squeezing the breath from my lungs, and somehow, I still had breath left to take.

“That’s what happened to you.”

Clara’s voice softened. “Earlier, when you were defecting, you died, Adeline. It happened to Sam and me, and to the few kids we’ve managed to save. We’re rare cases, those who defect and come back before they can incinerate us.”

Her tone hardened. “That’s why they get rid of us the moment our brains start to turn.”

“Because we’ll rise again,” Sam added. “Trust me, it’s not as Hollywood blockbuster as you think. In the movies people come back in seconds. Initially, it takes a while for us to fully revive. You took nearly an hour.” He offered a smirk.

“We don’t eat brains, so stop looking at me like that. No superpowers, unfortunately. We’re like Captain America before he was made into Captain America.”

“But…” I was struggling to take in his words. All I could see were my own fingers slick with Nick’s blood, and the tiny device I’d crushed between my index and forefinger. “My… my friend—”

He cut me off. “Your mate Nick? Well, as for the others, it’s a different story. He was a success initially, before he defected, so yeah, he’s nothing like our lame asses. They’ve definitely upgraded their programming. Nick’s more of a Black Widow, I’d say. The kid’s got moves.”

Sam caught my eye, his lip curving into a pout.

“Sorry. I know I should be relieved that my brain can’t compute with the program, but come on, I want superpowers too.”

“They’re not superpowers,” Clara said stiffly.

Sam shrugged. “And since their programs didn’t work on us, we kept our minds, rendering us walking corpses."

Their words didn’t feel real.

I was dead.

No, I thought, even when I knew they were right. I had stopped bleeding. Stopped defecting. The headaches were gone.

“No,” I heard myself say. “No, I’m alive.”

Though it came out more like a question.

Clara’s smile was sad. “That’s what I thought too,” she said. “Until I…” She trailed off, her hand pressing over her chest.

I wanted to copy her, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. If I did, if I placed my hand over my heart and felt nothing, I’d start screaming and never stop.

My mind snapped back to Kenji Leonhart, his body draped over a soldier’s back. The blood running down the back of his shirt. He wasn’t a red.

Which meant he was a blue or a purple, one of the first to defect, one of the first kids who wasn’t a red to be incinerated.

If only Nick and I had gone back for him. Then we might have been able to save him. But how could we have known? How could we have known that he’d come back?

I couldn’t help it. My eyes were stinging, but the tears didn't come.

“Am I even human?”

Clara grabbed Sam’s hand and squeezed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t felt my heartbeat in so long. And yet I age. I can smell and taste. Eating and sleeping are hard. I can only manage coffee right now, but I don’t get tired. I should feel human, right?”

She tried to smile. “It’s like my body is pretending to be alive so I don’t freak out. I can breathe, but it doesn’t feel natural when I pay attention to inhaling and exhaling.” She sighed. “Really, it’s cruel. I feel synthetic pain, but it’s not real pain.”

She laughed, though it came out choked. “I guess the device is supposed to mimic real human pain, though I don’t understand why they’d do that to a bunch of brain-dead super soldiers. We’re supposed to be mindless. Most of the time, I can deal with it. But it never goes away.”

The girl lay her head on Sam’s shoulder again, grasping for his hand, and I felt that connection between them.

“That feeling, Adeline. Knowing I’m dead, knowing the only thing keeping me going is the device in the back of my neck and the program in my brain that doesn’t work. My body’s a puppet, and without it, I’d drop dead for real.”

“Is there a way to… stop it?” I managed to get out.

“Defecting?” Sam shrugged.  “I’ve never seen a kid recover.” He jutted his chin at Bobby. “Your friend’s got a better chance with a real doctor on the mainland.”

“How long does she have?”

“Judging from her nose, I’d say it’s early defection. Maybe a few hours.”

“Nick.” Something cold slithered through me. I shakily got to my feet. “I took it out of him. Does that mean…”

Sam whistled. “Without that freaky revival device, the kid is a kid. A mind-controlled kid with some serious Captain America specs. If Fuller hasn’t noticed and your friend defects, he’ll stay dead.”

Clara’s tone was a warning. “Sam.”

“What?” Sam groaned. “Do you want me to sugarcoat it? Tell her the Castor boy is perfectly fine, and it's all rainbows and fuckin’ sunshine?”

The ground suddenly felt strange, like I was walking on air. 

“I promised him,” I managed to choke out. “I… I promised him I wouldn’t let him become one of those things. I said we were going to get out of here. All three of us.”

“He is… valuable to us.”

Bobby’s voice sliced through me.

Her body was rattling on the ground, and she was spitting blood. 

When I rolled her onto her back, her expression was blank, but her eyes were open. 

The eyes I’d fallen in love with.

I lurched back, her flickering gaze lazily followed mine.

“Hand yourself in.” Bobby’s tone was exactly like Nick’s, drained of everything I loved about her.

“It’s okay.” Clara’s voice was soft. “She’s defecting. She’s not a threat.”

“So, wait, is that like some kind of telepathy shit?” Sam’s eyes snapped to me. “How did she do that?” 

“Bobby.” I knelt next to her. “It’s… it’s going to be okay.” I expected tears to come, but they didn’t.

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, catching Clara’s eye. “You spoke of a mainland. Can you get us there?”

She nodded. “Sam and I have been living on the mainland. Every year we come back and try to save as many as possible, then smuggle them back home.”

“How many?” I held her gaze, but she refused to meet my eyes.

“Twelve. Including you.”

“Only twelve?”

Sam’s laugh was harsh. “We only got two last year. 2017 and 2018 were our best. We saved as many as we could, but those bastards always win.”

“Just you two?”

Clara hummed. “Our first mistake was trusting people.”

“Yeah.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Waking up washed up on a beach with a rapidly mending hole in my forehead and seaweed in my mouth taught us that.

"Strangers, no matter how nice they seem, will fucking kill you. We have to be careful on the mainland. One mention of Aceville gets you a frontal lobotomy or your ass tied to a chair and tortured.”

Sam’s words were bouncing around my skull, but I wasn’t registering them. I was already thinking about Nick. He was still in that building.

“Give me an hour,” I said, my tongue in ties. “I’ll get Nick, and you’ll save them, right? Both of them.”

Clara’s expression was sympathetic. “If his device has been taken out and he’s defecting…”

I didn’t want to hear it. “He’s my best friend. He’s still alive, and they’re not going to let him die. They need him.” I choked. “We can save him. Outside Aceville."

Sam scowled, but after a moment, his expression softened. “Jessica Hart,” he murmured. “2018. She was processed, but we managed to save her. Pure determination, man. I’d never seen anything like it. That girl’s grip on her own mind was steely.”

“If there’s a chance that part of your friend held on, and they haven’t thrown him in the incinerator already…” He sent me a look. “It’s a shot in the dark, but is it really worth it? What if your friend’s body is down there, or they’ve chopped him up…”

“Sam!” Clara squeaked. “Inside voice!”

“Yes.” I spoke without thinking. “He’s still in there. I know he is.”

Sam looked skeptical before sighing. “Fine. One hour.” He nodded to Clara. “Go with her. I’ll look after the defecting blondie.”

“You’re not immortal,” he said when they hugged.

I wanted that. I wanted Nick’s arms around me, his fingers tangled in mine. I just wanted my best friend. I wanted him, and I wanted Bobby back by my side.

“They can’t kill you,” Sam pulled something from his jacket and pressed it into her hand. “Point and shoot. Even if you’re a lousy shot.” He offered her a grin, and she rolled her eyes, shoving him.

“Shut up.”

Clara grabbed and squeezed my hand, and before I knew it, she was dragging me back to the clearing, back to where Nick was either dead or alive. I already knew what I was going to do when I found Fuller.

Clara held my arm tightly, her fingernails digging into my skin.

I trusted her steps, her murmured reassurances. She was surprisingly good with the gun, taking out the two guards at the front of the facility at point-blank range without hesitation.

After shooting the guards outside, she grabbed my arm again, keeping a steely grip, and dragged me through the entrance.

To my surprise, the corridors were empty. Stuffing her pistol down the waistband of her pants, Clara led me down the hallway, moving with slow, cautious steps. I stayed quiet as we climbed the stairs.

I kept having flashbacks to the night before, when I had lost Nick.

When he had been dragged away, and I couldn’t save him. His words were still rumbling in the back of my mind, echoing in my skull: “Don’t let me become a white picket fence freak,” he had gasped.

“Promise me, Addie!”

And I had promised him.

I had promised him with my last breaths under the stars, waiting for my heart to stop. I had promised him when he had been dragged away to be reprogrammed. Just thinking about him, about my best friend, about saving his mind, made me stagger, struggling to keep up with Clara. 

When we reached the second floor, she stopped at a door and pressed her face against it. 

It felt strange. The last time I had been on this corridor, my filthy feet had pressed against perfect marble flooring, my breath thin, barely fluttering through my lips, and pain. I had been in so much pain, the kind that made me want to die.

Now, all of that was gone. And I craved it. I craved the desperation that had made me feel alive in the first place. Instead, I was numb. Dead flesh.

“If Fuller’s going ahead with Nick’s programming, he should be in one of the rooms downstairs.” Clara pushed the handle down and the door opened.

“First, though, we’re going to make a quick detour.”

The way she held the handle, knuckles white around the silver steel, told me that whatever was in that room, it meant something to her. 

Meant something to Sam.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

Clara frowned, her lip curling slightly. “Addie, if it’s too much—”

“No,” I said. “I’m okay.”

She shot me a look, the kind Mom gave me when I bought a Sabrina the Teenage Witch comic in eighth grade. Disapproving.

Clara was five years older than me, and she was already like the big sister I had never had.

The room we stepped into wasn’t a programming room. I would have recognized the machines Nick had talked about, the ones I had seen before, blades, saws, knives tainted red. I will never get that image out of my head.

Inside this room, though, what I saw was worse. Clara moved toward a pile on the pristine white floor. As I followed, I realized it wasn’t clothes she was looking at.

They were bodies, my classmates, piled on top of each other. Purple and blue rings stained their shirts, and their gray, lifeless faces stared up with eyes frozen wide in horror. Blood spattered across them, deep red that had long since dried to a dark, crusted brown.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. My mind was trapped, replaying the scene, watching them fall one by one, shot right in front of me.

But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, waiting for pain that never came.

Clara moved among them like a frantic insect until she finally straightened up. Her expression broke into a smile I couldn’t understand. Why did she look so hopeful when all I could see was red?

“They’re okay,” she gasped. Maybe she was crying or trying to. It was hard to tell. She pointed to each body as if she recognized them, but she didn’t. Clara didn’t know Elodie McIntire or Tommy Chambers.

I tried to see them as they once were, as people, as friends, but I couldn’t. Something was wrong. Something was off.

Before I could take it all in, Clara’s hands were on my shoulders, gently pushing me back. I knew what I was doing. I was looking for Nick. I was always looking for him, even when I didn’t want to find him.

But it wasn’t Nick. It wasn’t Nick, and I should have felt relieved. I should have been glad.

“Addie,” Clara whispered. “Hey, don’t look, okay? It’s better if you don’t look.”

But I couldn’t not look. I couldn’t not see that pieces of them were missing, like incomplete jigsaw puzzles. Clara was laughing. I think she was. Her smile lit up her face, but her eyes were far too haunted for me to believe it.

“They still have their zeros! Addie, they’re going to be okay. They’re going to reboot.”

I swallowed thickly, forcing my gaze away from the piles of bodies, from Tommy and Elodie.

“They’re freshly dead,” Clara explained. “When we get Nick, we’re bringing them too. We can save so many.” She checked the backs of their necks. “Their zeros are still installed and active. They’re going to be okay.”

She kept saying it.

They’re going to be okay.

I wanted to ask how that was possible, when they had been hacked apart, when legs and arms were missing, skin cruelly stitched back together.

But I couldn’t help feeling the slightest tinge of hope when looking at Clara right then.

“Sam is going to be ecstatic,” she whispered, grasping my arm for dear life.

In that moment, she was my anchor, keeping me stable, keeping me afloat.

I wouldn’t think about Nick or the gruesome scene in front of me twisting my gut into knots.

“Every year he blames himself when we can’t rescue as many kids as possible.”

Clara’s gaze dropped to the ground, her voice splintering.

“He goes into this state where he just sits there staring into space. None of us can get him out of it. When we first started saving kids, and ultimately losing them, he said it’s cruel. The zeros are cruel.” 

“He said he would rather cut his out than pretend to breathe. But I won’t let him. I know it’s awful to try to force someone to live when they’re not really living, when all they want to do is just end it. Maybe I’m selfish, but I can’t do this without him."

She shrugged. "He’s been with me for the past five years, and I can’t imagine a morning or night without his whiny ass.”

“Is he…?” I swallowed the rest of my words.

“No,” she said, but I could tell by the pinch between her brows that I was right.

I should have seen it in his expression, in his sardonic attitude and scowl. 

Clara sighed. “He’s just tired of us losing. Every year, fifty seniors get on that bus, and we end up with only two or three if we’re lucky. Last year was the worst."

"We lost the entire class, Addie. It nearly drove him over the edge. The thing is, we can’t smoke or drink. Well, we can, but it doesn’t affect us. We can’t taste cigarettes, feel the buzz from alcohol, or experience the euphoria of climax of sex. It feels of nothing."

I pulled a face, and she surprised me with a laugh.

"We’re not robots!”

Her expression sobered. “I mean, not that kind.”

Clara grabbed my hands, entangling her fingers with mine. “What do you feel?”

Nothing. 

But I didn't say that. 

As if reading my mind, the girl offered a small smile. “You're already thinking like a soldier. You want to say my hand is clammy and my temperature is fluctuating. You can sense every nerve ending, and, if you push hard enough, you can read my thoughts.” She let go, immediately, and that connection crumbled. I was cold again. 

“Everything humans have to take the ache away, even if it’s just temporary, we don’t have that. We just pretend we do. Even our pain is superficial.” 

Clara’s gaze flicked to the defects. “I know it doesn’t seem like much. But to Sam, it’s everything. That scar on his face? Yeah, he did that. When we lost all those kids, he tried to hurt himself.”

Her words whirled around my mind as I tried to register them, trying to understand that Sam didn’t want to pretend to live anymore. And if he felt like that, would that thought ever cross my mind too? 

Would pretending to live without real feelings drive me crazy?

Something caught my eye, pulling me from my thoughts.

There was movement on the other side of the room, and I couldn’t help myself.

I stumbled to a metal table where a body lay under harsh white light.

A boy.

Mr. Fuller’s lip curled. "I'm surprised you know of that experiment, Nick."

His gaze snapped to me. "Miss Calstone," he said, his expression twisting. I'd never known this side of him. He was our sophomore math teacher. The harshest I'd seen him was yelling at me for getting an equation wrong. This was different.

His eyes were ice-cold and cruel. Empty.

Like the teacher I'd known for most of my life, in and out of school, had been a façade.

"Forgive me for asking, but shouldn't you be in the incinerator with our other defects?"

Nick's sharp exhalation of breath grounded me just enough to begin sorting through the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. All I could think about was Bobby. All I could think about was how the teacher had looked at Nick.

Mr. Fuller's words hurt. Looking at him, I felt ashamed. I felt wrong for being a defect. Like I'd failed him.

I wasn't like Bobby or Nick. I was a Red, a failure that should have been long gone with the rest of the Reds.

I felt pathetic standing in front of my teacher, blood oozing from my nose and down my chin, tainting my lips.

It was all I could taste. I caught the disgust in his eyes and forced the words from my mouth, even when they were tangled on my tongue.

I still wanted to know Nick's fate. I still needed to know what was going to happen to him and Bobby.

"What are you doing to us?" I demanded, in a breath that almost hurt to inhale.

Mr. Fuller inclined his head. "I don't respond to defects," he murmured. "However, I will humor you."

He took a step toward us, and I staggered back. More red spotted the floor. My hand slapped to my nose again, but I couldn't stop it. It hurt in a way I had never felt before. It felt like my body was shutting down, my organs rejecting me one by one.

"You're bleeding, Adeline," the teacher's voice was soft.

For a moment, I thought he'd snap back to the man I knew. But I was too hopeful.

I was too naïve to think he hadn't been a monster all along. Mr. Fuller straightened with a sigh.

"Though I expect it. Defects are not expected to live long after being exposed to the Greenlight video. I'd give you around a few days. Maybe a week or two, if you're lucky. Really, it depends on your body. We've had defects we use for spare parts.”

Nick laughed. "What? What kind of bullshit is that?"

I was dying.

That was what he was telling me.

I was dying. And it made sense. My body was rejecting whatever it was I’d been subjected to.

If I could have blocked out his words, I would have. I would have pressed my hands against my ears. But I didn’t.

"The... Greenlight video?" I repeated. But Nick was talking over me.

"What do you mean she’s dying?!"

His laugh was hysterical. I could tell the anesthesia was wearing off.

Nick's teeth were gritted, his good eye wide and frenzied. He was looking for a way out, for a way to get to Bobby. But she was trapped in that room.

Bobby felt a million miles away.

"It's a fucking nosebleed!"

But I definitely caught his worried glances. Because my nosebleed wasn’t stopping.

"A nosebleed, Mr. Castor?" Mr. Fuller cocked a brow. He chuckled. "Your lack of intelligence has always astounded me. It is like talking to a brick wall. I can't say I will miss you when we empty you completely."

His words weren’t fully registering in my mind.

I was in too much pain.

Bobby was there. She was right in front of me, and I couldn’t get to her. I couldn’t see if she was okay. I couldn’t see if she was exactly what Mr. Fuller had said.

Empty.

Mr. Fuller pointed to the window. When Nick hung back, he grabbed the boy, forcing him to join his side. A smile was spread across his lips. He was smug.

"Inside that room is humanity's future. Our untainted youth. They're beautiful, are they not? Aceville is a... let's say, a breeding ground for new recruits."

"We are given roles which fit a controlled environment until recruits reach the age of eighteen years old, where they are taken to be processed."

He sighed. "They are sorted into two categories. Blues, who need no modifications, are taken to be programmed and emptied. The Purples, as you can see from Nicholas, are put through the Pollux procedure. We rid them of imperfections and polish them."

Mr. Fuller's lips formed a smirk, his gaze snapping to Nick. "Of course, sometimes our technology can malfunction."

Nick's shaking hand crept up my arm and gripped hard enough to elicit a shriek in my throat.

"What about Addie? Why did she defect?" he demanded. He was trembling, and I wanted to wrap my arms around him. I wanted to do something.

Something that would give him some kind of reassurance, some kind of hope.

But we didn't have that. Mr. Fuller was delivering our death sentence, and I couldn't move. I was in too much pain to protest or start screaming like I wanted.

All I could do was focus on standing and leaning my weight into Nick.

Mr. Fuller tutted at the state of me, at my efforts to stifle my haemorrhaging nose.

"Oh, child," he rolled his eyes and pulled out a scrap of toilet paper and threw it at me. I ignored it.

"Clean yourself up. You're embarrassing yourself. As you already saw, a test video is exposed to all of you upon arriving at the facility so defects can be picked out and eradicated."

He shrugged. "No humans are perfect. That includes Aceville recruits. Bad eggs are inevitable despite our best efforts."

"But... but that's not fair!" Nick yelled. "What, the Reds — those... those kids weren't submitting to your mind control crap, so you killed them?"

He shook his head, and I pretended not to see the tears running down his cheeks. "You killed them. You're a murderer. You can't justify this!"

Mr. Fuller rolled his eyes like he was dealing with a petulant child.

"Nicholas, it is a lot more complicated than that. Like you, Adeline was of course supposed to be subjugated. Believe me, she would make a wonderful recruit. She is one of our top students, a truly brilliant mind.

"We expected her to pass the Greenlight test and be put into the Pollux procedure. However, it appears her brain isn't as strong as we thought."

Mr. Fuller shot me a sympathetic smile. "It is not her fault. We expect defects every year, our 2020 class included. They are natural."

"Also murder." Nick muttered.

Mr. Fuller settled the boy with a frown.

"Mr. Castor, you are in pain."

"Because of you.” he choked. “You did this to me. You messed up my face. Get away from us. You're a fucking psycho."

"Nick," I said stiffly. "Let him talk."

Mr. Fuller nodded. "Young man, you're failing to see the bigger picture." The teacher gestured to the door, to Bobby, who I couldn't bring myself to look at.

"Our class of 2020 are perhaps our best year yet. We only had twelve defects, eleven of which have been taken care of."

His gaze landed on me.

"Excluding Adeline, of course. Now, the rest are salvageable if fixed. Which is why you, Mr. Castor will be put through the Pollux procedure.”

The teacher must have caught my expression. His lip curled. "Think of yourselves as skins, as unsettling as it sounds. Aceville creates soldiers — skins, if you would like."

"We raise you from birth and of course you develop normal human relationships. Such as bonding. This was all part of developing the brain and maturing the body. Once successfully processed, our new recruits are sent into the world.

"Some go to prestigious colleges. Others to start families in suburbia. They become our eyes and ears, having spaces in every room of importance across the globe. Our youth become flies on the wall. Impossible to catch."

"You mean Stepford freaks,” Nick snorted.

Mr. Fuller shook his head. "Not quite, Nicholas. However, I do like your input."

He shook his head like Nick was a child acting out.

"What you're seeing there is far from the end of processing. Once our recruits’ brains have been programmed and cleansed of the temporary consciousness they have had for the past eighteen years, they are then inserted with what you, Mr. Castor, may call a 'sleeper'."

At the corner of my eye, Bobby was still there. And the longer she was in there, the closer I was getting to losing her.

Losing Nick.

The teacher's words might as well have been a different language. I couldn't understand him.

No. I didn't want to understand him.

I didn't want to register the truth staring at me right in the face. We weren't kids finishing our senior year and heading off to college.

We were… shells. Empty bodies. We were the pretty faces for their mindless drones.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mr. Fuller got there first.

Like he was reading me. Just like my mother.

"No, Adeline. It is not cruel," he said. And that's exactly what I was thinking. Cruel. This is cruel. This is so cruel. So inhumane. So wrong. How could they do this? How could they think this was okay?

"It is necessary," the man continued. "The purpose of Aceville is to create freshly made recruits brought into the world to serve us. Children who were created to lose their humanity upon turning eighteen. Defects are scrapped and potentials are processed. This is not new. Aceville's children were being processed decades before you two and your classmates were an idea."

An idea, I thought.

I wasn't even the product of two people in love. Who wanted a child.

I was… planned.

Made.

Nick shot me a panicked look. "My dad," he whispered. "He's not part of this, right? Because... I would know. I would know if my dad was a fake. I would know."

Mr. Fuller cut him off with a harsh laugh. "This is why we empty you," he muttered.

"Far too much emotion to deal with. The human brain works best without attachments, emotions, and memories. They weaken it. With our recruits being teenagers, that is why emptying is vital. We take you when you're finished. When your brains and bodies are approaching full development.”

He turned to Nick. "Mr. Castor, what exactly did you expect?" Mr. Fuller murmured. "You are failing every subject in school. You have no talents, no work ethic. All you can do is kick a ball around."

That wasn't true. Nick was smart in his own way. He was failing math, sure. He had slept through most of his classes.

But I knew he was excelling in English and science.

He could relay animal facts straight from memory and was almost fluent in Japanese after starting classes when he was fourteen.

He was smart, general knowledge wise.

Mr. Fuller didn't see any of that.

He only saw test scores and GPAs.

The teacher took a slow step towards us, but I didn't move.

"Did you really think you were going to go to college, hmm? No. You were not brought up to live a normal human's life. What you are going to be is a soldier. One of our best and brightest. You will follow orders and kill on command. Because that is what you were made to be. Obedient."

He spoke the word through a sneer. "Do you understand me?"

"Soldiers." Nick repeated. “I'm sorry, are we in some kind of war?”

Mr. Fuller rolled his eyes. "Once again I will not miss your temporary consciousness. Benjamin Castor and Elena Calstone's jobs were simple. They were to raise the two of you until you turned eighteen. Any attachments formed were for development purposes only."

His gaze slid to me. "It appears Elena failed to do her job properly. As I have said multiple times, your brain is too weak, Adeline. Which is indeed a shame. I was looking forward to fixing you."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You have quite an odd face. Not unattractive, but not quite attractive either. Your eyes are far too big for your face. When you smile, your teeth are crooked. As for your body, you have a decent figure. Your imperfections are your face. Which we would easily be able to fix in the Pollux procedure."

Mr. Fuller's words were like needles sticking into my spine.

Ouch.

"And now look at you," he continued in a scoff. "Mr. Castor's face is a mess indeed, but somehow I can't take my eyes off of you, Adeline. You are a missed opportunity, a defect with so much potential. And then you have the audacity to step into our facility.”

His expression twisted in disgust, gaze flitting to the state of me.

Compared to Nick, even when his face was sliced up, I somehow looked worse.

He was an unfinished soldier, while I was a slowly decaying corpse.

"Do not think I will take pity on you. You are a shell which will not be filled.”

"Addie." Nick was murmuring over the white noise buzzing in my ears. "Don't listen to him, the man is a fucking psycho. I told you we are getting out of here.”

His voice was growing more and more hysterical, and I couldn't respond to him. If I did, I would give myself hope.

Hope that we would escape.

Hope that I wouldn't lose them.

I couldn't. I wanted to, but I wasn't going to sugar-coat our reality.

Nick and Bobby weren't getting away, and I was going to die. Like I should have in the dirt and rain next to Summer Forest at the hands of my mother's gun pinpointed between my eyes.

"Adeline, you are smart enough to understand me," Mr. Fuller said over Nick's frantic muttering. "You are not the first defect and will not be the last. We cannot control how the brain reacts to the initial program, only nurturing your minds in your child and teenagehood, in hopes that you will submit."

Words.

"...Imperfections are common. We knew from your birth that you may be a problem, due to certain genetic mutations your mother..."

I felt like agreeing. He was right. I was imperfect. I was ugly. I was bleeding.

My body was rejecting what I was made for.

All of the reds had died because they weren't fit for the program. They had lived lives and aspired for college, a life away from Aceville. Only for it to be cut short.

Aceville wasn't a town. It was a controlled environment, a factory that had taken Clara Danvers and classes before her.

It had taken the classes of 2017, 2018, and so on, and converted them into mindless drones, emptying them of everything they were. Everything they were ever going to be. And that was Nick's fate.

Bobby's fate.

Mr. Fuller clucked his tongue like he was bored. "Well. Adeline, it's been a pleasure. Surely you would much rather die painlessly than wait until your brain pops like a grapefruit. Though I can see that is already happening." He cocked his head.

"Does it hurt? You seem to be in the early stages of an intracranial hemorrhage. Tell me, are you feeling sick and light-headed? I can take you to the nurse. She can administer a euthanizing solution, which will of course stop the pain."

"Don't answer him." Nick gritted out. But I was already seeing stars. I was clinging onto the last parental figures I had.

"Yes." I whispered, with the gutter of my throat.

The teacher hummed. "Don't worry, Miss Calstone. I shall take you to the medical department. Instead of receiving our usual red treatment, it will be a simple shot. And there will be no more pain.

That is what you want. No more pain. I can't say you deserve it, but I like to think of it like finally putting a dog down."

His words almost felt like pain medication, like Tylenol being injected directly into my veins.

Yes, I wanted to cry out.

Yes, that's what I wanted. I just wanted the pain to go away.

I just wanted it to stop. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to stop.

I wanted the bleeding to stop, crimson bubbling from my nose, hot and wet, dripping down my chin.

The pain in my head.

I wanted it to fucking stop.

"Wait! We can… we can talk about this," Nick's voice was a soft croak, barely audible. I held onto him with everything I had, but my grasp was slipping.

My vision was blurring. I had to keep blinking to keep focus.

"You can... you can fix her, right?"

The teacher hummed. "You're mumbling, Nicholas.”

"Addie." Nick spat. He pulled me closer to him, his grip tightening. "You can fix her.”

Mr. Fuller frowned, drinking me in. I was suddenly hyper aware of how truly imperfect I was compared to Nick, Bobby, and the others.

"Through observation, yes. I suppose her face, and maybe her figure. Though the evidence is clear, Nick. Look at the state of her. She will not survive the process. You know that." Mr. Fuller's eyes darkened, and he looked straight at Nick.

"I admire your concern for your friend. It means we have successfully raised you. However, you do not need that anymore.

Young man, the very concept of friendships and relationships will be wiped clean from your mind. Emotions are a weakness, Mr. Castor. They hold you back. When you are free of them, you will feel so much better."

“No, you can!” Nick shouted, his voice raw with desperation. “Just listen to me, all right?” He ignored the man’s scathing words, even though I could see each one cutting deeper. Still, he held his composure like a mask. Nick laughed.

“Can’t you, like do something? With all your insane tech that, like, most likely breaks several laws—can’t you just… I don’t know, fix her broken, messed-up brain or something? You know Addie. You’ve known her all this time. You know she’d be perfect.”

“Nick.” I managed to hiss.

“No, trust me, I've got this.” He winked at me. “You will be fixed. Just like all of us.”

If Nick's fingernails weren't practically slicing into the bare flesh of my arm, I still would have picked up his signal.

I'd forgotten how much of a good actor he was.

The teacher seemed to take the bait, however. "Mr. Castor, perhaps we should talk elsewhere. I'd be happy to give you the logistics."

Nick nodded, exhaling out a breath. "So, you… you can?"

When his hand slipped from mine, I knew it was goodbye. I knew it was a last resort, at least in his mind. I wanted to grab for him once more and hold on.

He was the only thing I had left, or at least, was still in reach. I watched him stumble over to the teacher, like he was giving himself in, surrendering to his fate.

In my deteriorating vision I was only able to see the two of them come together, before the knuckles of Nick's fists were slamming into the teacher's nose.

Fuller's head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor. Nick stamped on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

"Asshole,” the boy spat—and I saw his eyes flash blue, just for a second, when he dropped to the ground, wrapping his hands around the teacher's throat, his teeth gritted into a psychotic grin. “You're not touching me.”

Fuller’s smile only widened.

“That.” He choked out, when Nick tightened his grip. “Is an Aceville soldier.”

To my confusion, the man was back on his feet when Nick jumped up, turning to join me. Mr. Fuller was fast, of course he was.

He wrapped his arms around Nick’s waist before the boy could throw himself into a run, yanking him into a headlock.

“Go.” Nick gritted out, struggling in the man's snake-like grip. His eyes sparked blue again, and he managed to wrench himself from the man’s grip, only to get stabbed in the neck with a shot.

He screamed like an animal. “Fuck! Get Bobby out of here and come back for me, yeah?”

When Mr. Fuller yanked Nick’s head back, he cried out, his expression frenzied. I looked past the state of his face, and I saw my best friend pleading with me not to leave him. “Don’t let them turn me into a white picket fence freak,” he whispered.

“Promise me.”

I promise.

The words were in my throat, but I couldn’t say them. It was like watching Clara all over again. I stumbled back, fighting to stay upright. Nick snarled, thrashing violently. “Get the fuck off of me! I want to see my dad! Where is he?”

He threw his head back, aiming for a headbutt, but Fuller moved fast.

His reflexes were razor-sharp. Nick’s eyes locked onto mine.

“Addie,” he shouted, louder this time. “You need to promise me you’ll get me out of here, all right?”

I froze, dizzy. The room tilted around me.

His screams became sobs. “You won’t let them scoop all of me out.”

One moment, he was there, staring at me with that one good eye, begging me to promise him something we both knew wasn’t real. The next, he was gone.

He collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.

Fuller gathered him up carefully, almost tenderly, not even glancing in my direction.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Nick. Dangling from the man’s arms, all limbs and dead weight, he looked small. Fragile.

It was weird. It almost looked like the teacher was treating Nick like his son.

Like he cared. Like Nick wasn’t just another cog in Aceville’s machine.

When he turned around to walk away, I started toward him on shaky legs. The hallway spun around me. The lights were far too bright. I wanted to hurt him, the way he’d hurt all of us. I wanted to make him hurt like I was hurting, like Nick, like Bobby.

I expected him to call for backup, but he didn’t. He just gave me a wary look. Holding the unconscious Nick to his chest, he surveyed my best friend with a sigh.

“Nicholas was always my favorite,” he said. “I never liked the boy’s mother or father. They were defeated by their own humanity, their own pathetic emotions. But their son?” His lips curved into a smile. “I knew he was going to be something.”

“You’re cruel.” I whispered.

“Not at all. I’m just doing my job.” He glanced up at me, eyes glinting with amusement. “What exactly are you planning on doing? You are dying, Adeline.”

When I couldn’t answer, when I was still trying to figure out a way to save Nick, my thoughts like cotton candy, the teacher sighed.

“Go,” he said, gesturing behind me. “I doubt your body will survive the night, so you are not much of a threat to us. And I am tired of chasing you kids around. However, I will be forced to quicken your stoop to mortality if you intervene. You may see Nicholas as a friend. But he is valuable stock and will be processed immediately.”

When I didn’t move, he tilted his head. “Such a waste,” he muttered. “If I were you, I’d start running. I know several people, including your mother, who have already put you forward for spare parts.”

“Bobby,” I managed.

I trailed off, choking on the rest. Mr. Fuller, however, seemed to understand.

“She is in the finishing stages,” he said. “She was one of our first Blues to be emptied.”

His words lit something inside me. An ignition of pain and helplessness that pulled me deeper into despair.

I ran.

I should have stayed. I should have... fuck, I should have attacked him. I knew what I was going to do in my head.

I was going to scoop his eyes out with my fingers, just like he’d done to Nick. I was going to grab the nearest sharp object and mutilate him.

I could see it in my mind. I dove forward and stabbed the blade into his eye. Blood spurted, almost cartoonishly. I didn’t stop until he was dead, until he was a pulpy mass of scarlet pooling at my feet.

But I didn’t.

I was a fucking coward. I left him.

I let him take Nick.

Bobby.

Outside, the bodies of the Reds were gone.

But their bags and shoes were still there.

Tripping over them, I dove into the trees, just as a wave of voices started up behind me. I didn’t stop running until I was deep in the thicket of brush, stumbling through pitch darkness.

My hand was still pressed over my nose, trying to stifle the blood flow.

But it wouldn’t stop. I didn’t have Nick to hold onto this time. It wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t stop it. My head hurt. My body hurt. But I kept running. Like Clara. Like every year after. Even when all I could think was that I didn’t belong in this world. I wasn’t made to do everything I wanted.

I wasn’t made to have a family and friends that loved me.

I was made to be a weapon. A doll. A puppet.

I was made to hurt people.

And I couldn’t even do that right.

I waited to die. Curled up under the stars, I waited for my body to give up. I waited to bleed out like the other Reds.

I didn’t have the mercy of a painless death, a gunshot to the head.

I was forced to wallow in my own pain and wait for my brain to shut down.

Unlike the physical pain wracking my body, tearing me apart from the inside, this was in my mind.

It was a voice, a small voice that sounded like me, whispering all my insecurities, growing louder and louder, until I was screeching into the dirt, begging to die.

I begged the sky, and it ignored me.

I wrapped my head in my arms and forced myself to stop breathing, to force my lungs to give in.

Someone must have been playing a sick joke, because I survived.

Daylight.

Daylight, and I was still alive.

My head hurt. My whole body ached. But I was still alive.

I survived to live another sunrise, cotton-pink clouds drifting across a crystal sky. It was a sky I didn’t want to see, not when I knew what had happened to Nick and Bobby.

I don’t know how long I slept, drifting in and out of reality. At times, I was aware, aware of two figures standing over me.

I recognized the girl, though I wasn’t sure from where. She was several years older than me, a dark halo hanging in tangled curls in front of a pale face.

Her expression was frenzied, eyes wide. I knew those eyes from a long time ago.

“Hey!” she was yelling. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

There was a guy next to her, about the same age. Blonde hair poking from beneath a baseball cap, an ugly scar cutting across his face.

Something was moulded into his left hand.

"Are you sure she's defecting?" he muttered, his voice echoing in my skull with an accent I couldn't fully place.

The girl shoved him, and he stumbled. "Stop talking."

"Alright! Jeez!" I caught movement, a hand running through curls. "You didn't have to hit me that hard."

The rest of their conversation was a blur in my mind. All I remembered were broken words, hissing and muttering.

"...we need to wait!"

"...and we get caught? We should hide."

"Hide where?!"

"It's better than standing here in broad daylight. Do you want to get a bullet in your skull?”

"Shh. Just... just wait for it."

In and out of reality, I danced until the two of them were gone. I was left wondering if I'd hallucinated them. The sun was already baking into my clothes, hot and sweltering.

It was the same sky I'd looked at the day before with a smile, hopes for the future, my best friend and girlfriend by my side.

I replayed those memories of Nick, Bobby, and I.

Swimming at the lake and road trips to the edge of town. Never out of town, though. We weren't allowed. Now I knew why.

I don't know how long I lay there, huddled in the dirt, waiting to die and not dying. I was wrapped in my own pain, agony filling me up and reminding my body that I was wrong. A defect. A red.

The sound of engines woke me up for what felt like the tenth time.

They were loud, ripping into my brain. When I forced myself to my feet, I could walk. My body was still working, and I forced my legs into a run, following the sound of engines. But my foot caught on something.

There was something lying on the ground. When I twisted around to see what it was, I had to slap my hand over my mouth to gag a screech crawling up my throat. I was looking at bodies.

The bodies of blues and purples scattered the ground. I knew every face.

I knew each pair of dead eyes staring right through me. Glimpsing tell-tale scarlet stains under their noses, I knew what I was looking at. Defects. They were defects. But there were dozens of them.

Not reds, I thought dizzily. They were blues and purples, those I'd spotted in the room with Bobby. I checked each face twice for Bobby and Nick, but I couldn't find them.

Following the bodies like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale, I found myself back at the clearing overlooking the facility.

There was a white van parked right outside the door, and being loaded into the back were my classmates. They were exactly what Mr. Fuller said they would become. Soldiers.

Dressed in black, they marched in perfect sync, their arms by their sides. Such a jarring sight. Almost like I was dreaming.

There were maybe ten in total. The rest were in the woods.

The rest were lying in dirt and pooled crimson.

"Name."

One of the men from the night of our capture was standing next to the van.

He loomed over a new recruit, a boy with his back to me.

The boy wore the same as the others, a black shirt and matching pants.

I didn't want to notice the head of tangled dark curls that were back.

When I got closer, I didn't want to accept that I was seeing a face I knew, moulded into something so close to perfect that it hurt.

I won't say Nick Castor looked perfect, because in my eyes he was so far from it. It almost looked like real-life photoshop.

He had been fixed.

But so had everything else about him.

I couldn't focus on the face I had lost, though, because his expression was blank.

The eyes I had loved ever since we were little kids were derelict.

The laughter lines I was used to were gone, the curl in his lip which was always an amused smirk was gone. Just from looking at him in that one moment, I knew eighteen years of my best friend had been cruelly wiped away.

Just like that.

Nick stood to attention, his arms at his sides.

"I don't have one," he responded.

"Age?"

"Four hours old."

The man wrote something down. "How are you feeling, boy?"

"I don't feel, sir."

"Good. Platoon number?"

"Three, sir."

The man nodded. "What is your serial number?"

His expression didn't waver, but Nick's body jerked suddenly, and I had an ounce of hope that he was snapping out of it.

But no. Something else was happening. Crimson pooled from his nose, and I had to bite down into my lower lip to stop myself from crying out. Blood ran in tiny rivers, rivulets beading down pristine skin.

But Nick still opened his mouth and responded through a toneless drawl, through blood slipping from his lips and running down his chin.

The man reacted with a frustrated hiss. He took a step back, his hand gripping the gun stuck in its holster.

"We've got another defect!" he yelled, shoving Nick to his knees and sticking his magnum in the middle of my friend's forehead. His index finger teased the trigger. He spat on the ground.

"Fucking defects. They're dropping like flies!"

"Kill it." A woman's voice spoke from behind him. I recognized her voice. It was Kenji Leonhart's mother. "Shoot the faulty ones."

Nick didn't blink. He didn't move. His gaze pinpointed on thin air.

Something ignited inside me, and I wanted to get as far away from there as possible. I started to back away before a warm hand was on my shoulder.

Twisting around, I expected a teacher.

But then I saw familiar golden curls and the smile I thought I had lost. I thought I was crazy, that I was losing my mind.

But then she was pulling me into a hug that suffocated my lungs.

Her kisses tasted like old change.

Bobby was sobbing into my shoulder, and I was clinging onto her, trying to get a good grip of her so I wouldn't lose her.

When Bobby pulled away and blinked at me through teary eyes, I finally noticed what was wrong.

Her pale face was decorated with something I was all too familiar with. She looked like a Greek statue. One that had been defaced.

Reaching out, I gingerly brushed my fingers under crimson crusting beneath her nose.

Bobby was bleeding.

Just like Nick.

Like the bodies on the forest floor.

Her eyes were different. Haunted. The pinch between her brows told me everything I needed to know. She was in pain. The type of pain that made her want to reach into her skull and rip out her brain. The type that was slowing her down. I could have laughed, I could have cried.

I could have screamed. But all I could do was stare, grazing my fingers over her nose and chin. It was still Bobby. But she had been polished. She was perfection.

Even more beautiful, but unnatural like a porcelain doll. "You're..."

She spat a mouthful of blood and nodded.

Bobby was mute. Her eyes were far too blank and too distant for me to take them seriously.

"But—"

A gunshot cut me off. Then came the sound of a body hitting the ground. Bobby wrapped her arms around me, suffocating my scream. Her hold was far too tight, like a serpent coiling around my chest.

Squeezing.

I didn't want to believe it was Nick.

It wasn't Nick who hit the ground. It wasn't Nick who lay in a pool of crimson.

It wasn't Nick who the man kicked into the dirt, who he laughed at, his foot coming down repeatedly to stamp on his head. I didn't want to admit it right then, even when Mr. Fuller's words were still lingering in the back of my mind, far too loud for me to ignore.

Bobby had been one of the first to be processed, my mind whispered.

So how could she be with me?

Bobby wasn't my main focus, though. I already knew who she was, or what she was. I was in denial.

I didn't want to believe it. Despite the air being sucked from my lungs, I couldn't tear my eyes from Nick. I read somewhere that trauma is a strange thing. It can affect people in different ways, especially right in the middle of it.

Maybe it was oxygen deprivation.

Bobby was choking the breath from my lungs, my vision blurring. But I didn't black out when I should have. I kept breathing. I kept struggling, trying to scream, but no sound came out.

Nick.

His name was on my lips, but I couldn't say it. I couldn't scream it, because I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Several things happened at once, far too fast for me to comprehend.

Bobby's grip around me loosened, and I could breathe again.

No. I was already breathing. Even with no breath in my lungs, I was still standing. Still struggling.

Choking on hysterical sobs clawing their way up my throat.

I was suddenly aware of Bobby curled up at my feet, a hand over my mouth, sharp fingernails slicing into my cheeks. His hold on me was different. It wasn't suffocating like Bobby, but it was firm.

His breath tickled the back of my neck. A new voice anchored me to reality.

No, not new.

I had heard it before. I caught the tinge of a British accent.

He was older. Early twenties, maybe.

He tightened his grip, suffocating my next screech. "If you keep freaking out, both of us are going to be caught."

My only response was to scream into the flesh of his palm.

He didn’t tighten his grip, just sighed, frustrated. “Are you blind? The kid is fine,” he hissed in my ear, his strength bewildering. “Can’t say the same for you if you keep trying to bite my fuckin’ hand off.”

Before I could respond, before even a squeak could escape, he yanked my head with his free hand and forced me to look straight ahead.

“See? Now shhh. Unless you want a bullet in your skull,” he breathed, icy against my skin. “These guys won’t hesitate. So stop freaking out. That means biting too.”

His voice faded into white noise as my eyes locked on the scene before me. A soldier stood over a body. A girl with long brown hair fanned into the dirt.

Mila Banks. Our valedictorian. Voted most likely to be the first female president in the senior yearbook.

I’d been so focused on Nick, I hadn’t registered her. That it was her standing in front of him. That it was her who’d been shot through the skull.

Her body was the one the soldier had kicked, spit on like garbage. My brain tried to protect me, warping what I saw, trying to rewrite it. I wanted to believe it was Nick.

But it was Mila.

Meanwhile, Nick was on his knees, a gun to his head. My best friend. A freshly programmed Aceville soldier.

One who had started to defect. My rotting mind had already written his death into the script.

Then, suddenly, I felt my body slacken against the stranger holding me. Nick was still breathing. Still on the ground. Still here. There was nothing behind his eyes.

No Nicholas Castor.

Just a trembling body, scarlet dripping down his chin.

A shell with his face. It was cruel. So cruel that they had put him in front of me and given me hope, only to rip it away.

I hoped he was still in there. Hoped I hadn’t lost him.

And yet, even when I knew his body was failing, when there was nothing I could do, when he was dying just like me and Bobby, I still sobbed into the clammy hand muffling my strangled screams, as if he was.

I couldn't answer. I was hypnotized by the blood spilling from Nick’s nose and lips, thick and vivid, the color of fresh paint.

He didn’t spit it out. His eyes were glassy. Empty. Lit up in blue light.

He let blood flow freely, staining his mouth and soaking into his shirt.

I lurched forward, but a hand yanked me back. A frustrated hiss slammed into my ear.

"Oh my god, dude, what did I just say? Stop acting on impulse. I can get a clean headshot before he takes out the kid, so stay still." His grip tightened. "Understand?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the weapon molded into his free hand.

I gave a sharp nod, exhaling into his palm.

The soldier stuck his gun in Nick’s forehead, and In the instant before he fired, I felt the bullet split the air in my skull, and then he staggered sideways, shoved hard. Mr. Fuller stepped into view, expression twisted in a snarl. "What the hell are you doing?”

"Sir, the recruit is defective.” The soldier said. "We have standing orders to neutralize at the first signs of early defection.” he gestured with his gun to Nick, who stood, unmoving, staring blankly. “Recruit 13 is displaying signs of intracranial hemorrhage."

Mr. Fuller snorted. He reached for Nick and hauled him upright by the collar.

The boy didn’t resist. He didn’t sway. He just hung there, limp, like a doll with its strings cut.

Something about his posture was wrong, as if his body didn’t belong to him anymore. I didn’t want to look.

Blood was already pouring from his nose and ears, the first stage.

I knew what came next. Fuller gave a low hum, then turned to him.

“Recruit 13,” he barked. “Formally known as Nicholas Castor. Stand up straight.”

His body jerked violently, twitching, his head falling back and forth. Another stream of red dripped down his chin, but there was no reaction. No wince. No cry. Nothing human. Fuller stepped closer.

For the first time, I wasn’t looking at a teacher.

I was looking at a commander.

“I said stand up.”

Hollow.

That’s exactly how I felt once I was deep enough in the forest to let Nick slide from my shoulders. He was conscious, barely, his eyes wide and glassy, unfocused, almost child-like. Locked on the canopy above us like it was a cage.

I stared at him, trying to rebuild my best friend from the fragments scattered in front of me. It was dark, but I saw him all too clearly. And I didn’t want to. I wished the shadows would swallow us whole, just so I wouldn’t have to register what I was seeing.

Nicholas Castor used to be one of the most popular guys in our year.

He had boyish curls, freckles scattered across pale cheeks. But the person lying in front of me only looked like him. He sounded like him. He even smelled like him.

But he wasn’t him.

He couldn’t be.

The Nick I’d known since freshman year was the textbook boy next door. But in my blurry vision, beneath the canopy of night and trees, all I could see was red where his face should have been. Just red.

I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t accept that the figure before me was Nick.

Because this wasn’t Nick.

He rarely cried. Yet here he was, sobbing, chest heaving, breaths sharp and panicked. My head spun as his hand shot out, grabbing my bicep and yanking me down with a fierce tug.

When my knees hit the dirt, I barely felt it. Pressing myself flat against the forest floor, I let the earth swallow me. Nick didn’t release me; instead, he tightened his iron grip on my arm.

“We need to stay down,” he gasped, voice rough and urgent.

The urge to check on him was overwhelming. I had to know he was okay. But when I reached out, Nick hissed, warning me not to move.

He sucked in a strangled breath and pulled me deeper into the dirt. I choked on the taste of moss and damp leaves, but I was grateful to be with him, far from what should have been my execution.

“Chances are the bastards figured out I escaped. Which is baaad,” he slurred. “They’ll shorely be luhrking fer me.”

In the distance, I glimpsed a searchlight sweeping across the perimeter of the camp, illuminating the darkness.

After what felt like years lying in the dirt, waiting for the lights to fade, they finally did.

When I lifted my head and forced myself to look at Nick, a fresh slither of bile rose in my throat. I lost my breath all over again. Everything I had known was gone.

His curls had been sheared away, leaving him half-bald.

The flaps of bloodied flesh that used to be Nick’s cheeks looked like they were moving, as if alive. His right eye hung from its socket in a disturbingly cartoonish way.

His clothes had been replaced with clinical white shorts and a shirt, both splattered in various shades of red.

He was barefoot, his knees sinking into the dirt. I was hit with a memory: the two of us and Bobby at thirteen, sitting in the dirt with a picnic spread out before us.

I remember not caring about the state of my legs or clothes. Back then, Nick had been grinning through a mouthful of PB&J.

Now, though, my friend looked so vulnerable. So childlike.

Like he was thirteen again. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He offered me a smile, and it sickened me. Because unlike the rest of his face, his teeth were perfect.

Nick had been bullied in the fourth grade for having crooked teeth.

Now, they were straight and unnaturally white. It didn’t make any sense. Whatever had happened had ruined his face and fixed his teeth.

I couldn’t resist. Sitting on my knees, I reached out with shaking hands and gently cupped his face, needing to know it was him. And it was.

It was still Nicholas Castor, the same boy I’d known since freshman year.

He still smelled of cheap Axe spray and the earthy, floral scent of the exotic plants in his room. It had always been the three of us, me, Nick, and Bobby.

The Three Musketeers. Nothing could take that away. Not even this. Not even when I could barely recognize him anymore.

Nick pulled away after a moment, like he was ashamed.

But I knew Nick. I knew he’d never show me he was hurt, or ashamed, or in pain, even when I knew he was.

That wasn’t him.

“Dude. Stop staring,” he said with a shaky laugh, turning away.

Thankfully, the slur was wearing off.

His right eye bounced below its socket, and I had to avert my gaze.

If I didn’t, I’d laugh or cry.

“I look like a rejected horror movie,” he said, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“If I wasn’t on cloud nine right now, I’d be freeeaakiiing the fuck out.” Nick cocked a brow at me. “I actually look pretty cool though, right? You know, like an, uh, cyborg.”

He was smiling, but I don’t know how he was smiling.

The hysterical sobs escaping his lips told a whole different story. I felt my own eyes prick with tears. Bobby was still in that building, and I had no idea if she was dead or alive. But I had to focus on Nick.

I had to keep him calm, keep him from falling apart.

“Nick.” I couldn’t think straight, let alone speak. What happened? The words bubbled in my throat, ready to burst with anger and pain that someone had done this to him. That someone was going to do this to Bobby. But I held myself back.

I stayed calm for his sake and let him catch his breath, letting his body go still.

I pulled off my shirt, scrunched it into a ball, and gently dabbed at the bloody splotches on his face. The cool breeze tickled my bare skin, anchoring me to reality.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “We’ll get you help.”

It was a relief to be rid of the shirt that had marked me as a defect. When I gently pressed it to Nick’s right eye socket, careful not to apply too much pressure, he winced and let out a soft whine, but he didn’t speak.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his left eye watching me through the dark.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. I found myself drowning in melancholy. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bobby. She was a Blue. She was exactly what they wanted.

But Nick was a Purple. They needed him too. So why had they done this to him?

“I need you to do something.”

He took a shaky step back and folded his arms across his chest, gaze fixed on the ground. Unsteady on his feet, Nick swayed. I grabbed his arm, steadying him.

He paced, breathing growing more erratic with each step.

“We’re getting Bobby out of there,” he said, “but I need help. Like, serious help.”

He sniffled, trying to smile; eventually, his grin splintered into a pained grimace.

I nodded, but the question spewed from my mouth before I could stop it. I couldn't stop tears from running down my face.

I tried to blink them away, but they kept coming. "Nick, what did they do to you?"

He held my gaze for a moment before turning around and stripping off his shirt. Unlike his face, his body was perfect.

More than perfect. Nick had never cared about maintaining a figure. He was naturally thin with a good metabolism.

He didn't need to go to the gym. But under the trees in minimal light, I saw toned back muscles. When he turned to face me, his lower torso was ripped to perfection.

Again, I thought, my head spinning. Why was everything else perfect except his face? It was almost laughable.

But I didn't laugh, not when the boy could barely stand straight. "There's something inside me," he whispered, scratching at the back of his neck.

His fingernails clawed at the flesh like an animal, frenzied and desperate.

"You need to get it out."

Before I could speak, he pulled something from his jeans, something that glinted in the dark. Nick clenched it in his fist, his teeth gritted.

"I need you to cut it out," he said. "I was... I was lucky. My machine was faulty, so it wasn’t able to complete whatever it was trying to do." He gestured to his face with the blade. "That’s why I’m half-finished. If you can even call it that."

His words sent shivers rattling down my spine. My gaze flicked to his toned chest and perfect teeth.

That’s what happened.

Whatever "processing" meant, it was full-body. Nick’s had gone wrong and messed up his face.

I opened my mouth to ask why, why they were doing this to us, but he thrust the blade into my hand. “I’ve tried, Addie," he choked out. "I’ve tried to get it out myself, but I can’t fucking reach it!”

Letting out a hiss of frustration, Nick curled my fingers around the blade.

"It’s some kind of chip or tracker, something they’re inevitably going to activate. And then we’re both fucked."

I found myself nodding, biting my lip to suppress a scream when his quaking fingers traced a scar marked into his skin.

The incision point, I thought. It must be.

I don’t know what possessed me, but with the blade in my hand, I started forward. Still, I couldn’t do it.

Even knowing it was dangerous, even knowing I could lose Nick at any moment, his words, what he had described, sent me into a tailspin.

All at once, the bottom fell out of me.

I shook my head and staggered back, tripping over a rock jutting from the ground.

"I can’t!" I shrieked.

I was trying to ignore it, but my body was in fight-or-flight mode. I had to find Bobby. I had to find her and get her out before it happened to her.

That was all I could think.

My mouth clamped shut to stop a scream from tearing out of my throat. I needed to find her. The thought was driving me fucking crazy.

I couldn’t think of anything but Bobby.

I didn’t even notice I was kneeling in the dirt, my head between my knees, until I realized I was struggling to breathe.

Inhale and exhale. That’s what it took. That’s what was supposed to help a panic attack.

But it wasn’t working.

I was screaming into my lap, my body shaking, my hands clawing at my hair. Seeing Nick like that and knowing what they were capable of. The people who had looked after us for eighteen years and then thrown us like lambs to the slaughter.

I couldn’t—

I couldn’t breathe.

I was going to die.

That was all I could think.

My lungs felt starved of oxygen. My chest hurt. My stomach felt like it was trying to projectile into my throat.

"Addie."

Nick’s voice was a gentle murmur I couldn’t ignore.

I felt his soft touch tingling across my arms, as if unsure whether to grab me or not. But he did. He gripped me gently, pulling me to my feet, his sticky hands cradling my face, forcing me to look at him.

“You can do this," he said.

When I shook my head and tried to pull away, he tightened his grip.

"I know you’re scared and you need some kind of reassuring pep talk," Nick choked out a laugh. "Trust me, I’d give you one if we had time. But we don’t. Bobby is still in there, and the sooner you get this thing out of me, the sooner we can get her and others out. Okay?"

I realized Nick was crying.

And Nick never cried.

When I offered him my scrunched-up shirt to use as a gag, he shook his head.

"Just do it."

I complied.

I had to squint to see the incision properly. When I stuck the blade in and made a small cut, he didn’t even flinch. "It’s okay," Nick reassured me. His clammy fingers entangled with mine, coaxing me further down the curve of his neck. "I can’t even feel it."

Something ice-cold slithered down my spine at the thought of my best friend being unable to feel blades slicing into his flesh. Somehow, he was becoming more and more inhuman the longer I stayed with him.

"You can’t feel it?" I hissed, my hand holding the scalpel trembling. "What do you mean you can’t feel it? I’m... I’m cutting into you."

"Didn’t you hear what I said?" he snapped, startling me. "They dosed me with enough tranquilizer to knock out a whale, and that’s before they injected my brain with shit that made me feel like I was flying. So yeah, I’d say I’m pretty numb right now."

I didn’t reply.

My gaze fixed on the cut, slicing deeper. Blood pooled from the wound, and I blotted it with my shirt as best I could, but it still ran in sharp rivulets down the back of his shirt.

"Nick."

Swallowing hard, I focused on getting as much out of him as possible. I hated that I was doing this to him, forcing him to relive what had happened. But I had to know.

"What are they doing in there?"

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to respond.

Then, all at once, it was like his whole body reacted to my words, beginning to rattle again. His attempt at putting up a wall crumbled.

His teeth chattered, every word caught in a hysterical breath.

"It’s a factory," he whispered. "Like... like a conveyor belt. They're making something. We were sorted into colors, right? Red, Purple, and Blue. Reds disappeared, and Purples and Blues were taken into that building. I saw the Blues taken upstairs.”

“The last time I saw Bobby, she was being herded away with a bunch of others. And we were taken into this room. It was a bright room. It hurt my eyes, and we were all told we were going to be, I dunno, processed, or some shit like that.”

“Whatever they were doing was whack, man. There was nowhere to run. I tried. Me and a group of guys. They just attacked us like we were fuckin’ animals."

His whole body shuddered, and I paused with the scalpel for a moment.

There was barely any light, so I had to squint. At first, I thought it was a trick of the dark to confuse me.

But when I looked closer, there it was.

Nick was right.

Something small and metal, like a grain of rice, was sandwiched inside the cut.

"It’s okay," I said, grabbing his shoulders and squeezing hard, trying to anchor him in reality. "It’s okay, Nick. I’m here. Keep going," I urged him.

If I could keep Nick talking, I could kill two birds with one stone—get the tracker out of his neck and figure out what the camp was doing to Blues and Purples.

I remembered skinning my knee as a little kid, getting grit and cement stuck in the wound. I hated the idea of something like that being inside me, a foreign object tangled between my flesh.

Mom told me it was just sensory overload.

When the scalpel’s teeth bit further into the incision, I had to bite my lower lip to avoid jumping back and dropping the instrument.

I could already feel it slipping from my grasp, teasing its way through my slippery fingers.

Nick’s words were sending my thoughts into a tailspin.

Processing.

That word kept popping up, and it was making me progressively more nauseous.

"Processing," I whispered. "What do you mean?"

"Like I'm supposed to know!" he hissed out a laugh. "Do you expect a documented experience? It was fucked up. That's all I know. All I can… all I can fuckin' think of."

"Think," I said. "I know it hurts, but you have to try."

Nick exhaled shakily, his breath dancing in the air in front of us. "It was... it was a machine," he said softly. "They grabbed us before we could do anything, and before I knew what was happening, something was pricking my neck. I woke up… at the dentist."

His sudden splutter of laughter made me jump, his body writhing with him.

“There were people standing over me like ghosts. These machines came down from the ceiling, and I couldn't... I couldn't stop it. I couldn't get out. They... they had me tied down, and I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't fucking breathe!"

When his body jolted suddenly, I withdrew the scalpel from the cut where I was trying to use it to dig out the tracker. Keeping a gentle hold on his shoulder, I fought against a cry of my own.

"Mine was faulty," he whispered. "It… it wasn't working correctly, and I think that is what saved me, you know? How lucky is that, right? The Purples were supposed to be fixed. We were supposed to be made perfect."

With another explosive laugh, his body rattled again. "They injected me with something to screw with my brain. But the thing was faulty. So all it did... all it did was fuck up my face."

When Nick trailed off, I thought he was done. But after a pause, he tensed, and I felt his chest racking with sobs. I felt his legs struggling to stay upright.

"I can still... I can still hear them."

It was almost out. I managed to scoop up the tracker, but the incision was too small.

Nick was sobbing uncontrollably, and I couldn't console him. Not when he was in that state, his mind somewhere else entirely, caught in that memory.

"I couldn't feel anything, but I could hear it," he said stiffly. “I could hear what they were doing to me. I could hear the blades slicing into my skin and ripping away my flesh, tearing at my lips and my hair, scraping my freckles and my flaws, the spots I've had since birth, even my eye.”

“The bastards tried scooping them out. But, like I said, whatever it was that was doing this to me, it was ass. One of the blades was stuck, or not working. They were doing something to me. They were trying to make me like... like Bobby. Like the Blues. They were trying to make me perfect. Just like them."

Nick's words felt like knives cutting into my spine.

After another attempt at pulling out the tracker, this time I managed it, taking it from where it was threaded with tissue underneath the flesh.

"I've got it." I let out a relieved breath, pulling out the tracker.

Pinched between my thumb and forefinger, it was tiny, a blue light emitting from the base. When I got a proper look at it, it reminded me of a bug. And I swore there were tiny metal antennas sticking from the front.

I expected Nick to reply, but he didn't. He stayed very still, his head bowed. I don't think he noticed I'd gotten the chip out. I crushed it between my fingers and dropped it on the ground.

When I gently turned him around, Nick's gaze was on the ground.

His voice was a low murmur, like he was reliving it. "They were supposed to fix me," he whispered. “But they turned me into this."

He exhaled a breath. "I was waiting for them to scrape the flesh off my bones, but they stopped. And I was conscious enough to know what was happening.

"I got out of my restraints when the machine stopped moving. I think the process was done. Or at least, it was supposed to be done. When I got up I saw the others. But they weren't like this."

He prodded at his mutilated face. "I checked everyone, and they were—-”

He drifted off with a frustrated sigh.

"Perfect." I cut in, and his head jerked up in surprise. He nodded.

"Yeah." Nick swiped at his good eye. "They were perfect."

"Then," he continued, "I ran. I yanked off one of the blades from one of those machines and I made a break for it. There were no guards. At least they weren't in the room I was in. So I ran, and I found you."

When he caught my eye, Nick seemed to snap out of it.

Blinking rapidly, he scrunched up his face like he was coming out of a trance. His hand went to the back of his neck, grazing the cut.

"Did you get it out?"

I nodded. "It's gone," I said shakily. "It reminded me of a bug."

"A bug?"

"Yeah. It looked like it had antennae."

Something had been bothering me, and it seemed the best time to say it. "Those trackers. Were they inside us before camp? Or was it injected when you were taken?"

He shrugged, running a hand through what was left of his hair.

"That's what I was afraid of. It would make sense how they knew exactly where we were when we were planning to bail town. Which means…"

Nick's gaze flitted to me, his lip curling. The boy didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

Already, my skin felt like it was crawling, like that thing was burrowed inside me. Swallowing hard, I gingerly pressed my fingers to the back of my neck. "How did you know there was a tracker inside you?"

"I think the machine caught it," he muttered. "It must have dislodged it, because I could feel something…moving."

"Moving?" Thinking back to the tracker, my skin crawled.

"Yep." He looked like he might say something before what sounded like the lovechild of a dentist drill and car alarm slammed into my skull.

The force of it nearly took me to my knees, but Nick's grasp held me upright.

I slammed my hands over my ears, biting through the noise which burrowed its way into my brain, taking an unyielding hold.

"Shit!" Nick yelled over the sound. He seemed better acclimated to the sound, which confused me.

While my mouth was filling with blood, black spots dancing across my vision, he was on his feet, his body reacting to the noise. But not in a way I understood.

"That's the alarm. They're probably looking for me." His hand travelled up my arm, and he pulled me forwards.

“If we're getting Bobby out, we're going now, okay? The guards should be distracted, so if we keep a low profile, we should be fine."

Before I could answer, he was wrapping me into a hug, and I missed those hugs. I thought I'd be hugging him like that when we left for college and parted ways, but that life of mine was gone.

"It'll be okay. We're getting Bobby, and we're going away from here. All of us. We'll go far away, make a life for ourselves."

I was already clinging onto his promises of a life far away from Aceville. One of our own.

"Right." I found myself spluttering, stumbling in the dark.

The alarms were still blaring, branches scratching at my bare legs. But I was on a beach somewhere, at least in my mind.

Miami or California, under a crystal blue sky. Nick was on his knees searching for something. I stood and wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm.

I wouldn't think about Bobby. That's what I kept telling myself. I wouldn't think about what Nick had gone through, and if that was what processing meant for Purples, what did it mean for Blues?

"We'll... we'll live in one of those fancy apartments," I shouted, pressing my hands over my ears to block out the screeching sound trying to creep its way into my brain.

"We'll get jobs, or go to college," Nick continued in sharp breaths. He picked up my discarded shirt and threw it at me.

"Wear it inside out until we get inside. That way they won't clock you're a red."

His expression crumpled, and before I could stop him, he swiped at my face with his back hand. I could already tell he was worried.

"Are you–"

I nodded. "Yeah. It's just a nosebleed."

Nick didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Jeez, Addie. You look worse than me."

Nick pulled on his own shirt, and I had no choice but to do what he said. My shirt was damp with Nick's blood, but I forced it over my head anyway, grabbing his hand.

I didn't want to let go. I was scared that if I did, I'd lose him. For real this time. Not just the memories of him, the face I'd grown up with. All of him.

Nick broke out into a grin, and for a moment I didn't feel helpless. The crushing weight on my chest lifted slightly.

"What?" He gestured to his face, cocking a brow. "Does it look bad?"

Opening my mouth to try and say no, to sugar-coat it, I realized he didn’t deserve that.

"You look tolerable," I managed to get out, even as tears welled in my eyes again.

Nick just shoved me playfully, giving my hand a squeeze. It hurt me that he was trying to reassure me, to keep me from splintering, without a care for himself.

Though part of me knew—he wouldn’t allow himself to break.

Because if he did, so would I. And we would never get Bobby out.

Shooting me another grin with too-white teeth, Nick started forward, pulling me with him. "See? I'm going to need you to stay super positive, alright? We'll get through this."

I kept to his side as we marched through the thicket of trees.

When we approached the camp once again, the top of the building poking through the trees, Nick stumbled. I’d noticed he’d gotten clumsy-footed, struggling to walk straight without my help.

"Nick," I gripped his hand so tight I felt my nails slice into his flesh. "Can you walk?"

He shot me a pained smile. "Do you want me to answer seriously?"

Slowly, we edged toward the building.

The bodies of the dead kids were being picked up and thrown into a pile, like they were trash. With one hand covering his severed eye and the other clutching mine, Nick pulled me inside. It reminded me of a school mixed with a hospital.

Every wall was white, the floor matching. I was immediately blinded by the bright light.

I tried not to look at Nick, but it was impossible not to. He stood out in the glare; his once-handsome face reduced to ugly strips of flesh, his right eye hanging cartoonishly out of its socket.

The freckles I’d known since I was a kid were gone, scraped into oblivion with the rest of the memory of him.

There was a long, narrow corridor that seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning. We made our way slowly, ducking down when guards passed ahead. I could hear voices getting closer. Nick pulled me to his side, his breaths warm in my ear.

"If I remember correctly, it’s three floors up. When I was taken to be processed, I overheard one of them say Blues are on the third floor," he gasped out.

"They’re taken to be polished and straightened out, while Purples are 'fixed'," he used air quotes with one hand. "And Reds..." He trailed off. "We should probably talk about your narrow escape from death."

Suddenly, his expression and eyes were sympathetic, and so... Nick. "When I found you, they had killed almost all of them," he whispered. "Addie, she was going to—"

"I don’t want to talk about her."

Nodding, Nick pressed his lips together. "I bet it’s aliens. They’ve taken control of our parents and must want us for something."

Aliens.

Somehow, it was better than the alternative, which I was praying wasn’t real.

"Aliens make sense," I whispered back, just to make myself feel better. I gestured around us. "And this… this must be their mothership, right?"

Nick sent me a grin, and I could tell he too was happy playing into the fantasy. "Then we go Independence Day on their asses."

He dragged me down the corridor, managing a cloak-and-dagger run that felt wrong inside that building. I felt... gross.

My feet were tainting perfect white marble flooring. I was the defect. I was supposed to die outside, by my mother’s hand. Nick, strangely, looked like he belonged.

"How do you know so much about this place?" I said in a sharp breath as we ran across the corridor. Nick seemed to know where he was going, which made me wonder if he was as inebriated as he had claimed.

"I was supposed to be out of it," he murmured, pulling me further into the expanse of white. "But they couldn’t even do that right. So when I couldn’t scream anymore, I focused on their voices.”

“I focused on anything that... that wasn’t the blades slicing into my face. Drills and saws and blades scooping my eye out and slicing into layer after layer of skin..."

He broke off in a shaky hiss. "They said Blues were being processed upstairs, and Reds were ready for incineration."

Incineration. Something cold slithered down my spine.

The Reds weren’t just killed. They were wiped away, no trace of them left.

"We need to get you help." I squeezed his hand.

Nick laughed. But it wasn’t his laugh, the one I knew. It was harsh and twisted.

"Like I said, they pumped me with enough drugs so I didn’t feel anything. Pretty sure it’s going to wear off soon, though."

I spotted a trash can overflowing with something, and when we got closer I realized what I was looking at.

Bloodied clothes, stained blue and purple—shirts and jeans and dresses all drenched red, but still with telltale traces of spray paint rings. Nick grabbed a sweater and pants for himself, and a bundle of light pink for me.

"Put these on. Quickly."

He struggled to pull off his bloodied shirt, his eye bouncing from its socket. It reminded me of a cartoon I’d seen as a kid. He straightened out the sweater, wincing at the scarlet stains. "If we’re going to get Bobby out of here, we act like Purples."

I tried not to think about the clothes I was throwing on.

Sadie Lily had been wearing them. A light pink blouse. The purple ring had ruined it. The material was damp in my hands, warm and wet between my fingers. I had to swallow the bile stuck at the back of my throat.

My fingers itched to look through the pile, to find the dress Bobby had been wearing before she was taken. It was her favorite.

I’d been there in the store when she insisted on trying it on, spinning around for me while Nick pretended to snap photos with his imaginary camera. I was trapped in that memory, in phantom laughter, before I was pulled back to the present. Back to my reality.

I was playing with the seam of Sadie’s blouse when Nick hurried to what looked like a classroom door. He pressed his face against the glass.

"This is where I was taken," he said stiffly.

Hesitantly, I joined him. There was a sign printed on the door in all caps: "OUT OF ORDER: STERILIZATION IN PROGRESS."

Inside, there was a room filled with a dozen odd-looking chairs, each with Velcro restraints and metal contraptions hanging over them. Just like he had described.

All it took was one splash of red on the ground, and then I was seeing it everywhere, splattered over each headrest, smeared across the floor.

Blood. There was blood everywhere, rivulets of red dripping from every surface, stringy pieces of flesh covering the floor like a monster had shed its skin.

Aliens, I kept telling myself, even as the truth twisted tighter and tighter in my gut. I had to look away, swallowing the urge to barf.

An eruption of screams rang out further down the hall, and Nick let out a hiss, but I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t.

I recognized the voices. Ones I had known my whole life. Names I knew.

Faces. I knew their laughter. I knew how they sounded after too many beers.

I waited to hear her cry. Her scream. Because I knew it. I knew her scream during night terrors, the two of us wrapped in bedsheets, cocooned in our own world.

Ignoring the screams as best I could, I focused on the room in front of us.

“What… are those things?”

I didn’t realize I was trying to pull the door open until warm hands tangled with mine and yanked me back.

“Hey!” Nick’s grip wasn’t soft or reassuring. It hurt. But it was enough to pull me from the despair I was sinking into. His voice sounded strange, like it was a million miles away, lost in static.

“Addie?” His voice sounded like wind chimes as I struggled to swallow the bloody saliva creeping up my throat. Something was happening to me.

“Hey. Addie! You can’t lose it now, okay? We’re getting her out of here. Say it with me. We’re getting her out of here, and we’re going to get away, okay?”

I nodded, swiping at my bloody nose.

When Nick pulled me through a door at the end of the corridor and up a flight of steps, I could barely move my legs.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, quickening his pace. “We’re getting her out. Come on, the last thing we need is you losing it. Because, no offense, but I kind of need you to, like, live.”

“We… we are getting her out,” I gritted out. But then I looked down at Sadie’s blouse, clawing at the front of it. “This is… this is blood.” I choked, pulling at the fabric. “Sadie. They murdered her.”

Nick didn’t reply. “Let’s go.”

The second floor was livelier. Men and women in suits walked up and down with radios, murmuring to each other. A woman had Kenji Leonhart slung over her shoulder. But he wasn’t moving.

I saw something dark, almost black, against his pale skin, streaks running down his neck and the back of his shirt.

His body was limp. Wrong. Loose. It bounced on the woman’s back, and that’s when I realized the boy was dead. But he wasn’t a red. He wasn’t a defect.

I would have known. I would have known his face.

Nick grabbed me and pulled me back, flattening us against the wall. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Don’t speak. Don’t breathe.”

When I pressed my hand over my mouth, I immediately felt wet warmth. It ran down my face in hot rivulets, staining my fingers.

When droplets hit the white floor, I scrubbed them away with my foot. I hadn’t even realized my head was hurting, a dull ache crawling across the back of my skull.

Nick was quick, dragging me down the corridor, somehow managing to keep his eye in its socket. He peered into the glass of each door while I stumbled along, my head spinning, blood sputtering from my nose.

I was fading in and out of reality, pain pounding in my ears, my nose, the back of my throat, when Nick’s hand detached from mine.

“Wait.” He stopped outside one door, pressing his face to the glass.

I staggered to a stop, pressing pressure to my nose. But it wouldn’t stop.

“What is it?”

Nick let out a shuddery breath. “See for yourself.”

Inside the room was a classroom. Just like Nick had said, the Blues were perfected, stripped of flaws, of anything that made them who they were. Now, they were dolls. I looked for emotion on their faces. Some kind of expression. But there was none.

Dressed like Nick, they sat at wooden desks in upright positions, a guard looming over each one. They faced a white wall where a larger version of the film we had watched on the bus played.

I recognized those same colors, and once again, a stabbing pain crept across the back of my skull. I had to look away. They were a lot brighter than what I had seen before, bathing each face in crimson red and intense yellow, followed by dull blue.

Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Repeat.

Nick straightened up, his face bathed in lime green light. “So, this is some kind of messed up school,” he muttered.

“Purples are taken to be ‘fixed’ downstairs, and Blues, since they’re already perfect, are put in front of those colors again.” He shot me the side-eye.

“Maybe my alien theory was actually right? That’s what they do in the movies. But I don’t think they ever cared about kids.”

He pulled a face, peering through the glass.

“College kids, though? Why would they want us? It’s not like we’re smart. Why not kidnap a group of Harvard students?”

Ignoring his stupid theory, I focused on the meat of what he was saying.

A school in the middle of nowhere, where the town’s seniors had been taken for years. Where the parents and faculty were actively involved in whatever was going on.

“But why?” I whispered. “What are they doing to them?”

I searched his expression for an answer. After all, Nick was smart. He was the smartest of the three of us. At first, I was worried he had been affected by the colors too, but then he gripped my hand.

“Found her.”

Following his gaze, I scanned each student’s face until I saw her.

Bobby.

I saw Bobby, and all of me shattered. I can’t explain what it was like. It felt like swallowing glass, like being pulled deep into the ocean, choking on ice water.

Nick was there, but I couldn’t feel him. I couldn’t—oh god—I couldn’t feel his steely grip, his warm fingers. I couldn’t smell his cheap deodorant or the stink of his exotic plants.

He was there, and he wasn’t.

Instead, I was drowning.

She sat right at the back of the classroom, stiff in her seat, her hands resting on the desk in front of her.

I expected Bobby to look different. I expected not to recognize her after she had been polished and perfected.

But she looked exactly the same. Her hair fell in waves down her back. Apart from her eyes flickering with the flashing colors, Bobby wasn’t moving.

I didn’t realize I was grasping the handle until Nick gently pulled me away.

“We need to think about this,” he said. “If we walk in there and try to grab her, we’ll get caught. I dunno about you, but I really don't want to be turned into a…”

He scrunched up his face. “Have you seen Disturbing Behavior?”

“The movie?”

He nodded, pressing his face against the glass.

“Yeah. It's like the movie. Those colors are clearly doing something to her.” He turned to me, his lips pricking into a scowl. “Are they Clockwork Oranging us?!”

“That’s a good observation, Nicholas,” a familiar voice said from behind us, making me jump. “Young man, I do wish you’d put that ounce of intelligence into your studies.”

The voice made me twist around, grabbing Nick's arm on instinct.

“Fuck,” Nick groaned, taking a wary step back. “I was wrong.”

He tightened his grip on me, dragging me with him. “Unless our math teacher is an alien.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at our pursuer. “The asshole thinks surprise quizzes in the morning are fun, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Mr. Fuller stood with his arms folded, an easy smile on his lips. But the moment he caught sight of my friend’s face, his eyes darkened. He tutted and stepped forward.

“Oh, Nicholas, I do apologize for the mishap. We've been looking everywhere for you.”

“Yeah. Sounds like you were real worried,” Nick spat, pulling me back, stumbling over his feet. But any fight he had died away when the teacher enveloped him in a hug.

I stood frozen as the man caressed Nick’s cheeks like the boy was his son.

Nick didn’t move, letting the man’s fingers graze what was left of his face, fingernails skimming over strips of bloody flesh. Mr. Fuller’s touch was gentle. Fatherly.

Eventually, Nick pulled away, eyes wide.

“Get your fucking hands off me, old man.”

The teacher smiled. “I was informed your processing was cut short due to a fault, resulting in your current state. And yet, you managed to pull out the Zero! Young man, the Pollux Procedure is designed to make you the perfect human—a soldier."

“However, it seems something went wrong.” He cocked his head, studying the boy like he was a piece of meat.

“Your brain responded almost perfectly to the initial programming, so we’ll have to fix your face again. I’m sure it won’t take long. You will be perfect once more.”

The teacher's expression didn’t waver. “You are good stock, and a potential recruit. So yes, Nick. Your situation will be corrected, and you will join the others.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” Nick grabbed my hand and pulled me to his side with a snarl aimed at the teacher. I stumbled after him, my vision blurry. Everything felt unreal.

The hallway doors shimmered like an optical illusion. My head pounded, and it was getting harder to stifle my breath through my nose. But Nick’s grip was firm.

“Whatever you’re doing here looks like fun! Really, I’m ecstatic,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I’d rather not be part of What-the-Fuck Ultra.”

What happens when one little girl’s wish comes true?

July 17th, 2027.

Emily Marks, a 5-year-old cancer patient, made a wish before she died.

“I wish every girl in the world was a princess, and had their own prince.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

My vision feathers, my mouth tastes of blood and bile, and a little while earlier, I think I screamed. Not now. My lips don't mean anything, my tongue has been numbed, and words are alphabet soup.

I am staring at the toned back muscles of the man in front of me.

I am 17th in a moving line of potential Princes. 

I watch him step forward.

His head is sliced cleanly off.

His torso slumps forward, and just as quickly another head is attached. 

Blades hover above me, knives and needles, stainless steel already slick with me. I can't cry out. I don't have a mouth.

Screams slam into my skull.

Sometimes, the anaesthesia does not work. Sometimes, we wake up.

We see that we are only a body and a head.

For now, that is all I am. 

That is how a Prince begins.

I stand naked on ice-cold floor tiles splattered with dried blood, while my own blood swirls beneath me, warm and staining my brand-new skin.

I have already been molded, my body prepared for conversion. The human parts of me have been stripped away. 

My name, my age, my thoughts. 

I am a slab of flesh, ready to be made.

Unlike the man in front of me, I do not lose my head. 

Air hisses from the walls. It tickles.

“Step forward, Prince 108769.” The voice is bitter and human, cracking from a speaker I cannot see. 

I do. I have no choice, a guard's human hands shoving me from the cubicle. I step straight into ice cold water that peels the blood from my brand new skin, jerking me awake. Awake enough to feel the rawness of my flesh, the parts of me where my skin has been ripped from the bone and remade, stitched and knitted together. 

Maybe this is the moment when I will scream.

Voices graze my ears. 

“He's perfect,” one hisses, “...barely any work done, but maybe his…”

I step off the conveyor belt, a sculpted, perfect lump of flesh. 

Only one thought pollutes my mind. 

I am ready for my Princess.

A woman in white grabs my elbow and yanks me into a separate room with a bed, a chair, and a desk. She quickly dresses me in a white gown. In front of a giant mirror, my reflection tells me I am around 25 years old. I am relieved. Some princesses are cruel when they create us.

My Princess, so far, has chosen to keep me mostly intact.

The woman adding my finishing touches is talkative.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere as she applies my makeup.

“If it helps, I’m not a princess. I never wanted a prince. Before all of this shit, I was engaged to my girlfriend.”

She picks up a bright pink hairbrush and runs it through my hair.

“I lost my job as a teacher,” she whispers. “The only jobs available were at factories in my city, and my brother was sent to be turned into a Prince. I had no choice. At first, I took the job to try to save him…”

Her voice shudders, and her strokes grow more intense.

“Then I saw him.” She swallows. “I saw his face, anyway. He had a new body, and he was taken by a Princess.” The woman shakes her head and tries to smile.

Her manicured fingers prick my chin. 

“If it… means anything to you, I think that little girl was a monster.” 

I don't respond. 

I can't respond, my voice hasn't been reattached. 

The woman sighs. Then rolls her eyes. “You can't even hear me,” she says. She disappears out the door for a moment, and returns with my chosen outfit perfectly intact inside a clear white bag. 

She dresses me in a lilac suit over a white frilled shirt and trousers. Then she tucks a sword into my belt. The woman frowns at an iPad. “Okay, so, according to your receipt, you are named Prince Slater.”

She rips off her mask. “Just nod to confirm, and I’ll put you down as completed. I’ll take you to get your crown, and then you will meet your Princess.”

I hesitate, and then nod. 

“All right, Prince Slater!” Her smile is too wide. “Come with me!” 

A room awaits me, a golden crown sitting on a velvet cushion.

“Kneel.” She tells me, and I drop to my knees. The woman gently crowns me, her lips finding my ear. I straighten up, and she’s back to performing. She tells me to open my mouth, places a pill on my tongue, and tells me to swallow. 

It works like medication, dissolving with my saliva and bringing my voice back.

“Okay, Prince Slater, just head on down the hallway, and your Princess will be waiting!”

I don't want to leave her. 

A thought hits me. Violent. Painful. 

I don't want a Princess. 

“Slater?”

A voice echoes. It's my Princess. 

Already beckoning me closer.

But at the end of the hallway, there is only a Prince. Tall. Handsome. Thick blonde curls. 

Where is his princess? 

Then he drops his sword, and stumbles toward me. 

“Slater?” he hisses, his hands cupping my face. “Hey. You’re here,” he sobs.

“You’re actually here.”

He swallows and suddenly looks sick as he runs his fingers down my plastic flesh. “I had to make you. I had no other choice! I… I got out! The Princess who made me, she’s saving us,” he whispers, caressing my face, his hands trembling.

“Slater, it’s me.” 

He breaks down when my mouth won’t work.

I… don't understand.

Where is my… Princess?

“Slater!” The Prince shakes me. He's crying now, though I'm not sure...why.

“It's your boyfriend.”

I was thirteen years old when I first saw a kid try to escape.

Clara Danvers was a senior at Aceville High School. She wore pastel colors and flower crowns in her hair. I didn't know her very well since I attended the middle school down the road, but I knew she was one of the most popular girls in her class.

Clara was the type all the girls in our town aspired to be.

Her beauty wasn't eye-catching in a town like Aceville, where all of its people were ridiculously attractive.

Clara was running from the inevitable. Summer camp.

Camp was mandatory in Aceville.

At the time, I wasn't sure why.

All I knew was that all eighteen-year-olds were obligated to attend camp for the remainder of their summer before college.

And yes, you would be right in thinking it was practically a human rights violation.

It was their summer.

Aceville's kids were teetering on the edge of adulthood and responsibilities, their teen years and beloved childhoods dwindling, and that last summer meant a lot to them.

Of course, they fought back. Clara Danvers didn't strike me as a rebel.

She looked like the type of girl who followed all the rules and joined as many extracurriculars as possible. She had the perfect friends, the perfect boyfriend, straight A's, and was Harvard-bound, according to word of mouth traveling.

However, on July 16th, 2016, I saw a different side to her.

The memory is vague, though I remember small tidbits.

I remember being in the store with my mother. I remember it being a hot day; the kind of heat I hated. It was too warm to think straight, and all I wanted to do was sit in the back yard and read. I didn't have a choice whether I accompanied my mother, though she had blackmailed me with the reward of getting a new comic.

Mom was talking to the cashier. She was friends with half the town, so I wasn't surprised when every person she passed by bid a hello, shooting a smile at me.

I remember being bored.

I needed to pee, and I was at that point in my life when I was wary of being seen shopping with my Mom. It was pretty much social death for a seventh grader to be seen with their Mom. So, keeping my head down and pulling my baseball cap further over my face, I headed over to the comic book section. All of my favorites were there, and I had ten dollars to spend. I was in my element.

Skimming through Spider-Man issues, I found myself captivated by the colors.

Spider-Man was a kids comic, I knew that.

I'd made the mistake of pulling one out of my backpack at school, only for Summer Forest to snatch it out of my hands and hold it up in the air, a wicked smile on her face. "Urgh. Do you still read Spider-Man?"

"No!" I'd snapped back, my cheeks burning bright.

"Liar!" Summer snorted. "You still read Spider-Man! Isn't that, like, for little kids?”

I shrugged. “It's a good comic book.”

“It's for kids!” Summer laughed. “You're so weird, Adeline.”

I'm not going to say it was traumatizing. Some kids had laughed along and some had ignored Summer. I snatched the comic off of her and shoved it back in my bag.

Then on the way to class, I shoved it in the trash and started watching makeup YouTube tutorials. I still wasn't completely healed from that incident, so ignoring a smiling Mary Jane in a funky lab coat, I moved onto the more… adult comics.

Well, they were adult in my kid-brain at least. Picking up Teen Titans, I flipped it over and scanned the back.

Mom was still chatting to the cashier, and my urge to pee wasn't going away.

I figured stepping outside to cool off would be a good idea, even when I knew I was just stepping back into the baking heat, away from the pathetic cooling fan sitting near the door.

My plan was to go back to the car and blast the AC.

Mom was going to be in there for a while. I could tell by the way she was leaning against the counter, already making her roots.

I was sliding into mom's car, trying not to wince when my bare legs sunk into hot leather, when a scream rang out, startling me.

When I had twisted around scanning the parking lot in front of the store, I saw her.

Clara Danvers.

Dressed in shorts and t-shirt, her sneakers pounding against steaming tarmac, her strict blonde ponytail flying behind her. Clara was running for her life.

At first I thought she was running from some kind of animal.

Coyote attacks were common. But not in broad daylight.

Except Clara wasn't running from an animal. I recognised Mrs Peters, one of the high school teachers. Mom had been friendly with her. Mrs Peters was in her mid-40's and wore thick sweaters in ninety degree heat.

The last thing I thought I'd ever see was the teacher sprinting after the retreating senior, the kind look in her eyes that I had known my whole life, replaced with a look of intense determination.

It was almost comical.

Like I was watching a cartoon.

I laughed. I felt bad, but it was hard to ignore that hysterical spew of laughter crawling up my throat. Clara was a good runner. Maybe she was on the track team.

Though Mrs Peters, amazingly, was faster.

She was in good shape for her age, long strides catapulting her further forwards, swinging arms driving momentum.

"Clara Danvers!" The teacher wasn't out of breath, though neither was Clara.

Neither of them were giving up.

Watching the bizarre display, I found myself following them, though I was slower, darting behind parked cars, keeping myself hidden. There was something clutched in Clara's hand.

When she brought it to her ear, her eyes wide and wild, lips moving frantically, I realised she was talking to someone.

When Clara twisted around to scan for the teacher, I knew she had made a mistake. I watched the scene unravel in front of me like it was going in slow motion. Clara's phone slipped from her grasp and she let out a sharp cry, ducking to try and snatch it back up.

But the teacher was on her tail. "Miss Danvers, you are acting like a child."

The teacher reached out and snatched the girl by the back of her shirt.

Clara shrieked, trying to battle her way out of the teacher's grasp, but Mrs Peters' grip was harsh, her fingernails sticking into the bare flesh of Clara's arms. "Get off of me!"

The girl was acting like a caged animal. And I didn't understand.

It was just camp... right?

I understood Clara and her class not wanting to go, because it was their last summer to be free and kids again.

Maybe the girl was acting dramatic, but I could empathise with her. I watched Mrs Peters drag the girl, spitting and cursing, away. I can still remember their words.

Clara Danvers didn't swear.

At least, that's what I thought.

She was the golden girl after all. Clara was yelling names, presumably those of her friends. And Mrs Peter's was struggling to keep a hold of her.

"Miss Danvers, please calm down. We were very clear at the assembly that we would take necessary measures to make sure every senior is on that bus."

Clara dug the soles of her converse into the tarmac. She reminded me of a petulant child throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to go to camp! I have my own life, you know!"

"You are part of this town as well as the high school. Which means rules still apply."

"But I'm eighteen! I'm a legal adult!"

Mrs Peters ignored her outburst. "As I said, you are still a student. Therefore, you are expected to follow rules. One of them is that the senior class will attend a mandatory summer camp before college. This has been going on for years, Mrs Danvers. I expected more from a class valedictorian.”

The teacher sighed, like the girl was a defiant little kid. ”You have been one of the smartest in your class since your freshman year, Clara. I did not expect this lack of intelligence from you. Do not ruin your reputation by acting like a child."

Clara sputtered. "Oh, I'm the child? You just sprinted after me for three blocks over a fucking summer camp, and I'm the one acting like a kid?"

"Clara, stop."

"I will if you let go! Hey! You're hurting me!"

The two of them were getting further away, and all I could do was watch their shadows stretching across the sidewalk.

I was debating whether to follow them to wherever they were going, but then a hand was grabbing my shoulder. I twisted around and found my mother. She didn't look mad or confused. Mom didn't question why I had disappeared. Instead, her gaze had snapped to where I had been watching Clara and the teacher.

Mom’s eyebrows furrowed, her lip curling like she was about to say something before seemingly snapping out of it.

Mom shoved paper bags of groceries into my arms with a light smile and I struggled to get a strict hold of them.

She was looking at me, but I could have sworn her gaze was wandering, searching for something.

"Did you pick a comic book, honey?”

I shook my head. I felt kind of sick. Clara Danvers didn't have a choice whether she went to camp or not. None of her class did.

When they tried to skip out, they were treated like animals.

For summer camp?

I couldn't understand why it was mandatory.

No other town forced their kids to go to camp, so why did ours?

I tried to smile at Mom. "Can we just go home?"

Mom looked like she was going to protest but nodded. She had that expression—the one I dreaded. When she was trying to read me, delving into my mind.

I wasn't a talkative kid, so my Mom turned into my therapist. On that occasion, however, it was different.

She paid no attention to my sickly cheeks and the lump in my throat.

"All right.” Mom inclined her head. I tried to ignore her craning her neck. She was definitely aware of Clara Danvers being wrestled onto a school bus. “Are you sure you're okay?”

I chose to ignore the terrified faces of seniors pressed against the bus windows.

“Yeah.” I said. “I just feel sick.”

“Okay. Let's go get something to drink.”

I don't know how I managed to keep my mouth shut and nod, following Mom back to the car.

It's not like Aceville's bizarre rule was a secret. I just didn't want to talk about it.

Neither did Mom, from the look on her face.

Instead of grilling me like usual, she took me for a chocolate fudge sundae at our local diner. I still remember the sicky feeling in my stomach when I struggled to swallow it, washing it down with Coke.

I tried hard to pretend everything was okay, but I couldn't stop thinking about Clara and the way she had been treated.

Dread filled me like poison, shivers rattling up and down my spine. I couldn't sit still. Was that my future?

Was I going to be hunted down like that?

That's what I kept thinking. When Mom was talking excitedly about her plans for our next family vacation, I was discreetly counting on my fingers how many years I had before I turned eighteen.

Until seeing Clara dragged like an animal by a teacher I considered one of the nicest people in town, I looked forward to eighteen. It was the age of independence, the peak of teenagehood.

Though excitement turned to dread.

I never saw Clara again.

Or the class of 2016. It's a well-known fact that freshly graduated kids go to camp, and then straight to college.

But I still found it strange. Once they were gone, the town forgot them and turned their attention to the new senior class.

I watched this happen for five years. Kids followed in Clara's footsteps. She had started the rebellion after all. Though none of them came close to escape like her.

I watched them tear through the woods, laughing and whooping, like it was a game. The girls stripped down to two piece swimsuits, and in 2018, Mikey Blake streaked. It almost went viral. Clara's story spread like a virus, and seniors took it as an opportunity to one-up her.

I guess it became less of something to be scared of, and more to anticipate.

Sure, no kid wanted to be stuck at summer camp. But it was the hunt beforehand that excited them.

They were always caught. Always wrestled to the ground and treated just like Clara Danvers.

Over the years, however, it became less scary to watch, and more exciting. Like watching the latest blockbuster. Who didn't want to watch kids chased by teachers with way too much time on their hands?

I watched them year after year. My friends and I made bets on who would and wouldn't get caught. We sat on the sidewalk with soda and burgers from the diner, cheering them on. We didn't pay attention to how they were treated.

In our minds, it was fun. I won 200 dollars in 2019. I bet my friend at least five seniors would try to skip town, and they did.

Aceville felt like it was stuck in limbo between the 1980's and the present.

Sure, we had cell phones and TikTok, but my aunt and uncle drove a total boomer mobile. Our local diner had an old style aesthetic and half the town didn't even have televisions. Maybe they preferred to stay in the old days. Though it's not like I was complaining. I liked it. I liked that we were different from others. Aceville.

An idealistic town where there were more teens than adults. My friend Nick used to joke that it was like living in the world of Stranger Things. I had to agree. Luckily, though, we weren't under threat from aliens from different dimensions and teenagers with Carrie-like powers.

Five years after Clara, after watching the same shit year after year, it was finally our turn.

The class of 2020.

I was standing in the exact same store I had been in five years ago when I first saw Clara. When I first witnessed the hunt.

This time, however, I wasn't with my mother. I'd managed to score a part time job to pay for college, and I'd just finished my shift. Smells Like Teen spirit was playing for the millionth time that day on the crappy intercom radio. I did suggest the owner invested in an Alexa, and got a, “Kids these days!” lecture in return.

He couldn't afford a decent radio, so every single song I liked had been mercilessly murdered.

Thankfully, the store was empty that afternoon.

It was a hot summer day in the middle of July, and the majority of the town, minus my class, were at the local swimming pool cooling off. This was the kind of heat that made me want to bury my head in the ground.

There was zero air con, so I had been fanning myself with old pamphlets. It was my last day at my job and I had been rewarded with half of my wage and a crushed piece of chocolate cake wrapped in a napkin. “Have fun at camp!” Was all my boss said, his smile a little too wide.

I had no doubts that the asshole had already gambled the rest of my wage on whether my class would be captured or not.

Throwing the cake away, I stuffed the crumpled notes in my shorts. I should have been thinking about college that day.

I should have been thinking about how the hell I was going to pay for my tuition with barely 300 bucks.

But I wasn't.

I just had to survive the day, and then I'd think about college.

Checking my phone, I made sure I had blocked my mother, as well as my aunt and uncle. Dad wasn't in the picture.

Not much to say, I never knew him. Dad went for milk and cigarettes and never came back.

Checking and rechecking the time, I pulled off my work shirt and stuffed it in the trash. I would definitely attract attention looking like a neon traffic light.

I had spent the last hours of my shift going over the plan in my head. It wasn't fool proof, and we had thought it up while drunk and high on mushrooms, but it was still a plan.

Stepping out into the relentless heat, I was hopeful.

Unlike my classmates, I wasn't joining their game.

I had no intention of going to camp. I had been curious as a kid, but over the years the novelty had worn off. It was my last Summer with Nick and Bobby, and I was going to spend every day with them doing what I wanted. We spent half of the year planning a road-trip to Florida and I was going to use the time away from town to finally come clean to Mom about Bobby.

I was going to tell her everything, disappear for the summer, and sneak back in September and grab my things.

I didn't have plans for post-summer. I was smart enough for my dream college, but it was my lack of cash. Mom wasn't that well off and had made it clear that if I wanted to go to college, I had to pay for it myself.

The talkie in my hand was store-bought. Nick had thrown it at me the night before.

I scanned the parking lot. So far, it was clear.

Tying my hair into a ponytail, I stepped out into sticky air that made my skin crawl.

I twisted the dial on the talkie and held it to my mouth. Before I could speak, Nick's voice came through in a burst of hissing static. "Fuck, it's hot. They couldn't have picked a worse day to play their little game."

Rolling my eyes, I couldn't resist a smile.

"What are the talkies for again?"

“You forgot to say over. “

“What are the talkies for?” I paused for a moment. “Over.”

"Um, because it's fun!" Nick shot back. I could hear his heavy breathing as he catapulted into a run. "Are you at the store? I'm heading towards the car." He paused. "So far, no sign of teachers. Which is a bad sign. That means they're lying in wait.”

I choked out a laugh. ”Nicholas, are you enjoying this?”

“Our only entertainment is TikTok and catching fireflies in mason jars.” He laughed, ”Of course I'm enjoying this!”

He let out a sharp hiss. "Oh, shit! I've got visuals on Miss Cater. She's on the war-path. Just gone past the dry cleaners. I'm going to need you to go slowly.”

“I'm going slowly.”

“No, I mean, like slow-motion slowly.”

"Let's just focus on getting out of here." I started walking, checking for pursuers. According to the mass text the school had sent this morning, all seniors were expected to be on the bus at half past one.

It was quarter past. The plan was to get to Nick's car where we had stuffed all of our bags the night before, and step on it.

Of course parents had figured we were going to try and flee town, so our cars had been confiscated. Luckily, though, Nick worked at a junkyard. He'd spent months turning a hunk of junk into a decent enough ride. So, we were already one step ahead of them.

Starting to jog, I leapt across the parking lot. "Bobby? Are you there?"

My stomach sank when the name escaped my lips, that feeling I'd been fighting with since we'd met returning with vengeance. It wasn't confusion when I was fourteen and had butterflies.

No, it was guilt. I'd made a promise that I would tell Mom about us. But Mom was—different. She wouldn't understand. She hated the idea of me dating. I took a guy home for dinner in sophomore year and she politely told him to leave. When he didn't, Mom started screaming at him.

Mom was already weird about Bobby just being a friend. I had zero doubts she was going to freak out when I told her it was actually something more.

"Hmm?" Bobby's voice was soft and smooth, slipping so effortlessly through static like it belonged in there. "I'm about two minutes away. I raided my Mom’s kitchen for snacks before I left."

Nick whooped. "See, this is why I prefer you over Addie."

This time I spluttered. "That hurts. I've been working.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. "You're not making your case any better."

Bobby's voice cut through our laughter. "Did you tell Your Mom about us yet, Addie?"

I stopped laughing, my footsteps faltering. The sun was a bastard baking into my back and I struggled to speak through the breath caught in my throat. "Uh…" I was struggling to coerce basic words when I caught movement in the corner of my eye.

Expecting it to be a teacher I started backing away, lowering my hand holding the talkie. But then I glimpsed familiar blonde curls tied into pigtails catching the sun almost perfectly. The figure wasn't that far away, but I saw all of her and I felt myself shatter. I wanted to tell Mom, I really did. But it was hard. Robyn Atwood was the first person I fell for.

Bobby was beautiful like every other kid in town and I was still struggling to figure out how she liked someone like me.

I had a stubby nose and my eyes were too far apart. In a town full of pretty people, I was kind of a bad egg.

It sucked that my parents had given me bad genes.

Robyn was perfect.

Angelic features, a heart shaped face, and hair like liquid silk.

Bobby was out. She had told her mother when we started dating. I chickened out. Luckily, our Mom’s weren't mutual friends. If they were, fuck camp, I'd probably be at military school.

Bobby's smile was sweet, though I did raise my eyebrows at her prom dress.

Not exactly the best outfit to escape town in, but her shoes were cute.

Bobby's hair was tied back, stray curls dancing in her eyes. She was sweating, her cheeks paler than normal. Bobby was an anxious person in general, so the escape plan was probably tearing her apart inside. Still, she put on a brave face.

Instead of talking about my Mom, she pulled me into a quick hug, lacing her fingers in mine. I knew the conversation about my cowardice was coming, but it could wait. Bobby reached into her tote bag, pulling out a share pack of candy and waving them in my face. "I did get you these for the car ride, since you promised to talk to your Mom, but sure, I'll eat them on my own."

I scoffed, shoving her when she laughed. "Thanks."

"Fine, I'll give them to Nick."

I tried to snatch the pack off of her. "I'm pretty sure he's a allergic, so good luck killing him."

Nick's laugh came through, tangled in static. "I look forward to being poisoned."

Bobby was fast. So were her instincts. Before I could grab them, she shoved them in her bag, her lips splitting into a grin. She was pissed. But she wasn't pissed enough for an argument. Well, it's not like we had time to have an argument.

"Weee should get going." Bobby squeezed my hand. “Let's go.”

At that moment, all the dread eating me up inside slipped away. I pulled Bobby into a run, and we left the parking lot, darting across the street. I could hear yelling in the distance. No doubt our classmates were either getting caught or pulling a fast one. "Nick?" I said into the talkie. "Are you close?"

To my surprise, there was no answer.

Nick had found every opportunity to use the damn things, so it was strange that he’d disappeared.

Bobby tried her talkie. "Nick? Are you there?"

The junkyard was a five minute walk, and maybe a two minute run. If we sprinted.

Nick wasn't answering, and the closer we got to the junkyard, a bad feeling started to coil in the pit of my gut. When I slowed down, bending over with my hands on my knees, gasping into humid air, Bobby tried to contact Nick again. She shook the talkie with a frown. "Maybe it's faulty?"

I fixed her with a sceptical look. "Both of them?"

straightened up and pulled my phone out of my shorts. Twenty five past. The teachers were most likely doing a head count and were already on the prowl.

I was shaking with adrenaline. "We should get to the car," I gasped out. "Our best case scenario is the idiot got distracted or broke the talkie. We shouldn't assume the worst."

Bobby nodded, though her smile was thin. When we started running again, our shoes pounding the steaming tarmac, I felt a rush of déjà vu. My ponytail flew behind me, and I pumped my arms and legs hard, propelling my body faster. I was just like Clara. Except unlike her, I was going to make it.

At least, that's what I thought.

The junkyard was in my sight when the talkie crackled with static. I was frowning at the mass of beaten up cars covered in dirt and old engines, when an all too familiar voice filled the air.

"Adeline Calstone and Robyn Atwood.”

The voice of our math teacher Mr Fuller sent shivers crawling up my spine.

I felt sick. There was no way he had tracked us down that fast.

How was that even possible?

Suddenly, all I could think about was Clara. All I could think about was the way she was dragged, kicking and screaming, and our class had treated it like a game. That was until it was our turn.

Mr Fuller's voice was stern. "I suggest abandoning whatever plan you have and making your way to the school bus, please." When I was considering smashing the talkie against the gravel sidewalk, he continued, "Your friend Nick Castor is a good runner, I'll give him that. But not fast enough. I expected more from a varsity captain.”

"Asshole." Nick grumbled through the talkie. "I took us all the way to regionals."

Twisting around, my heart dropped into my gut.

Nick's voice wasn't just clear on the talkie, it was close. Too close. I froze. Bobby pulled her hand from mine and squeaked, her hand slapping over her mouth.

When I saw the two of them coming towards us, Mr Fuller, dragging Nick, I had the split second thought of grabbing Bobby and running for it. But I wasn't going to leave my best friend.

It didn't take long before the three of us were rounded up.

Nicholas Castor was the quintessential high school golden boy. He stood at an imposing six feet, with a lean, athletic build that spoke to years of dedication on the football field. His dark brown hair was awkwardly styled, and his freckle-dusted skin gave him an almost boyish charm.

I used to have a crush on Nick as a little kid.

Then he opened his mouth.

Now, the boy was more like an annoying older brother.

"Are the restraints really necessary?" Nick spat when we were cuffed and pushed into the back of Mr Fuller's car.

Some people might call it kidnapping, but in Aceville on July 16th it was the norm.

We sat squeezed together in the back. Fuller's car was a dinsour. I was pretty sure he was listening to music on a tape player. Nick tried singing along in his attempt to annoy the teacher into letting us go. I think he was trying to sing badly, but the guy was a decent singer.

Halfway through Highway To Hell, and a surprisingly good guitar solo he was somehow managing with his arms pinned behind his back, complete with annoying mouth noises, I dug my elbow in his gut.

Nicholas Castor failed a lot of things, like reading the room for example.

And social cues.

He was supposed to be getting tested for ADHD, but according to the school, Nick was “too sociable” to be neurodivergent.

I called bullshit, but his parents agreed.

The car ride didn't take long and was uncomfortable. The three of us were squashed like sardines with barely any space to move– or breathe.

Nick's knee was digging into my back, Bobby's head in my lap. When we arrived at school, we were thankfully uncuffed and transferred to the bus. I wasn't expecting us to be the ones they were waiting on. I also wasn't expecting a round of sarcastic applause.

Even Sadie and Danny had been caught.

Nick did a mocking bow, and Fuller thwacked the back of his head.

“I told you ya wouldn't make it!” Jake Carlisle yelled.

Bobby pulled a face. “At least we tried!”

When I was pushing my way to the back of the bus, keeping a tight hold of Bobby's hand and Nick's sleeve, we were greeted to a deluge of faces. Some kids held their hands up for a high fives which Nick happily slapped, but the majority of them looked disappointed. If we had failed to escape, then it really was impossible.

There was no way out.

Camp was inevitable.

I found a seat quickly, right at the back, pulling Nick and Bobby next to me.

"Well. That failed." Nick let out a nervous laugh when the bus started moving.

“Your fault.” Bobby grumbled. “If you weren't kidnapped by our math teacher, we'd be halfway out of town right now.”

Nick tipped his head back with a laugh. “Oh, yeah, I'm so sorry for being chased for three blocks and threatened with a rock.”

I sent him a look. “He threatened to throw a rock at you?”

Nick didn't meet my gaze. “Yep. The guy’s a fucking psycho. I had to surrender. I've told you guys like fifteen times that man is bad news, but you never listen to me…” He trailed off when my gaze wandered.

“Like now, for example.” Nick continued. “I could say Fuller was my father, and you'd be like, “Oh wow, really? That's really cool, Nick…” The boy’s babbling faded into a dull murmur in my head. I was frowning at two men dressed in black that had jumped at the last minute.

They didn't look like anyone I knew. The two of them stationed themselves at the front. They didn't really fit in the whole summer camp aesthetic.

Nick was still talking when sound slammed into me.

“And that's why I don't get it. Glenn was a great character, and they just killed him. Brutally, too. His head looked like a deflated beach ball…” I had no choice but to settle down in my seat and let the nauseating movements of the bus send my stomach hurtling into my throat.

Nick pulled out his Switch, and Bobby lay her head against the window. I guess none of them wanted to talk, though I didn't blame them. Nick wanted to show me his new game, but I got bored.

The lore was confusing, and kept going off on tangents and forgetting what he was saying. When my phone buzzed an hour into the journey, I switched it off without looking at the screen. I had zero interest in talking to my smug mother.

I don't know how long we were on the bus, but at points I felt like we were going around in circles. I could have sworn we had passed the same sign, but when I pointed it out, Nick mumbled something unintelligible, and Bobby was sleeping. Outside, the sky turned eerily dark.

I could have been wrong, but I was sure we had been on the bus for hours.

And nobody was questioning it.

The others were either asleep or had earphones corked in.

When we came to an abrupt stop, Bobby woke up and Nick put his switch away.

The rest of the class seemed to snap out of the trance-like state that had swallowed them up. They started to ask questions.

We were all ignored. Instead, one of the two men I'd spotted earlier stood up and addressed us. "Could I have your attention please?” He cleared his throat. "My name is Laurence Shade, and I'm a recruiter. In a few minutes you will watch a small film we have prepared which will give us an idea where to categorise you. Please be aware that watching the film is mandatory."

"What?" Summer Forest laughed. "This is a joke, right? Isn't this supposed to be a camp?"

As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, I pressed my face against the window. It was raining, no, pouring. I don't know how I didn't notice. Nick leaned over me, his expression crumpling. "When did it get dark?"

Bobby nodded. "How long have we been on this bus?"

Before I could answer, a portable TV screen in front of me lit up with a white screen which turned green, then yellow, flicking from color to color flashing in my eyes. Nick snorted. "What the fuck is this?"

But he was watching the screen.

Bobby too. Like it was drawing them in, leeching onto their minds.

Murmurs around the bus confirmed my classmates were equally confused.

I squeezed my shut at first, but I was overcome with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. I let my eyes flicker open, but as soon as my gaze landed on the screen, on flashing colors hitting in quick succession, a sharp pain rumbled in my right temple.

The colors kept going. I remember the sequence perfectly.

Red.

Yellow.

Blue.

Green.

Repeat.

I don't know how long I was staring at the colors. I don't know how long my body was frozen, my eyes unblinking, but I could feel my body reacting. My mouth was open, unable to close, a thin sliver of drool running down my chin. There was something warm sliding from my nostril.

I couldn't wipe it away. My body was stuck, like I was paralysed. Like I'd never move again.

Next to me, Nick and Bobby were frowning at the colors.

But unlike me, they could move.

Bobby was blinking, trying to keep up with them.

Nick slowly inclined his head, his lips muttering silent words I couldn't understand.

And then just like that, the screen flashed off.

Bobby drew in a sharp breath and straightened in her seat.

Nick blinked rapidly. I expected him to freak out, but he was strangely quiet.

"Addie.” Bobby's eyes found mine. “Your nose.”

Swiping gingerly at my nose with my bare arm, I let out a shuddery breath.

We had to get out. Whatever the place was, it wasn't summer camp. I could hear hisses around me, at the back of the bus and the front, voices collapsing into white noise. When I risked turning my head I spotted Serena Kyle with her hand pressed over her nose and mouth.

She was doing a bad job of hiding the crimson stream flooding through her fingers. Suddenly it felt like my world was crumbling in front of me. The two men started up the aisle, labelling each student.

They held cans of spray paint like weapons, marking us with different colors.

There were three colors.

Red, Blue, and Purple.

When kids tried to protest, tried to make a run for it, they were cuffed and shoved back in their seats. There was so much screaming and fighting, I couldn't hear what the men with spray paint were saying.

Nick grabbed my hand, and I grabbed Bobby's. When one of the men reached the kids in front of me, the front of their shirts were sprayed deep, dark blue.

The man studied the three girls like they were pieces of meat. "These are all good!"

The girls he was talking about started talking over each other, but he blanked them. "Blues will go into processing first, and purples will follow. If we can fix them."

The man's words filled my mouth with phantom bugs.

“Addie.”

Bobby swiped at my nose, her eyes wide. “What's going on?”

I had a feeling she wasn't talking about the spray paint.

When the guard reached my seat, he sprayed a red circle on the front of my shirt.

Red. That was new.

I thought the guard was going to raise his hand to me, but instead he stuck his podgy fingers under the blood crusted under my nose.

"Defect." He said.

"What?"

He ignored me, moving onto Nick.

Purple.

Nick tried to pull off his shirt defiantly, only for the guard to slap him across the face.

The man seemed to study my friend, before grabbing Nick by the scruff of his neck. "Pending." He grumbled, his fingernails grazing over freckles dotted on my best friend's cheeks. "I'm not the one who will make a final choice. You better be as bright as you seem in a good light, kid."

Nick stumbled back, his gaze flicking to me.

Run.

But there was nowhere to run.

Bobby shrieked when the man sprayed a blue circle on the front of her dress.

I tried to stop him, but I was dragged by my hair, ragged like a wild animal. "This one's good too!" He yelled to the front.

When the men were finished with the spray cans, we were told to file off the bus and join our respected color groups. Nick tried to fight a guard, only to be punched in the face. But he still tried again, swaying back and forth, screaming to be let go.

When we tried to run, we were grabbed and thrown off the bus.

I'm not sure how much time had passed. I was clinging onto my friends, and then they were being pulled away. Nick and Bobby were treated like they mattered, forced into their color groups.

I was shoved onto my knees in dirt which stained my legs. It was pouring, and my ponytail was plastered to my back. Other reds were forced next to me. There were around 12 of us in total. I know that because I took snapshots of each of them.

Not names. Faces.

Names hurt, so I remembered them by face.

I remember Summer Forest next to me. I remember dirt streaked down her face, blood dripping down her chin. That's what we all shared. The Reds. We had all suffered the same nose bleed, crimson streaking down our faces, mixing with the rain. The 12 of us were put in a line in front of the bus, and when a woman in a pristine white suit and red hair addressed us under the light of her flashlight, I looked past her and my gaze found our camp. Not a camp.

There was no sign of a campsite, the type of thing I had expected all those years leading to my senior year.

Instead, in front of us was a multi-story building. In the distance, groups of Purple's and Blue's were being escorted inside automatic doors. While we were left in the rain for hours. The sky turned light, and then dark, and we were made to wait.

We could have been there for days, I lost all sense of time. I lost all sense of my own humanity.

I knew why they were doing this to us. But I was in denial.

I was in denial when 12 became 11 and then 10

Then 9

8

7

6

5

4

3

Summer was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. There were people in front of me.

I knew them. I'd known them since childhood.

Mr Docherty the guy who lived across the street with his poodle Gloria, Eve Simmons who owned the diner Nick, Bobby and I had frequented for most of our lives. Mr and Mrs State, the elderly couple who brought over pudding when I was home sick from school.

All I remember is waiting to follow the others, squeezing my eyes shut and screaming into the night. But then a warm hand was sliding into mine and pulling me to my feet.

There was a gunshot and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Summer.

I remember Nick pulling me away. But I will never forget Summer Forest's body lying in a heap, pooling red stemming around willowy blonde hair. I don't know how Nick got me away, but all I recall is tripping over my own feet. He dragged us into trees and undergrowth as branches scratched at my face, pulling at my hair. But I didn't care.

When Nick finally turned around to look at me, I screamed. I screamed until he slammed his hand over my mouth, shutting me up. The last time I'd seen my best friend, he definitely had two eyes.

Both intact.

Now, one of them was hanging out like a cartoon. It was almost uncanny valley how inhuman he suddenly looked.

Nicolas Castor was wearing what looked like torn hospital scrubs.

The skin of his face had been scraped away leaving bloody flaps of flesh where his cheeks used to be. His lips were swollen, half of his hair sheared off, and yet somehow, part of him looked beautiful, or at least the start of beautiful. Nick had a jawline.

But it was unfinished. Everything about him was incomplete. His full mouth of veneers were clumsy, like a psycho dentist had been playing with his teeth.

It was hard to look at him. My friend had been mutilated.

Nick spat a tooth into the dirt. “I got out.” He managed to gasp out, his voice slurring. He slowly removed his hand from my mouth, shaking his head when I opened my mouth to speak. “Shhh!” His smile was almost drunken. "It's okayyy, I, uhhhh, I got out. They had me on a tonne of sedatives, soooo just... b-bare with me.”

"Out?!" I shrieked. "Out of where?”

Nick held his eye inside his socket with one hand and held mine with the other.

"Prrrrrrrocessing." The word rolled off his tongue. He stopped, like he was going to throw up. He threw a glance behind me, before spewing lumps of red through his fingers. “Yep. Processing. Processing. The, uhhhmm, the art of being processed.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Nick pulled me further into the trees, flattening us into the dirt. “That place,” he gasped out. ”It’s... it’s not… a good place.”

I slapped him.

I needed Nick to snap out of it.

“Where is she?” I managed to squeak. “Where's Bobby?”

Nick looked completely sober for a moment, blinking rapidly. He shook his head, and the fright and pain in his eyes sent my heart into my throat. His eyes were hollow, filled with darkness I could never and would ever understand. Somehow, I already knew I'd lost him.

“We’re going to die, Addie.” Nick said in a half giggle, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his body hitting the ground with a soft thump. Following his declaration, a blinding searchlight illuminated my face.

“We’ve got movement.” a female voice yelled.

Taking two steps back, I ducked into the undergrowth.

Whatever that place was, Bobby was in there.

And Nick, a purple, was my only way of getting anywhere near that place.

So, hoisting my unconscious friend onto my shoulder, I turned and ran.

What happens when one little girl’s wish comes true?

July 17th, 2027.

Emily Marks, a 5-year-old cancer patient, made a wish before she died.

“I wish every girl in the world was a princess, and had their own prince.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

My vision feathers, my mouth tastes of blood and bile, and a little while earlier, I think I screamed. Not now. My lips don't mean anything, my tongue has been numbed, and words are alphabet soup.

I am staring at the toned back muscles of the man in front of me.

I am 17th in a moving line of potential Princes. 

I watch him step forward.

His head is sliced cleanly off.

His torso slumps forward, and just as quickly another head is attached. 

Blades hover above me, knives and needles, stainless steel already slick with me. I can't cry out. I don't have a mouth.

Screams slam into my skull.

Sometimes, the anaesthesia does not work. Sometimes, we wake up.

We see that we are only a body and a head.

For now, that is all I am. 

That is how a Prince begins.

I stand naked on ice-cold floor tiles splattered with dried blood, while my own blood swirls beneath me, warm and staining my brand-new skin.

I have already been molded, my body prepared for conversion. The human parts of me have been stripped away. 

My name, my age, my thoughts. 

I am a slab of flesh, ready to be made.

Unlike the man in front of me, I do not lose my head. 

Air hisses from the walls. It tickles.

“Step forward, Prince 108769.” The voice is bitter and human, cracking from a speaker I cannot see. 

I do. I have no choice, a guard's human hands shoving me from the cubicle. I step straight into ice cold water that peels the blood from my brand new skin, jerking me awake. Awake enough to feel the rawness of my flesh, the parts of me where my skin has been ripped from the bone and remade, stitched and knitted together. 

Maybe this is the moment when I will scream.

Voices graze my ears. 

“He's perfect,” one hisses, “...barely any work done, but maybe his…”

I step off the conveyor belt, a sculpted, perfect lump of flesh. 

Only one thought pollutes my mind. 

I am ready for my Princess.

A woman in white grabs my elbow and yanks me into a separate room with a bed, a chair, and a desk. She quickly dresses me in a white gown. In front of a giant mirror, my reflection tells me I am around 25 years old. I am relieved. Some princesses are cruel when they create us.

My Princess, so far, has chosen to keep me mostly intact.

The woman adding my finishing touches is talkative.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere as she applies my makeup.

“If it helps, I’m not a princess. I never wanted a prince. Before all of this shit, I was engaged to my girlfriend.”

She picks up a bright pink hairbrush and runs it through my hair.

“I lost my job as a teacher,” she whispers. “The only jobs available were at factories in my city, and my brother was sent to be turned into a Prince. I had no choice. At first, I took the job to try to save him…”

Her voice shudders, and her strokes grow more intense.

“Then I saw him.” She swallows. “I saw his face, anyway. He had a new body, and he was taken by a Princess.” The woman shakes her head and tries to smile.

Her manicured fingers prick my chin. 

“If it… means anything to you, I think that little girl was a monster.” 

I don't respond. 

I can't respond, my voice hasn't been reattached. 

The woman sighs. Then rolls her eyes. “You can't even hear me,” she says. She disappears out the door for a moment, and returns with my chosen outfit perfectly intact inside a clear white bag. 

She dresses me in a lilac suit over a white frilled shirt and trousers. Then she tucks a sword into my belt. The woman frowns at an iPad. “Okay, so, according to your receipt, you are named Prince Slater.”

She rips off her mask. “Just nod to confirm, and I’ll put you down as completed. I’ll take you to get your crown, and then you will meet your Princess.”

I hesitate, and then nod. 

“All right, Prince Slater!” Her smile is too wide. “Come with me!” 

A room awaits me, a golden crown sitting on a velvet cushion.

“Kneel.” She tells me, and I drop to my knees. The woman gently crowns me, her lips finding my ear. I straighten up, and she’s back to performing. She tells me to open my mouth, places a pill on my tongue, and tells me to swallow. 

It works like medication, dissolving with my saliva and bringing my voice back.

“Okay, Prince Slater, just head on down the hallway, and your Princess will be waiting!”

I don't want to leave her. 

A thought hits me. Violent. Painful. 

I don't want a Princess. 

“Slater?”

A voice echoes. It's my Princess. 

Already beckoning me closer.

But at the end of the hallway, there is only a Prince. Tall. Handsome. Thick blonde curls. 

Where is his princess? 

Then he drops his sword, and stumbles toward me. 

“Slater?” he hisses, his hands cupping my face. “Hey. You’re here,” he sobs.

“You’re actually here.”

He swallows and suddenly looks sick as he runs his fingers down my plastic flesh. “I had to make you. I had no other choice! I… I got out! The Princess who made me, she’s saving us,” he whispers, caressing my face, his hands trembling.

“Slater, it’s me.” 

He breaks down when my mouth won’t work.

I… don't understand.

Where is my… Princess?

“Slater!” The Prince shakes me. He's crying now, though I'm not sure...why.

“It's your boyfriend.”

The announcement was laughable.

I was in the kitchen making dinner.

My boyfriend was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching some Netflix drama I didn’t really care about.

“Babe?” he yelled, when I was halfway through chopping up my salad.

“Mm?” I poked my head through the door.

I noticed the channel had changed to the national flag taking up the whole screen.

“Why did you change the channel?” I asked. “You love that show. Bess and Damon were getting together. Wait." I mocked a gasp. “Did they not?” 

My boyfriend’s infatuation with turn-your-brain-off trashy reality TV shows was never NOT funny.

“I didn’t!” Alex hissed, his gaze glued to the screen. “Shh.” He held up his hand, cutting me off. “It’s some kind of announcement.”

The anchorman looked baffled. “I’m sorry, I can’t report this. I won’t report this. He’s lost his fucking mind---"

The report cut to the president himself.

“Eighty years ago, every man in this country would have happily fought a war. Every man was patriotic. Every man had a wife and a child.” The president’s mouth curled. “Which is why a mandatory testosterone shot will be supplied to every male in this country. Mandatory.”

He repeated, “This government does not accept defectors. Any male who refuses will be punished. Because ANY man who fails to accept these patriot shots is a traitor to this government and----"”

Alex stumbled upstairs, vomiting everywhere. “He's not fucking SERIOUS is he?” 

I followed him, leaning against the door. “We’ll… lock ourselves in here until it’s all blown over, all right?”

Alex didn’t lift his head from the toilet seat, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Right,” he whispered, choking up a mouthful of bile. He spat. “Sure.”

I thought I could hide him for the first few weeks.

Then I heard gunfire exploding down the street. 

Screams ignited the night, sirens wailing from 11pm till 6am. 

I locked Alex in our garage with enough blankets and snacks to last him.

But then soldiers were standing at our door demanding to see him.

Alex didn't have a choice. 

I tried to lie. 

He's at the store turned into ”Oh, he moved out a while ago!”

When a gun was pointed in my face, he appeared, bleary eyed, hands up in surrender, a blanket wrapped around him.

Alex didn't fight them or freak out. He hugged me, and then nodded to the soldiers. “I'm Alex Wilder,” he said, wearing a performative smile. “What's up, guys?” 

“Mr Wilder. You failed to appear at your local medical center for your mandatory testosterone shot.” One soldier dragged him away before he could respond. 

I expected him to be taken away, but he was given the shot right in front of me. “Hold out your arm,” the soldier ordered, pulling out a small bag and producing a needle. 

When Alex hesitated, a gun was shoved between his eyes. He rolled up his sleeve, squeezed his eyes shut, and held out his arm. 

I watched the needle slip in and then out. It was too big to be a normal shot. The whole thing was emptied out. The soldier wrapped a small bandage around his elbow and ordered him not to take it off. Alex nodded. His eyes shot open. 

He was still wearing that performing smile. “Of course, sir,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He pointedly ignored the barrel protruding into the back of his skull. “Thank you so MUCH for making me even more of a manly man.”

“Alex!” I hissed.

The soldiers ignored him and left. 

Alex hugged me. “It's okay,” he said, “I'm okay. I promise.” 

That night, he held me a little tighter in bed, squeezing me to his chest.

I started noticing it fairly quickly. 

His clothes were no longer fitting him.

He lost his temper a lot, and destroyed my kitchen. 

But the most noticeable was his weight gain.

Not normal weight. Muscular weight. 

His torso has seemingly sculpted itself overnight.

His arms were bulging. 

“I'm okay,” he told me, when I prodded his concrete shoulders. Alex smiled. “It's just a bit of muscle.” 

The next day he woke up screaming. 

He sat up in bed, and the mere movement of his body cracked the bed frame. I turned to him, and I felt myself beginning to unravel. Alex’s head was huge, balloon-like. His eyes protruded, their blood vessels burst, flaps of muscle hanging from his eyelids.

“I can't see,” he whispered from swollen lips. “Please.” Tears trailed down his cheeks. “Please… help… me.”

I nodded, choking down my own scream.

“I'm going to get you help,” I whispered. “Just… hold on… okay?” 

I called 911 and they came immediately. 

“It's a side-effect of the testosterone shot, unfortunately,” one paramedic told me. 2% of male bodies reject the amount—”

He averted his gaze, his lip curling.

I pretended not to see the gun he was trying and failing to hide. “Where is your boyfriend now?” 

“Upstairs.” I told them. 

But Alex was gone.

I waited for him to come back. Every day. 

But weeks collapsed into months, and months became a year.

I held a funeral for him without a body. 

I said goodbye to an empty fucking casket.

Last night, I dreamed he was in my arms. My Alex. 

I dreamed of his stupid smile, his obsession with reality TV shows. 

“Anna.”

His voice woke me up. 

Something warm pressed against me, a fleshy-like substance enveloping me.

The thing took over my whole room, bleeding from the walls.

Alex. I smelled his sweat, the salt of his tears, and when I really looked, one bulging eye protruding from the mass. 

“I love you,” he whispered, squeezing me tighter. 

I smiled. “I love you too.” 

I sat up, and the flesh gently let go. “Do you want to watch Love Island?” 

His chuckle reverberated around my room. “You bet I do.” He nuzzled into me. “Bess and Damon are made for each other.” 

When people ask me, “What do you do for work?” I never know how to answer.

What do I say?

“I’m an actress” is my usual response.

I’ve been acting since I was eight years old. 

But then they start asking questions when I don’t elaborate.

I’m on a train, hanging on for dear life, and she’s smiling at me from her seat.

It’s a woman, maybe my mom’s age. She’s complimented my appearance twice and gushed about how proud my mom must be.

I want to tell her I hate my appearance. 

I got veneers when I was twelve and a rhinoplasty at fourteen.

I’m still a minor, and my face is plastic.

I want to tell her I’m glad my mom is dead and buried. I’m glad the filler in my lips is bleeding out of me like fucking glue, and I crave something that isn’t green or avocado-flavored.

But that would be rude of me.

That would get me in trouble.

I am a product, after all. 

Strip away my glossy dark hair and perfect lashes, and you get a hollowed out shell that has forgotten how to cry. I want to TELL this woman I don't know how to cry, and even when I try, I can't. 

Everything is a punishment for me.

Going outside is Hell. 

I’m caught eating fast food? I'm a monster.

I'm caught at the beach with coffee and fruit? I'm a monster.

I’m snapped at a party with a guy? I'm a monster and a classless who*e. 

I want to tell this random woman all of this. But I don't. 

So, I smile wide and say, “aww, thanks!”

I’m surprised she doesn’t recognize me. 

My cheesy Hollywood grin pollutes the train we’re on, plastered all over the doors. I'm the face of multiple brand deals and makeup products, most recently for L'Oréal. Maybe this woman watches Netflix instead. 

I stick my earphones in an attempt to end the chat politely. But then she keeps looking at me, her gaze locked on. A string of maybes enters my mind, and I debate moving carriages. Maybe she does know me, and this is all an elaborate prank. Even worse: maybe she’s fucking press.

She’s good enough of an actor to be scouted if she IS press. I particularly admire the slight incline of her head, the crumpled frown and almost comical wide eyes. “So, what did you say you were in again, honey?” I'm trapped. I have to respond. If I don't, she will get progressively suspicious. 

“I'm….” I'm choking on “independent” and “not really an actress” when her expression falls. 

“Oh.” The woman’s lip curls into something sour, something I'm already expecting.

She must finally recognize me. “Oh, you're one of them.” She spits the words at me, and I don't blame her. I let her rip into me.

She's immediately judgmental, raising her voice and pointing accusatory fingers. She's ashamed of me.

The woman does not hold back. I don't expect her to. “You're responsible for that circus.” 

I'm ashamed of myself.

I get off the train two stops before my stop and walk. I'm grateful for the cool air lashing my cheeks. Maybe it's divine intervention that I’ve forgotten my jacket, that my feet hurt so much, I pull off one stiletto and limp the rest of the way.

Maybe it's divine intervention when a car speeds straight through a puddle, soaking me in the process. It's okay. My plastic face is untouched. I pull out my phone and dial an Uber.

I ignore the driver.

Keep looking at my phone.

My settings app is suddenly so much more interesting. 

The car, a light green Prius, speeds past again. “Fucking RAT.” This time the driver sticks his head from the window.

Mid twenties. Scruffy beard and thrifted clothes. He's the worst kind of viewer: a hate watcher. My stomach folds on itself.

Next to me, ironically, my smiling face covers the bus stop.

This time, I'm selling fat free yogurt.

My face is polished. Every flaw is removed. My teeth are perfect pearls. 

As if I am mocking him. 

“Hey!” 

I look up on instinct, narrowly avoiding boiling hot coffee landing next to me. My toes are splashed and I bite back a cry.

The driver pulls up.

His snarl paralyses me to the spot. “You're that GIRL,” he spits. “Her friend.” 

I smile wide, but I can't find the words tangled on my tongue. Yes, I am. No shit. What do you want me to do about it? What do you want? Blood? I want to laugh. But my laugh will be ripped apart. 

Do you want me to fucking hurt myself?

I want to ask each and every face that dares glance at me. A woman with a baby, who looks away quickly---a teenage girl who films me with zero shame.

Self deprecating, manipulative, and narcissistic, I am called online. 

I am all three. I swallow my response and focus on my phone instead. A notification flashes up: my Uber is five minutes away. 

“Josie!” 

The stranger is yelling my name, and it's not even my name. I want to tell him that. My name is not fucking Josie. But this guy is attracting enough stares for ignorance to be socially unacceptable. 

I give up. I lift my head. I smile. “Hi.” I stretch my grin until my jaw aches. My toes sting. I want to throw hot coffee in his face. 

“When are you going to tell her?” The stranger demands. It's a normal question. I've had worse. 

However, spoken by a man frothing at the mouth, I can't find words. Above me, my plastic laugh looms on every billboard.

“Hey,” he shouts my name, “don't fucking ignore me, Josie.” The man slams his car horn and I resist the urge to run. I can feel, no, sense every eye locked on me. Waiting. Always. “When are you going to tell her?” 

“He's right,” a ponytail blonde passing by slips out an earbud and turns to me, head cocked. “When are  you going to tell her?” She looks me up and down. Her expression is less mad, more sympathetic. “You are going to tell her the truth at some point, right?”

My smile is losing steam. Whatever I say will be taken out of context. If I say, “yes”, I'll be called out for not speaking sooner. If I stay silent, I'm an enabler. 

My Uber slides into my peripheral. Tinted windows. No WiFi. I take my chance, duck my head, and make a break for it. “Drive,” I hiss, when I’m safely tucked into the backseat, my head pressed against the ice cold pane. 

“Are you all right, kid? Were those  folks bothering you?” The Uber, an oldish man, doesn't look like a viewer. He twists around. He wears the expression of a worried father, furrowed, caterpillar eyebrows and a deep set frown. I never met my father. There was always just Mom. 

“No worries,” I say, flashing my practiced pearly smile.

My phone vibrates in my lap.

Two texts sent back to back. I only need to see the caps, and I pretend they don’t exist. I ignore them, slide in my earbuds, and start my morning playlist. I have a playlist for “stressed,” but I’m in the mood for early Olivia Rodrigo.

A blur of rush hour bleeding with the early sunrise and pale blue sky reminds me I am alive. The music is the perfect backdrop, each lyric perfectly narrating my every thought. Every clap. Every beat.

Her emotion fills me and I ponder the question I've been asked, what I've tried to suppress. I wonder why I haven't told her. Is it because I'm not allowed to tell her, or is it… because I don't want to? 

I can't help tapping on the dreaded app. I'm trending already. I'm desensitized to threats to my life but it's the small details that sting. The shade is not at my face, but my attitude. 

Cruel.

Sick. 

Evil. 

Monster. 

“Does she even REALIZE what she's doing? She's a monster. My heart fucking bleeds for that girl,” one tweet stands out to me. I can't stop myself from tapping the replies. 

“Exactly!” One reply says, “She's a shameless sell-out. I'm low-key hoping our girl snaps.”

“Okay but what about him???” Another reply slides by. I stop scrolling, like it, and then unlike it. “He’s hot, SO what? He's a LITERAL enabler. He has been since he was a kid, but none of you want to have that conversation because he's a conventionally attractive guy.”

“Ummm, he IS a kid?” Another replies. “He's seventeen.”

“That doesn't excuse his shitty behavior.” A string of emojis blur together and I blink sleep from my eyes. “He’s a glorified show horse, and he's not IN IT anymore.” 

I close the app, and then delete it, letting my phone slide through my lap. 

Maybe I am a sadistic bitch. 

The song switches. Recent Olivia. More relatable. More painful. The chorus hits, a symphony of melodies and guitar, her voice unraveling me. When we hit a tunnel, every passing car bleeds into red lights speckling the backs of my eyelids. My phone vibrates. 

I close my eyes and let my head hit the window with a thunk. 

My phone vibrates again, and I bite back a hiss. 

A text flashes up: 

“You are trending.Fix.this.” 

Claire. Who texts like my grandma. 

She's known me since I was a kid. Surely she knows this wasn't MY doing. 

I clear her text, and another flashes up. 

I sit up straighter, tugging out an earbud.

"Asshole": You need media training. BAD. Lmao. 

“You left SIX years ago,” I text back. “Why are you STILL here?” 

He replies almost instantly: 

“why do YOU think?” 

“money.” 

“try again.” 

“girls?” 

“no.” 

“guys???” 

“colder. ” 

“to piss me off.” 

“close.” 

It's too early for his guessing games. “tell me rn or I block you.”

He doesn't reply.

An email pops up a few minutes later:

they read our texts

you should know that

stop attracting attention

we’re waiting outside at the usual spot

Another text from Claire startles me. 

Now: Claire: Josie., pls fix the trending problem. 

I switch off my phone.

Leaning back into the warm upholstery, I peer out the window just as traffic disappears, bleeding into a long, winding, dusty road. I work in the middle of nowhere. When I was a kid, I used to pretend it was Area 51 to feel better. 

Same endless desert. Same suffocating fences. I can already see the circular glass dome reflecting the early morning sunrise.

Beyond that, there’s only Death Valley, a punishment I’ve been threatened with since I was seven. Claire used to lock me in my dressing room behind my mother’s back, give me some candy, and say, “You know, sweetheart, if you ever open your mouth, I heard bad kids are taken into the desert and left to die.”

“This might sound like an invasive question,” the Uber driver says, cutting into my thoughts, “but where exactly are you going?” His gaze studies me in the mirror. “If I think a passenger, especially a minor, is putting themselves in danger, I have no choice but to report it.”

“It's just work.” I grab my bag quickly. “I can get out here.” 

“Really?” He doesn’t turn around, but I know he’s already suspicious. His gaze is glued to the chain-link fence ahead of us. There are two entrances, one for visitors and the other for staff. 

I direct the Uber toward the latter, making him speed up a little.

Two guards stand on either side of the gate, Daniel and Zach. 

I catch Daniel’s glare and already know I’m busted. 

“Well, all right.” The Uber doesn’t sound convinced. I slide out of the car, but he stalls, leaning out of the window. He wants an explanation I can’t give. I have to get rid of him before I draw attention.

“Thanks!” I say, a little too loudly. I'm wearing my plastic smile again. I start walking, kicking up dust. Don't look back, I tell myself. If I do, the guards will get trigger-happy. 

A sudden roar of engines behind me is relieving. The Uber slowly reverses and drives away. I swallow my dread and pull out my ID. 

“Josie.” Zach nods at me. I often wonder just how broke this guy is to take this kind of job. I understood Daniel. Forties. Probably had a kid to provide for and permanently carried the reek of hair gel and shoe polish, which had to have a price tag. Any possible personality he had was trapped under a military uniform. 

Zach is only a few years older than me: string bean thin, razor sharp jawline, and a pearly white smile. I’m surprised Claire hasn’t dragged him inside to audition. 

“You were good last night,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks.” 

Zach takes my ID and scans it. The gate is painfully slow, rising only a few inches before sticking.

“Wait,” Zach says, holding up a hand. He leans forward and fiddles with the gate. I notice he’s cut his hair.

I liked it longer when his thick, blondish curls haloed the curve of his face.

Now those cherub-like locks have been sheared away into a morbid bowl cut.

I mourn the loss of his modelling career. Zach flashes me a smile. “So, when are you being slaughtered?” he asks.

“Adams,” Daniel's low grumble is a warning. 

Zach’s smile vanishes. As if remembering his position, he straightens almost robotically and takes three steps back. “Head on through, ma’am,” Zach orders.

His hand whips up in a salute. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“It’s Miss,” Daniel mutters. “She’s a minor, Adams.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, sir.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Adams.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Adams—”

Daniel’s lecturing tone fades as the gate slowly closes behind me, twin metal slabs slamming shut. I’m already feeling sick to my stomach. As nauseous as I felt walking through at eight-years-old, hand in hand with my mother. 

A small brunette boy was cuffed to a wooden pole outside the entrance.  The boy’s gaze followed me all the way to the door before looking away. 

“Hi!” I said politely, before my Mom dragged me inside.

Six hours later, after multiple script reads, he was still there, sitting directly beneath the sun’s cruel gaze. Sweating, a wrinkle between his brows. He was in pain, his forehead bright orange. 

A bottle of water and an overturned tray lay in front of him, curry and rice spilled across the ground. Mom was already ahead, talking to the guards. So I stopped, pulled out the melted candy bar I’d stolen earlier for breakfast, and handed it to him.

I was met with a snarl. The boy stuck his nose up, lips curled.

“How long have you been here?” I couldn’t resist asking. The boy’s clothes were wrinkled and stained, his shorts and tee glued to his  sun-browned skin. I prodded his clammy forehead and he jolted back with a hiss. “You’re sweaty.”

Harsh red lines sliced into his wrists. I leaned closer, touching noses with him. The boy glared back. Mute. I lowered my voice. “Do you want me to untie you?”

The boy’s bottom lip wobbled, his stubborn walls crumbling. He blinked back tears, ducking his head to avoid the sun. Golden slivers of sunlight bleaching his hair told me this wasn’t the first time. “You’re not allowed to untie me,” he mumbled into his knees. 

My tummy twisted when I knelt and joined him. “Why?” 

“Hannah.”

Mom was calling my name. 

“Who tied you up?” I asked.

He lifted his head, a cocktail of tears and snot trailing down his cheeks in jagged lines. The boy sniffed, sucking a long, droopy strand of booger back into his nose. “My Daddy,” he whispered. 

“Hannah!” Mom snapped behind me. Mom strode over, grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“But—” the words coiled in my throat when Mom violently pulled me to her side. All the breath was sucked from my lungs, my tummy twisting. But the boy, I wanted to tell her. It didn't make sense to me that he was tied up by his father. It was too hot to be sitting outside. He needs help! I twisted around, catching one last look at the boy tied to the pole. 

His head ducked, brown curls obstructing his eyes. Mom dumped me in the back of her car. “Do not talk to that boy again,” she told me, “that’s the only rule. If you want to get a callback.” 

“But why?” I asked, as she drove me through the gate. Mom stuck her head out of the window, thick blonde curls whipping in the breeze. I straightened in my seat, watching Mom hold up a piece of paper.

“Put your head down,” Mom said, “Now.” 

“But what about the boy?” I whispered.

“Hannah, sit down,” Mom snapped. I did, automatically, tucking my legs beneath me, my body already used to her voice. “I'm just here for the auditions for Carrigan,” Mom told a man looming over her with scary eyes. “yes, that's my daughter in the back. Josie. She's eight-years-old.” 

Her sharp exhale of breath wasn't subtle. “Josie wasn't playing with him, she is just a naturally curious little girl,” Mom’s laugh was very nervous. Which made me nervous. 

I nervously played with my shoelaces. Kneeling on my seat, I searched for the boy. But the giant metal wall had already come down. “My phone?” Mom handed her phone over nervously. “Can I ask what this is about?” She demanded, “my daughter is—” 

“It’s just a precaution, ma’am,” the guard said. He ducked through the window, beady eyes landing on me. His wrinkled mouth curled into a grotesque grin as he scanned mom’s ID. “Daly plays pranks on newcomers,” he explained. “It's his thing. He likes to tie himself up and scare the little ones shitless. After three visits from CPS this year, we’d prefer to avoid  Daly’s… antics escaping into the public eye.”

He straightened and turned back to my Mom. I held my breath and glared down at a loose thread in my shorts. Waiting was excruciating. My mouth was dry.

“That’s all fine.” The man handed her phone back to Mom. “Have a good day, ma’am.” I forced my head down further. “Kid.” He nodded to me, and walked away.

I waited for the crunch of his footsteps in the gravel to fade before I risked glancing up. The window slid down, and Mom relaxed, her fingers flexing around the wheel.

“Hannah,” Mom’s shuddery breath caught me off guard, “do you want to celebrate your audition and go get ice-cream?” 

I didn't respond and stared down at my lap and picked at my shorts until a thread came loose. Mom didn't speak until we were on the highway. I risked looking up to watch the late-afternoon rush hour blur in a streak of golden light. 

“Look at me,” Mom’s voice was her stern-voice.

“Do not speak to that boy again, Hannah,” Mom’s static gaze never left the road, her twitching fingers blooming red around the wheel. “Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” I said, choking down my usual mantra. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Mom twisted to face me, wearing a big smile, her expression loosening, mouth forming a real grin. “We can go out and celebrate your audition.”

We stopped at a Taco Bell drive-thru. Mom ordered a burrito and fries. I choked down three pieces of soggy avocado she had brought in a packed lunch for me. 

The following morning, when I got my call-back for another audition, I stood in front of the mirror with Floppy, my stuffed animal nestled under my chin, and practised ignoring the boy tied to the pole. 

I rehearsed my big smile and pretended to not see him, looking straight forwards.

When the imaginary version of him asked me for help, I smiled wider and said, “sorry! My mom says I can't talk to you anymore!”  And pretend-ran away from him, my heart thumping right out of my chest.

Somehow, it was harder in my room. I rehearsed my “sorry” smiles, trying small and then big, and then REALLY big, threading my index and pinky through my mouth and stretching until it hurt.

When Mom pulled me through the gate and passed the guards, I kept my head down, my gaze glued to the ground. I wasn't looking where I was going and smacked my forehead straight into the glass door. 

“Hannah!” Mom hissed, and I had no choice but to look up. I couldn’t stop myself glancing behind me, where the boy had been slumped. I couldn't see him. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” Mom spat, shoving me through twin doors.

The heat of her breath followed me into a sterile reception area, where a woman sat behind a white circular desk.

After smoothing down my dress, and then my hair, adding last minute makeup to my face, Mom told me to sit down, but I couldn’t resist wandering over to the door and peering through the glass. The wooden pole was still there, with a pair of handcuffs attached. 

I leaned back, my tummy twisting. The boy had vanished.

I squinted over the chain link fence at the dense desert landscape. 

Maybe it was aliens. 

I didn’t think about the boy for a whole day. I sat inside a stuffy room with a plump, smiling man with a bald head and a bow tie, who said, “Congratulations!” He handed my mother a piece of paper. “I’m happy to say your daughter has the part of 11456,” he winked. “Who will be Josie!”

“Who's Josie?” I spoke up, swinging around on my chair. It had wheels. “What do the numbers mean?” 

The plump man introduced himself as Mr Daly. Also “Producer Daly”, if he was in a good mood.

I asked if he was in a bad mood, and he laughed.

“When do I get to be Josie?” I said.

“I'm glad you asked!” Mr Daly stood up. “All right, Hannah, why don't you follow me? I'm sure your mom would love to go and get herself a coffee and some refreshments.” He nodded to Mom. “Right, Mrs. Cartwright?”

Mom smiled and nodded.

Mom left me feeling sick to my stomach. 

Mr Daly's smile vanished the second the door slammed on moms face.

“Your job is simple, kid,” he said, picking up a remote. The wall lit up. “Carrigan is what we call a…” 

His lazy eyes found me. “Have you ever been to the zoo?” 

“Yes,” I said, “I went with my Mommy.”

“And what was your favorite animal?” 

“Hmm.” I frowned at a giant crystal chandelier hanging over my head, spiky teardrops of glass threatening to rain down on me. “I did like the lemurs, but I think my favourites were the tigers.”

“Think of it like the zoo.” Mr Daly straightened in his chair. “However, Carrigan is a human exhibit. There are no tigers. There are children.” He banged the remote on his desk for emphasis.

“CHIL-DREN. Understand?” 

I forgot to nod, my tummy swimming, and he groaned, tipping his head back. I found myself glancing at the door, half-hoping Mom was waiting outside. 

“Are you listening to me, Josie?” Mr Daly said.

Tears welled in my eyes. “Yes.” 

His smile split open wide. “I get it! I know you kids don’t want boring explanations and big words. You want the fun stuff.”

The screen flashed to a smiling little girl with long, mousy brown hair haloing bright blue eyes. 

She was thin. The type I was supposed to be. Protruding cheeks and a pretty smile with glittering white teeth. I felt a sharp pang in my chest. Mom would like her.

“This is 001130,” Mr Daly said, “do you like her?” 

I nodded. I did. She was pretty.

Her clothes were very simple. White shorts, a tee, and matching socks. The girl was sitting cross-legged in a white room with white walls and white tiles. 

“You're going to be her friend,” Mr Daly said. “Sounds easy, right?” 

I glanced at the girl's smiling face. “Yes.” 

“And.” His lips twitched into a smile. “You are not going to tell this girl anything about your life. Your parents. Because you don't have them.” He stood up, and I backed away, falling over myself. 

One step, and I was choking on, "I don't want to do this.” Two steps, and I couldn't move.  Mr Daly seemed delighted in each one. “The Carrigan Project asks one simple question, Josie.” 

“Hannah,” I corrected him, a little louder. 

He ignored me. “Can children grow up inside a simulated world, completely cut off from the outside?” His lips split into a grin. “And can we turn it into a show?” 

“A show?” I whispered. My arms fell limply to my sides. 

“A show.” He said. “Broadcasted every night for three hours. A full live-feed of Carrigan with all the boring bits cut out for everyone to see.” 

His lip curled. “Those children believe the world outside is gone. They believe they’re being bred and raised for slaughter. These children, Josie, have been taught from birth, from the moment they became self-aware, that they’re living in punishment. That they really are humanity’s biggest sin.”

I swallowed, my hands growing clammy. “I don’t understand.”

He laughed. “Well, you won’t! Not at this age!” The man shifted forward, head tilted at an angle. “How old are you, Josie, twelve?"

“Eight,” I said, louder. “It's Hannah.”

Mr Daly tapped a button on his desk. “Connor,” he ordered. “Take Josie to her dressing room to meet Claire, please.” He flashed me a grin. “Get the girl a soda and a sandwich.

“Yes, sir,” a man’s voice crackled in response.

Mr Daly’s razor-sharp gaze shot through me. He coughed loudly. “Do you like chicken, Josie?”

My mouth watered.

“Yes,” I said, before I could bite it back.

“Chicken sandwich and a Coke,” Mr Daly said, “and the same for the troublemaker locked in solitary.” Daly hesitated, his fingers tapping the desk. “Actually. Leave him until dinner. Inform the other performers that their dinner has been arranged.” 

I pretended his smile was friendly and didn’t make me feel sick.

“We’re all going out for a meal to celebrate.”

Mom wasn’t invited to dinner.

She got all dressed up. She spent hours curling my hair and picking out my dress before driving me to the venue, a dark restaurant bathed in fish tanks replacing walls, swimming in warm golden light. At the door, Mom was politely turned away.

“I’m sorry,” a guard stopped my mother at the door. “You don’t have permission to go any further.”

The man gently took my hand with a smile. I wondered if he could see what Mom couldn’t.

“Miss Cartwright, would you like to follow me to your table?”

The restaurant was empty. I was taken to a table where Mr Daly was sitting with his entourage: a beautiful woman who had definitely had work done and, to my surprise, two boys my age, one of whom I recognized.

I stared.

It was the boy tied to the pole. 

He was dressed up in a suit and tie, glaring down at an untouched burger and fries, his brown curls straightened over his eyes. I was ushered into my seat next to another boy with cropped blonde hair, bouncing in his seat. He flashed me a grin.

“Josie, it’s nice of you to join us!” Mr Daly smiled at me from across the table. “What would you like to eat?”

I whipped around in case Mom was breathing down my neck. 

But she wasn't.

My Mom was gone. 

"Cheeseburger and fries.”

Daly nodded, fist on chin. “Mmm mmm. And anything for dessert?” 

“Cake.” I said, suddenly hyper on my own words.

The blonde boy giggled, and I really looked at him. He had rosy cheeks and halo hair and was very thin. Mom would like him. The boy was the only one wearing normal clothes, jeans and a tee, cheese sauce staining the collar.

“That’s greedy,” he said, and warmth exploded into my cheeks.

“I want cake too!” the blonde said, slamming his fists on the table. “Chocolate cake!”

“Declan,” the woman shushed him. Her perfectly made-up eyes flicked to me. She was pretty. The type Mom wanted me to be. Skinny, with a perfect figure, cascading hair that fell like silk down her backless strap dress.

“Hello, Hannah.” She held out a manicured hand. “Welcome to the family.” She winked. “A very small family right now! I’m Claire. I will be your manager.”

A manager? I thought. That's what Mom wanted me to get. Her goal was for me to have an agent by 16. 

“I’ve been managing these two little brats,” Claire said, nodding at the boys. She picked up her glass of champagne and kissed the rim. “So, it’s nice to have a girl around here.”

“I want to say something.” 

The pole boy shoved his plate away and stood up. 

Next to me, the blonde kid rolled his eyes. “Here we goooooooo.” 

“Carrigan is abuse,” the boy said through gritted teeth. “My father built a prison and pretends it's a museum, and we’re no different from the kids inside there. We’re no different from Hope. If I wasn’t my dad’s son, I would be in Carrigan too. And Declan! And you!” He pointed at me and  pointed accusingly at Mr Daly. 

“Shut it down, Dad,” he spat. “Or I’m telling Mom you’re doing bad things with Evie the receptionist.”

Dad?

The pole boy was Mr Daly’s son?

Mr Daly didn’t seem fazed. He laughed. “What an interesting imagination!” he said, and yet the man’s cheeks had turned significantly redder than normal. Declan was giggling next to me. 

Daly fixed pole boy with a warning smile. “So, you've named her! Cute.” 

Several guards came out of nowhere and wrestled the boy back into his seat, whispering something to him that paralyzed him on the spot. He stopped moving, went still, and picked up a fry from his plate, stuffing it into his mouth.

Mr Daly downed his own glass of wine and offered me a wink. “Completing the introductions, Josie, I would like you to meet my incredibly intelligent son, Rowan.” The man chuckled into his glass. “My wonderful son’s hobbies include causing three visits from Child Protective Services and tying himself up outside the premises in the hope of inducing a sob story.”

I risked a glance at the pole boy who began to inhale his fries like he'd never eaten in his life, scooping up fries and stuffing them into his already packed mouth. He noticed me staring and stopped, his eyes narrowing into slits. 

“What are YOU looking at?” He spat through a mouthful. 

Rowan counted his fries. “Twenty one.” He picked one up, and snapped it in half. “Oops! Twenty!” He shot his father a smile filled with fry mush. “Is that what you’re going to do to me, Dad?”

“Rowan,” Claire trilled. “Honey, don’t speak with your mouth full.”

“Or what?” Rowan blew up, tossing a fry at her. It hit her between the eyes. Rowan threw another. “Are you going to throw me into Carrigan too?” He leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on his father. “Go on, Dad! I dare you.”

The adults didn't respond for a moment. Then Claire stood and brushed down her dress. “Declan, honey,” she said, “why don't you take Josie to get chocolate cake?”

Declan didn’t move. His gaze remained glued to Rowan.

“Declan!” Claire snapped, her smile widening. “Now, please.”

The boy stood and took my hand. His smile was practised. I recognized every crease in his brow and every curve of his lips.

“Come on,” he said, gently pulling me away from the table. 

I followed him, but I couldn’t resist one last glance over my shoulder.

Mr Daly and Claire were deep in conversation, their heads pressed close together. 

Every trace of Rowan Daly had vanished. His plate, his glass of soda, even the stray fries scattered across the table were gone.

My very first meeting with Rowan Daly was… eventful.

When I started my role as Josie, it was fairly straight forward. My job was to lie and bring hope to the kids, talking of “the outside world before humans were enslaved”. I had a whole script I had to memorize about Claire’s accessories.

My debut, talking to 001130, was met with thunderous applause. When I left the facility through a hidden door.  I was called, “a little star.” And “an Oscar winning little performer” but all I did was sit with 001130, and make friends with her. 

Rowan was tied to the pole every morning.

Sometimes, I caught him staring into the exhibit itself, a large sheet of glass looking into Carrigan, a facility filled with children I was lying to.

I had to tell them with a big smile that they were going to become meat at twenty years old, and the world was ruled by evil monsters punishing us for eating animals. The first time, I felt sick. 

I barfed all over myself and immediately looked around for help, but there was no help. Just four glass walls I wasn't allowed to look through. Because that shattered the illusion. There were only guards playing a role like me. 

It got easier, the more times I lied. 

Soon enough, I lied better than I told the truth. 

Declan played the role of “Aris”, a boy who had been captured by “the monsters” and watched his parents die. 

I watched Declan rock back and forth, sobbing into his knees, describing his imaginary parents’ deaths as if they had really happened. His nose was snotty, his eyes were teary, and he hyperventilated every time he was asked a question. I couldn’t stop watching. He was good. Better than me.

When I left Carrigan at the end of the day, slipping through the performers’ fire door, Rowan stood with his face pressed against the glass. The observation room was huge, filled with cameras and a screen showing every angle.

Rowan watched silently.

His face was bathed in blue light, reflecting each camera.

The children were playing, running around, laughing.

001130 sat in the corner, delicately eating a sandwich.

“Hey, Josie.” Rowan didn’t turn around to look at me. It was the first time he’d spoken to me since the fancy dinner at the restaurant. 

I hesitated. “It's Hannah.” 

He drew a circle on the glass with his index. “Do you think this is bullet proof?” Rowan hummed. “I watch them clean it every morning.” 

I didn't know what to say, so he changed his tactic. “Do you like Carrigan?” He asked softly.

No. 

The response choked my mouth. No. I hated it. I hated lying to my best friend. And she wasn't even my best friend. She was a character. 

“No,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I want to tell her.” 

“Hope,” Rowan said, and I followed his eyes.

He was watching 001130, a small smile curled on his lips. He knocked on the glass gently, as if he was playing an invisible piano.

“She's called Hope.”  Rowan didn't speak for a while, rocking back and forth on his heels, smushing his nose against the glass pane. I was about to leave to go back to my dressing room when he backed away from the glass and turned to me with a smile. He held out his hand, and I took it, my stomach fluttering.

“Hannah.” Rowan said softly. “Can you help me destroy it?”

I didn't reply until the next day. Mom arrived early, shoved me out of the car, and drove away. I was gaining weight, and she didn't like it. 

Mom made me wear a dress so tight I had a tummy ache. 

Rowan was tied to the pole again. This time, though, he had a visitor. 

Declan sat cross-legged next to him. 

“Yo!” Declan gestured me over with his juice-box. 

He kept his voice down, pulling me into an awkward huddle, with Rowan in the centre. “This is the first meeting of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club,” Declan hissed excitedly. “Our members are—”

“There are three of us,” Rowan hissed back. I couldn't resist a laugh. “Stop attracting attention!” Rowan nodded to me. “Our goal? Bring my father’s evil organization to the ground, and rescue Hope and the other kids.” 

As a full member of the DESTROY CARRIGAN club, I took myself and my job very seriously. 

I made sure to tell the kids tiny, insignificant things that wouldn't be noticed.

“I had five guys yesterday,” I told one of the older girls. 

She looked at me like I'd grown a second head. 

Rowan’s plan was to slowly build trust with the kids inside the facility, and reveal everything. 

But… 

Then I started getting recognized outside Carrigan. 

At first, it was at the mall. A woman came over and called me Josie.

Then, it was in the middle of the street. 

I started getting brand deals and sponsorships for kids products as I grew closer to the children in Carrigan. But it was when I gave them all names, and happily called 001130 “Hope” that was when I cemented my celebrity status. 

On my 13th birthday, Mom bought me a rhinoplasty for my present. 

I was suddenly in commercials for fast food.

I was invited on TV with Declan, and interviewed by smiling hosts who kept asking us the same question:

“When are you going to tell Hope the truth?” 

Declan smiled at the camera and said, “We don't know! Maybe one day!” 

Our little club fell apart. 

Declan was cast in a Hollywood movie for two years. 

Rowan was sent away. The last time I saw him, I was fourteen. I barely noticed him, texting some guys I met at a party. He was tied to the pole as usual, his glare piercing right through me.

“Having fun on TV?” His voice was bitter, laced with bile. Rowan refused to bathe or wash his hair, stewing in yesterday’s clothes, his curls hanging over narrowed eyes. 

Multiple days in the sun had browned his skin. He didn’t even look at me. “My father is sending me away tomorrow,” he sighed, tipping his head back. “Military school. They’re hoping to ‘subtly influence’ me into feeding into  their “Carrigan is great” bullshit.”

“Hi, Rowan,” I said, more out of obligation than anything else.

My stilettos were already getting dirty just standing near him. 

“Matcha.” Rowan nodded towards the drink clutched between my ID and my wallet. His smile curdled. “How far have you sunk?”

I took a long sip. Matcha tasted like grass. 

But every insta pic gained me followers. 

More traction. 

“It tastes nice,” I lied, and when he didn't respond, “I'm heading inside now.”

“Where's Dec?” Rowan muttered. 

“Seattle,” I said. “You know he's filming.” 

Rowan buried his head in his knees. “If you see Dec, can you tell him something from me?” 

I stopped in front of his face, shading him from the sun’s intense glare. “If it's not an insult.”

“Tell him he's a fucking sell-out and I never want to see him again.”

I rolled my eyes, hopping over his bound legs. “Goodbye, Rowan.” 

When I left that evening, the producer’s son was gone.

I headed straight for Mr Daly’s office, only to be met by his assistant, who shoved me back out of the room.

“It’s just a little straightening out, Josie,” I was told later, after I’d finally calmed down.

Mr Daly wore a satisfied smile and refused to hand over the address to this supposed “boarding school.” I was ushered out of his office once more, his last words ringing around in my head. “My son has a very serious anger problem.”

For two years, I wondered what happened to Rowan Daly.

I had nightmares about him trapped in some ghoul school deep in the Siberian mountains, a place that drained the life and free will from the elite's children until they became mindless cogs, hollow mouthpieces for their parents.

He was strapped inside a white, windowless room, his eyes taped open, Clockwork Orange-style, forced to watch Carrigan reruns until his brain turned to mashed potato, bleeding from every orifice.

Declan wasn't sleeping either. He came to Carrigan rehearsals with shadows under his eyes. "I'm worried about him," he finally admitted over dinner at his place.

Declan's parents were RICH rich. I'd never met anyone with six swimming pools in one house.

Since Rowan had been sent away, the two of us had grown closer.

The facts were simple: neither Declan nor I had Rowan's confidence or reckless instincts. Declan tried to stage a protest by chaining himself to a pole. It lasted fifteen minutes. He abandoned it the moment a scorpion crawled over his foot.

We still had to bring Carrigan down, and it was harder without our leader.

Every chance I got outside of Carrigan rehearsals, commercials, and interviews, I searched for Rowan's boarding school.

I paid people to track down every boarding school and military academy in the country. No such luck.

Declan dug through Daly's office and found paperwork for an institution called "Institut Valmont."

It had already been signed by both Rowan and his father.

The school's website looked like it had been designed in 1995. It described itself as "an academy to enrich young people and bring colour to education." A stock photo of laughing teenagers sat above a phone number and email address.

The email bounced back, which didn't surprise me. I tried calling, but the second Rowan's name left my mouth, they hung up.

Growing desperate, we enlisted Declan’s tech-savvy friend, who hacked the school’s records. There was no one named Rowan Daly.

The next day, I was dragged into Daly’s office. Declan was already there, slumped in a chair. He pressed his head to mine.

“This is it,” Dec hissed. “Death by firing squad.”

“I heard you’re looking for my son,” Daly said. He placed a flyer on his desk. The school’s name was written entirely in German and, most importantly, it wasn’t the one we’d researched.

Daly smiled when Declan hissed.

“See?” He prodded the flyer. “My son is not being tortured in some hidden facility in the Siberian mountains.” His glare settled on me. “It’s a school,” he said flatly.

“A normal, uninteresting boarding school in the middle of nowhere.” He studied us. “Is that all? Or would you two like more evidence I haven’t imprisoned my son?”

“Well, we want to talk to him,” Declan said, glaring at his lap. “Please,” he added softly.

Daly smiled broadly at Declan. “Mr Atlas, I heard you’ve been chosen as the new Marvel superhero.” He clapped and made me jump. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Declan didn't lift his head. “Can we please talk to Rowan? We just want to know he's okay.” 

“Delete the post, then.” Daly said. 

Declan’s head shot up. “What?”

“Your Instagram story, from an hour ago.” Daly’s smile widened. “Where you wrote, quote, ‘Help me find my friend who has been kidnapped by his father.

"Since your little post, we’ve had a trending topic worldwide: ‘#WeWillHelpDec.’

“It's not misinformation.” Declan muttered. “You sent Rowan away.” 

“I SENT my misbehaving sixteen-year-old son to boarding school because he was at serious risk of hurting himself,” Daly thundered. I swore his office began to shake.

Declan pulled out his phone and deleted the Instagram story.

“Well?” Daly leaned forward, his chin resting on his fist. “Is it deleted?”

“Yes,” Declan whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Daly sighed. “Please remember that, as a child celebrity, you are in the public eye. Anything you say or do will be scrutinised. Publicised. Ripped apart.”

He picked up his phone and held it to his ear. 

“Adam Daly. Rowan’s father.”

Daly shot the two of us a smile. Tap, tap, tap. His fingers thudded against his desk. “I want to talk to my son.”

“He’s in class? Well, go and get him. It’s a family matter.”

I risked a glance at Declan, stiff in his seat. His cheeks  had grown significantly paler. He nudged me. 

Once. 

I ignored him. 

Twice. Harder. His elbow dug straight into my ribs. 

“Dad?”

A familiar voice crackled through the speakerphone. Unmistakably Rowan. 

“Whaas goin' on?” Rowan’s voice sounded flat, almost slurred, “whaadya wanna talk about, hm?”

“Rowan.” Daly spoke with a broad smile. “Your friends want to know if I have imprisoned you.” 

“Huh?” Rowan cackled. “Thaas funny. Mm.” He went silent for a moment, and I caught Dec inching forward as if about to rip the phone from Rowan’s Dad’s hand. 

“Uhh, yeah, no, I'm just at school. In class.” His words seemed spaced out. Wrong. “Kay, imma go now,” he mumbled. “Bye.”

The line went dead, and Daly hung up. 

He placed his phone on the desk. Faced down. 

“See? Rowan is fine. He's in class. You two may leave.” 

Declan jumped up.

“Sure!” He pulled me with him, still wearing that award-winning grin.

“Okay well, we’ll go now.” I shot him a look, but his expression snapped something inside me, a shiver crawling through me. He was trembling, wide eyes glued to the clock on the mantelpiece behind Daly. 

“What?” I whispered, nudging him. 

“Mr Atlas.” Daly stopped us on the way to the door. “Are you okay?” His eyebrows furrowed. “You seem to be quite panicked.” 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Declan said, managing to rein in his expression. I could see beads of sweat trickling down his temples. “I think I’m getting sick.”

“Very well.” Daly nodded for us to leave.

Dec pulled me out of Daly’s  office and down the hallway, and didn’t stop until we were in the elevator. He started pacing back and forth, chewing on his nails.

“Okay,” I exhaled, breaking the silence. “Well… at least we got to talk to him? His voice was kinda weird, but maybe he's just tired.” 

“Tired.” Dec leaned back and banged his head against the elevators. His eyes fluttered shut.  “That was not exhaustion.” He cracked one eye open. “That was drugs.”

“Duh.” I settled him with a smile that attempted to be teasing, “so they can Clockwork Orange him.”  

“That's not funny.” Dec pulled out his phone and shoved it in my face. “What time does it say?” 

“9.” I batted away his hands. “Why?”

Dec didn't speak. He held up a finger and mouthed, “They're listening.” 

I handed my phone over and he switched it off and slid it into his pocket.

“Because he’s lying.” Dec ‘s mouth twitching into a grimace. 

“Both Rowan and his father are lying. “It’s 9pm here. Switzerland is seven hours ahead of us.” 

Something ice-cold crept through me. “So it’s around 4am there.” I caught on quickly. “Why is Rowan…”

“Exactly.” Declan backed me against the wall, his arms folded. “Why the fuck is Rowan in class at 4am?”

“It’s Europe,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they have night classes?”

Dec raised a brow. “He’s in Switzerland,” he hissed, glancing nervously at the cameras. “Not Transylvania. Anyway, whatever’s happened to him isn’t your classic military-school obedience. He sounded like he was half asleep.” 

Dec turned to me suddenly, dead serious. “If I ever get sent to a boarding school in Switzerland… tell my fans I love them.”

I hit him. “Shut up.” I held out my phone. “Give me my phone back.” 

Dec didn't look at me. “Nope.”

We spent the rest of the elevator ride in dead silence.

The elevator doors slid open, and Claire was waiting for us. 

Silently lethal and gorgeous. Dressed in a silk playsuit. The only woman past forty who could successfully pull off a bob.

Claire didn’t speak until she stepped inside in three heel clacks.

“Declan, honey, your collar is not straight. Come here.”

She grabbed his collar gently, buttoning him up. The top button was definitely not supposed to be that tight. Declan let out a sharp hiss but didn’t speak. “Death Valley,” Claire said, scarlet lips curled into a smile. I caught Declan flinching. “Do you two know how it got its name?”

Neither of us spoke. 

“Well,” Claire said, “a group of pioneers were once trapped there in an attempt to reach California.” 

She chuckled, admiring her nails. “Several died, due to the extreme heat, and, according to tradition— when the survivors left, one of them turned around and said, ‘Goodbye, Death Valley.’

Claire’s gaze pierced the back of my skull. She stepped back. “Vehicles can fail in extreme temperatures, and it takes three days for the human body to fail without drinking water.” Her mouth twitched. “I’ve also heard  meddling children tend to survive the least in such conditions.” 

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, and like a ghost, Claire clacked away. “Remember to bring extra bottled water to work,” she said over her shoulder. “You never know when you'll need it.” 

Dec exhaled when she rounded the corner. 

“That was a threat,” he hissed, tugging his collar open. “Right?” 

“Or a polite warning.” I didn’t realise I was shaking. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if one of us has mysteriously disappeared.”

Declan was right conveniently on a flight to Seattle the following morning for a script reading. 

Luckily, Carrigan wasn’t the evil villain type. Instead, they established control through rewards and consequences. 

Dec wasn’t captured Rowan-style and sent to Europe. He prided himself on avoiding the luxury life, insisting on commercial flights, and flat-out refused a private jet trip to a premiere. I got a text from him at 6:30am.

Guess who paid for my first class flight LMAO.

$30,000 was deposited into my mother’s bank account an hour later.

Apparently, it was a “comfortable donation towards my college funds.”

The message, however, was clear: Rowan Daly is at boarding school. Shut the fuck up. Speak out, and we will dump your asses in the middle of the desert. 

So, what did I do? 

I shut the fuck up.

For two years, I kept my mouth shut. 

I accepted photoshoots, interviews, and commercials. 

I continued to perform inside Carrigan. 

I didn't even think about Rowan Daly. I couldn't. Not if I wanted to keep my career. My sanity. My life. 

Mondays collapsed into Fridays.

Fridays bled into months.

Months stretched into years. 

By the time I was seventeen, Declan and I had come to the nauseating conclusion that Rowan Daly was dead. And if he wasn't, he wasn't coming back. 

I cut him out of my mind. I had to. If I didn't— if I continued to dig— I was putting us both at risk. 

There were other “what ifs” 

What if he came back and was exactly the same? 

What if he came back, and was a stranger?

I stopped wondering. 

Until that morning. 

...

Zach and Daniel open the gate and I walk straight through as usual, tired, already texting Claire in protest for my accidental trending. 

I blindly walk up to the entrance, and grab the door handle, yanking it open. I yawn. My phone vibrates.

“Asshole: now: where are you?”

Oh, shit.

Dec. 

I promised to meet him outside our favorite coffee shop. 

A small, vegetarian-owned business that was the only coffee shop in LA to sell grass in its matcha.

“Sorry,” I quickly text. “Already here.”

“Asshole: your the worst ❤️”

I smile. “You're.”

I push the door open without looking where I’m going. The door swings violently back and smacks me straight in the face.

“Whoa!” A pair of arms catch and yank me back. “Dude,” an all-too-familiar voice laughs. “Did you get even more blind?”

I freeze. I don't turn around. I don't want to. Behind me, a shadow stands in front of the wooden pole little Rowan Daly had insisted on binding himself to in protest. My breath catches. My fingers curl around the handle.

That thought hits me with vengeance: What if he did come back and was a complete stranger? What if I can't recognize him? 

“You're not a mindless mouthpiece for your father,” I say, caught between the door and his arms.

I can't quite speak, my words are tangled and wrong, and my mouth won't work. Somehow, I refuse to look at him.

My eyes burn. My lungs are on fire. Everything is on fire. My skin is ignited. Bleeding flame dancing across every inch of me, twisting my nerve endings. 

He lets go with a light chuckle. “You were worried about me? That's new.” 

I refuse to look. My chest is suffocating me.

His breath dances across the back of my neck. Warm. Familiar somehow, like home.

I’m reminded of the summers we spent growing up together. Claire drove us to Orange County.

Dec always insisted on hanging out to “discuss our plans,” which inevitably ended with us snoozing by the pool.

My gaze always seemed to find Dec folding his book, angling the cover to attract attention so that any passing glance, whether from the lifeguard, the ponytail blonde sunbathing nearby, or anyone else, might notice that he read only the classics. The best books. Literature. 

Dec pretended to read, glancing up every so often from Fahrenheit 451. 

I knew his strange logic from the lopsided smirk curling on his mouth and the faint blush blooming across his cheeks. I immediately felt embarrassed and resisted the urge to nudge him.

My eyes found Rowan instead, socially awkward, and slumped in a permanent C shape, halfway off his deckchair, buried in the DS I told him not to bring.

Growing up was different. Less innocent. Our beach trips stopped.

Dec and I fell into the public eye, and Rowan stopped trusting us. 

Presently, my heart is skittering through me, a relentless palpitation threatening to send me to my knees. “Hannah.” Rowan laughs when I try to push past him. “You can turn around now,” his fingers prickle across my arms, shifting me to meet his gaze. 

I wonder why I can't breathe, why my skin is on fire. He's… taller. 

The thought is brief. He’s shrouded in the early morning shadows, a six-foot-something figure pinning me to the door. Rowan Daly is not a stranger. 

He’s older, with harder and more defined features replacing the softer face I knew. He looks new somehow. 

Polished. His skin glows, every strand of cropped brown hair perfectly in place, a well defined jawline and full lips as if he just stepped off a production line. No.

Something slimy winds its way up my throat. What I'm feeling is not attraction.

No. The butterflies are too painful. Their wings skitter under my skin, creeping through me, burrowing deeper. Rowan looks exactly like me. What Mom and management turned me into. 

A doll, a mannequin, a perfect, flawless being. Everything about him is symmetrical and perfected. 

Part of me wonders if he bleeds glue, not blood. 

Part of me wonders if his skeleton is still his. Maybe it's been replaced. Or bent and reshaped. 

I feel sick.

Puberty can be a miracle. But it can't make a whole new person. 

His clothes are immaculate, molded around his frame: a school blazer slung over a crisp white shirt and tie. A strange-looking animal is stitched to the crest. 

“Hannah.” The stranger wearing Rowan’s face cocks his head. I don’t like these quick twitchy  movements, like a doll being twisted and pulled into position. 

The corners of his mouth quirk into a smile. “Oh.” Rowan’s grin widens. “Ooh, you like my new look.” He rolls his eyes. That is Rowan. That sarcastic, bitter smile.

“There was a zero-tolerance policy for ugly kids.” His gaze is surprisingly hollow. Rowan’s nails scratch at his arms as if at an invisible rash. “I’m not joking.”

When I can't respond, he straightens with a practised, perfected grin. “Before I was admitted, I went through three weeks of surgeries on my face, my bones, even my skin.” He prodded his belly with a frown. “Which is crazy, because I liked my figure.” 

“Once I was done, and ‘ready,’” he says, mimicking air-quotes, “I was dumped in my room. No heating. A roommate who spoke German and refused to speak English. Switzerland winters are unforgiving. My classes were shit."

"The food made me lose ten pounds. And I'm pretty sure my teachers tried to turn me into an emotionless shell.” 

I prod him between the brows. My own smile is palpable. I stretch it wide until I can taste blood. The butterflies in my blood vanish. 

“I’m pretty sure that's a book,” I say. 

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges. “So, you're saying I'm dramatizing my school experience for Hannah points?” 

“It's a cocktail of Uglies, and every dystopian YA ever written,” I say. “Yes. You are.” 

Rowan smirks. We both laugh like it’s funny, like he is not made of plastic and wool. I laugh, like my very first surgery before I went under. They told me to laugh and imagine how pretty I was going to be.

I laugh harder.

He does too. 

“They forced me to shower and look after myself.” Rowan prods well-defined cheekbones. “This is what two years in a Swiss school does to you! Look at me!”

He turns to his reflection in the door and a grimaces. “I’m hot!”

I feel sick.

“You’re you,” I say, swallowing a scream lodged under my tongue.

He inclines his head again. The movement is strange, like his body doesn’t know how to be human. 

“Mostly.” Rowan grins. He steps back and pulls me with him, making way for a passerby. “I am severely jet lagged, though.”

I can't resist poking his cheek and he frowns. His bone structure is firmer. Sculpted.  “Your father didn't clockwork orange you?” 

Rowan blinks. “Huh?” 

“We called you during your first year,” I can't stop the words slipping out. “You were in class, but it was  like 3am—and your voice was wrong, and slurred—” 

“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” he raises a brow. “That call was clearly set up. They dragged me out of bed half an hour before.”

Heat prickles across my cheeks and crawls down my neck. I feel sick. “Are you going to explain why you were in class at 3am?” 

“I wasn't in class,” his voice hardens and is unmistakably his father’s. Manipulative. Callous. Gaslighting. “I was sleeping.” 

I can't let it go, somehow, the words are spilling out. “Your Dad says you were in class, Rowan.” 

His lips curl slightly, sharp blue eyes shifting to the wooden pole behind him. The cuffs from two years ago are still attached. He looks away quickly. Instead of responding, Rowan flashes a pearly grin. He’s had work done. “If you’ll excuse me, Hannah, I have a meeting with my father.”

Something cold slivers through me. Corpo speech. 

I step in front of him and block the door. “Why are you talking like that?” 

Rowan fixes me with a patient smile.  “Like what?” 

“Like your father.” 

His glossy appearance makes so much sense. I can’t stop myself until I’m inches from him. His skin bleeds the sickly, expensive scent of cologne he would never wear in a million years. “Is he putting you into Carrigan?”

“Nope.” Rowan sidesteps me, flashing me a flat smile and a wink. “You’re looking at the future producer.”

He stops short of the door and twists around. Rowan nods to a patch of roses growing by his usual spot beside the wooden pole.

“Those flowers have bloomed fast.”

Then he turns around and leaves, leaving me feeling emptied out.

…

Rowan’s casual bombshell is still ricocheting through me hours later. Carrigan has a cafeteria for staff and talent. A windowless room that reminds me of school. 

I sit staring at my untouched burger and fries, my stomach twisting into knots. Dec sits across from me, peering over a large baguette packed with cheese. 

Declan is a stress-eater, his tray filled with treats I know he's not allowed to eat. Superheroes couldn’t be fat, after all.

Declan is naturally attractive. Born with cherub-like features that don't need surgery.

He’s grown into his image, thick blonde curls haloing a more mature, hardened face. But he’s also lost a significant amount of weight. We don't really talk about his obsession with the gym. 

When I found him purging his lunch. 

“THAT’S what he said?” Dec hisses through a particularly messy bite of sandwich. Mayonnaise drips down his chin in thick white globs. “Producer? Like, inheriting Carrigan?” A piece of soggy, unchewed lettuce hits the corner of my mouth.

“Declan.” I shoot him warning eyes. 

Claire is sitting a few feet away, picking at a limp looking salad. 

He swipes at his mouth with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Dec swallows and plants his chin on his fist. “So, is he compromised? Did the school get him? Wait.” I notice he's shouting more than normal.

Either his ears have gone, or he's performing.

He leans closer. He’s already suspicious. “Didn’t you say he acted totally normal earlier and NOT Clockwork Oranged?”

I shrug. “He was just Rowan.” I mutter. “Same ego and still as insufferable as ever.” I swallow down the rest of my words. Doll. Unnatural. Remodelled. Plastic. “But something was definitely wrong.”

“Wrong?” Dec’s smile fades. “Meaning?” 

Before I can answer, Dec reaches across the table and knocks his shake over. Chocolate milk pools across the table, soaking my lunch. 

“Oh. Fuck.” He jumps up, panic creeping across his face. “Uh, could I get a cloth, or a mop, or something?” The cafeteria is empty. Claire doesn't help, of course, only offering us a smirk. 

I duck under the table to help him clear up. I try my best with napkins and make it worse. 

Dec pulls off his jacket and soaks the spill. 

I watch in disbelief. “Sometimes, I swear you forget you're a superhero.”

Dec grins. “I’ve been humbled working here! I’ll go find some help.” Then he twists around and runs off to find a mop. “Helloooo?” His voice echoes around the room as he reaches the door in three strides and leans over the buffet table. “I spilled my drink! Could I get, like… a bucket?”

A few minutes (and three soaked napkins) later, Declan returns victorious, waving a mop.

“The cleaner told me to leave it until she gets off break,” he puffs, out of breath. Dec drops to his knees to mop up the growing stain of chocolate. 

I join him.

“And what did you do?” This is the same boy who insists on cleaning his own hotel room and staying behind after red carpet  premieres to help the cleaners.

“Nothing.”

Dec averts his gaze. He's pretty damn good with the mop, soaking it all up in one swipe. I’m caught off guard by his arms, muscles bulging through his tee. Jesus.

Biceps for days.

Dec squeezes it into the bucket. “Clarissa let me take her mop.”

“Clarissa?”

“The cleaning lady.” He doesn't look up. “We're on a first name basis.” 

“Oh, really?” I tease. “Soo, she just LET a worldwide celebrity superhero clean up after himself?” 

“Yep!” 

A lie. Declan scrunches up his nose when he is lying.

“Dec.”

The corners of Declan’s mouth curve into a smirk. “I stole the mop when she wasn’t looking.” 

“How delightfully devious of you.” 

Dec points under the table, cloth in hand. “You missed a spot.” 

I shuffle over to wipe up the excess chocolate, and he follows me, bumping his forehead against mine. His eyes find mine, suddenly hard. Serious. “Claire is on my back, so I haven’t been able to talk to you,” he hisses. “But Rowan has a plan.” Dec’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “He’s not as far gone as you think he is.”

His words fall over me like lukewarm water. 

That explains Rowan’s weird fucking behavior. 

The asshole was acting. 

A Declan and Rowan team-up behind my back? That stings. 

“And?” I prompt, breathless,  scrubbing harder at the stain. “What is he up to?”

Dec hesitates, like he is unsure, like I’m not part of their plan. 

“He’s planted a device outside the facility,” Dec whispers. Relief turns to dread. A bomb? Declan lowers his voice to barely a breath. “When it goes off, it’ll distract everyone for just enough time for him to get the kids out.” 

He moves closer, his lips grazing my ear. “Be ready to run, okay? We’re saving as many kids as possible. Rowan’s going to text me, and then set off the device.”

“Rowan planted a bomb?” I breathe. “Are you serious?” 

Dec’s smile is sickly. “Relax, it’s outside, so it's not going to hurt anyone.” His eyebrows furrow. “Maybe a  scorpion or two.”

“Dec, wait,” I choke out before he can crawl away. My hands are shaking. A bomb? Have they completely lost their minds? I swallow my words. If it’s a last resort, and the only way to get Hope and the others out of there…

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I hold his gaze. “Seriously, Declan.” I grab his wrist. “Are you sure about this? Seriously? And what about your career?”

His smile curdles a little, and I realize Dec knows more than he’s letting on. Enough to throw away everything dear to him. “We’ve got no choice.” His gaze skims over me, refusing to make eye contact. He exhales, and a shiver crawls through me. “Did Daly tell you what happens to the kids?” 

Dec is too close, his breath feathering my cheek. “When they’re slaughtered, I mean.”

I nod. “Yeah. They go into these therapy centers where they're rehabilitated.”

Dec nods. His eyes harden. “And… have you ever been inside one of these centres?” 

Something violent snaps inside me, unraveling me, phantom bugs filling my mouth and skittering under my tongue. I can't breathe. 

“No.”

Dec doesn't move. His labored breaths brush my neck. “Be ready,” he says softly. I  sense the smile in his words despite the splinter in his voice threatening to break him. “Rowan will text me with the signal. Then we’ll run.”

His breath leaves my neck. Then he is gone. His movement is quick and swift. And I am left kneeling, breathless, stained in chocolate. 

“All right, that's done,” Dec says, loud enough to continue performing to his one-woman audience. 

I follow suit after a moment of hesitation, and crawl out from under the table. 

I am still choking on stray bugs. 

Dec grabs his tray as I slump into my seat. Cafeteria noise swamps my ears, louder, like cymbals crashing together. It hits me that I’d never heard it earlier, as if Declan and I are inside a vacuum. 

“I’m gonna get out of here, I've got a meeting with my agent.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently, I’m being offered a once-in-a-lifetime role.”

I don't look at him. 

Dec is talking like everything is normal and he’s not about to risk not only his career but a prison sentence. 

Throwing his backpack over one shoulder, he sticks his tongue out. “Pray with me that it’s actually an SNL monologue this time, not a guest appearance in some Disney show I don’t care about…”

He’s still muttering to himself as he walks away, offering our manager a sly salute. “Later, Claire.”

When he’s gone, Claire slowly stands from her table.

“Hannah.” She purrs, sliding into the seat opposite me, chin on fist. Claire’s eyes twinkle. “You didn't  tell me about you and Declan.” 

I hold my breath and pick up my sandwich. Act naturally, I think. 

But I am sweating, out of breath, and two seconds from diving to my feet and running after Dec. 

One measly bite, and my stomach turns. “What?” 

“Well, the two of you seemed very cosy under the table.” Claire’s gaze follows me as I fumble with opening my soda, a parasite burrowing into my brain. “Which is strange! I always thought you and Daly's boy had more of a connection.” Claire’s lips prick. 

“A makeout session away from prying eyes, I presume?” She leans across her tray, her eyes piercing right through my facade. “or am I…getting the wrong idea?” 

I wear a practised smile as usual. Claire was the one who taught me, lips squeezed together and wide eyes to feign interest before playing dumb. “You clearly don't know your talent,” I down my shake and settle her with my best poker face. “We’re friends.” 

“Oh?” Claire inclines her head. She’s waiting for me to trip up, waiting for my breath to catch. 

“Well, what could you have possibly been doing under the table together?” She taps her manicured fingers against the tabletop. Tap, tap, tap. “The two of you are old enough to do what you want in your private time.” 

Her lips curve into a spiteful smile. “Well, you might as well! Declan will have other priorities soon.”

I fight to maintain my nonchalance. “His new role,” I say smoothly. “You know about it?” 

“Oh, yes, of course I do!” She laughs lightly before producing something from her pocket and placing it in front of me. A Carrigan tag. A necklace with a unique number. Inside Carrigan, I had been designated as 11456. 

Something rancid winds its way up my throat; cafeteria ambience collapses into ocean waves crashing into my skull. I recognize the number. The bloodstained tag. 

Fake blood, of course, a mix of red food coloring and red cabbages soaked in water.

108952. 

Dec’s identity tag. Back when he was Aris, the kid who watched his parents get ripped apart. The role that skyrocketed him into stardom. 

Feigning a poker face is getting harder. 

I’m pretty sure that thing was dumped in the trash when Dec left. 

“The new role is Carrigan.” I say, swallowing bile.

“Yes, Hannah.” Claire is playing with me. Waiting for me to splinter. Waiting for me to snap. 

“Recent viewers have repeatedly demanded to know what exactly happened to the boy.”

“They call it a plot hole, if you’d believe that. Multiple fan forums are all asking the same question: what happened to him?” 

“So, you're putting him back in?” I whisper. “That doesn't make any sense. He was slaughtered.” 

“It was implied,” Claire chuckles. “Hope is very much waiting for him to return. She was talking about him the other day, which immediately sparked interest.” 

Claire continues. “Of course, Declan also has another offer,” she speaks up. Tap, tap, tap. Her fingernails hitting the table grow louder with every word. “A24’s new Jordan Peele project has been asking for him.

"Filming starts this summer in Korea. It's seven weeks. I'm going to be making a phone call to his agent tonight.”

“That's great. He loves A24.” 

“Mm.” Claire hums. “Declan is a good performer. He’s perfect for the role— a different, melancholic story.” Her lips curls. “And he's definitely got the body for it.” 

I choke down a response. Claire has been subtly steering him toward an eating disorder since he was eight. “You’re perfect just the way you are, Declan, as long as you lose a few pounds,” she used to say, smoothing down his hair and fixing his collar, almost motherly, before interviews, throwing away his snacks and replacing them with lettuce leaves. 

I caught her giving him pills to induce vomiting. When he got the Marvel role, I could see his sternum, a hollow, gaunt piece of my own childhood slamming into me. 

Claire is just like Mom. Just as big of a monster.

But I can't call her out. Not yet. Not now. 

I wait for the catch. 

“Hannah.” Claire is done being subtle. 

I stiffen, trying to focus on my lunch.

Her ice cold fingers find mine, entangling with my fingers. 

“Tell me what you talked about under the table and I will happily make that phone call to his agent.”

“So, you're threatening me,”  I say coolly. 

Her light laugh makes my skin crawl. “Not a threat, Hannah. But rest assured, if you let me in on your little chat under the table, Declan will be doing the movie.” 

“And if I don't?” 

Claire’s expression falls for a moment. “Hannah, I’m going to be completely honest with you. I value your friendship,” she says. “You, Declan, and Rowan are a delightful threesome.”

Tap, tap, tap. 

“However. Rowan Daly is a danger to both himself and the two of you. He might be playing a role for his father, but I am not as naive.” She meets my eyes. “He needs help,” Claire says. “Rowan is too unpredictable right now. I'm scared he's going to hurt himself.” 

The words leave me, somehow, stained in bile.

“He’s planted a bomb outside as a distraction,” I whisper.

Claire’s eyes turn steely. “Go on.”

“They’re working together.” My mouth is moving on its own, tearing right through a scream clawing at my throat. “When he’s ready, Rowan will text Dec, and…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “They’re going to save Hope.”

“That makes sense,” Claire says. “Rowan was not fixed at boarding school, as we thought.” Her smile sours. “He was radicalized.”

“Radicalized?” I hiss, “Wait—”

“Radicalization,” Claire repeats. “I believe Rowan is too far gone. Unstable, even, that the thought of hurting others barely fazes him.” 

“It's outside.” I correct her. 

I’ve made a mistake. 

Claire is putting words in my mouth. 

“He planted it as a distraction—”

She cuts me off. “Well done, Hannah. That was useful.” Claire stands. “I'll be making that call.”

She walks away, and it takes half a second for me to regret my confession.

“Wait.” I stand up. My legs threaten to give way. “Claire!”

She is out the door before I can even grab my bag.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. 

I pull it out. Silence prickles my ears. I’m far too aware that I’m the only one left in the room.

A text message sits on top of my lockscreen. Daly: Now: A word, Hannah. In my office. Don't be late. 

…

“Hannah.” Adam Daly settles me with a slimy smile when I plonk myself down in front of his desk. 

His office is not much of one, just a desk, a chair, and a bookcase of classics behind me. The room is stuffy and holds the sour stink of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. 

Daly closes his MacBook, shuffles some papers, and pretends he hasn't been anticipating me stepping through the door.

He opens a drawer and pulls out a marijuana pipe. “Confiscated from my son’s luggage,” Daly laughs. “I give Rowan credit. At least he’s acting like a teenager, and not a child.” He fumbles around and pulls out a lighter. 

I watch him light it up. He passes it to me. “Go on. Live a little.” 

“I'm seventeen,” I bite out, resisting holding my breath.

Daly raises a brow. He nods and takes a drag. “Most of my Carrigan performers have been doing drugs since they were kids.” 

He takes another hit and smoke curls through the air. “Can't blame ‘em.” 

“What's this about?” I cut through the unnecessary pleasantries. 

Daly smiles. “Well, you tell me,” he says lightly, “I've heard you have… concerns about Carrigan.”

“Concerns?” 

“Mm.” Daly places the pipe down. “I believe Declan put some unsavory ideas inside your head.” 

“Declan?” I lose all my composure. “You've talked to him?” 

“He was just here,” Daly lifts the pipe. “Declan also rejected a hit.” His eyes lazily drift to me. 

“Probably didn't want to mix it with those stimulants he worships, I guess.” The man's lips curl. “Declan is FAR too good for marijuana.”

I ignore his sneer and push his words to the back of my head. 

Dec’s taking stimulants? 

Since when? 

Why?

“Where is he?” I ask as casually as possible.

Sweat beads down the back of my neck. My hands are soaked. 

“Oh, Declan left.” Daly shrugs. He leans forwards and his chair squeals under his weight. “What he did say, Hannah, is that you have a certain question for me.” 

Question? 

Declan’s earlier comment creeps into my brain. “The kids inside Carrigan,” I whisper before I can bite the words back. Daly’s expression hardens. He nods slowly. “What happens to them when they're slaughtered?” 

Daly doesn't hesitate. He tucks the pipe back into the drawer.

“You know, Hannah,” he starts. “There are certain things an adult should never tell a child to protect them from a cruel reality.” He pauses. “You asked me when you were nine and one of your favorite children was slaughtered.” 

“Yes,” my lungs burn. “You told me they were sent to a rehabilitation center.” 

“I did.” Daly doesn't smile this time.

“I believed you,” I say.

“You were nine.” He chuckles. “You believed killer fairies that ate bad children lived in the desert! A white lie, of course, to stop you and the boys from venturing into the desert alone.”

“What do you do to the kids?” 

He responds with another statement. “Hannah, as you probably know, those children, now adults, have been in captivity their whole lives. They truly believe the world outside is ash.”

“And what do you do to them?” I demand. Louder.

Something reflective lies at my feet. A watch. 

Its face is cracked down the middle. 

I recognize the worn face. The jagged leather strap. It's unmistakably Declan’s. The watch was a gift from his grandfather. 

“Hannah?”

My head snaps up. I'm trembling. “Yes?” 

Daly’s expression is strangely soft. “This facility is… sustainable,” he says. “We realized we could not rehabilitate the children once they saw the outside world and… well, they showed signs of distress.” 

His gaze shifts. “They are… repurposed. Flowers! In the middle of the desert!” 

“You grind them up.” I spit out, before I can stop myself.

I drop to my knees and snatch up Declan’s watch. The strap is twisted and black around the edges. Blood. He never takes it off. Dec once spent two hours crawling around a red carpet premiere looking for it.

Somehow, my knees keep me upright. Dec’s watch is still warm. “I'm leaving.” 

“Are you, though, Josie?”

Daly stops me dead in my tracks by using my Carrigan name.

“You have been lying to Hope and those kids your entire life,” he says. “I’m not sure why you perch on your high horse and call us monsters for simply fixing a problem."

Daly’s beady eyes narrow. His smile wrinkles at the edges.

“You never asked, by the way. You knew something happened to them, and yet you remained ignorant. You didn’t want to fracture your perfect little world, where had everything you could ever dream of."

“Are you really going to stand there and tell me you were never, not once, curious about what we did to the children we ‘slaughtered’?”

I don't respond. Dec's watch is clenched in my fist.

“Even my son was more observant than you,” Daly spits.

“While we were busy fighting to shut him up, you happily turned a blind eye.”

The man edges closer, his chin resting on his fist.

His smile splits. “Do NOT,” he thunders, “tell me you didn't realize what we were doing, and do NOT stand inside MY office and call ME a monster.”

Daly’s lips curl back.

“You insufferable, ignorant little brat.” 

He's right.

I always wondered. 

Ever since Hope asked me. 

But I didn't want to know. 

Keep him talking, I think, pulling out my phone. 

I dial three numbers. 

922

923

921

My fingers keep slipping. 

But I must keep his attention on me. “What did you do to your son?” I manage.

Daly straightens in his chair. 

“Rowan is being placed inside Carrigan,” he says. “Five minutes ago, my son underwent psychological therapy to prevent him from becoming a danger to himself.” The wall is illuminated with a live feed of a white room, steel handles and silver blades; just like the one in my nightmare. 

I only have to see his limp body and hollow eyes, red trickling down between his wide, grinning smile, to know Rowan— or the Rowan I once knew— is gone.

“You cut him open,” my breaths grow heavy. Suffocating. 

My fingers find the numbers, but there’s no dial tone.

A loud thud sounds from outside the door.

Then it swings open.

Declan appears in a blur of tangled, vivid gold. 

I barely recognize him. The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing mismatched clothes, his shirt from earlier thrown over clinical white pants I recognize. Carrigan clothes. Blood oozes down his temple.

He’s disheveled, desert dust speckling his face.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to warn me before something slams into the back of his head. Then he folds right in front of me, his eyes rolling back, before hitting the floor face-first.