The faint glow of the afternoon sun poured in through the tall, arched windows of the student council chamber, throwing golden rectangles across the polished floor tiles. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, drifting like fireflies above the heads of the gathered students.
The room was packed with bodies, a mix of middle schoolers and high schoolers, slouched on chairs, perched on desks, or leaning against walls. The air buzzed with the sound of low chatter, laughter, rustling paper, and the occasional bark of someone's ringtone being hastily silenced.
Aiva sat quietly near the front, her back straight, hands resting in her lap. The air smelled like old varnished wood, ink, and that familiar tinge of school sweat and deodorant.
Her heart beat a little faster than normal, not out of nervousness, but a cautious excitement. She glanced around, spotting a few familiar faces, some from her class, others from clubs, a few she only recognized by name.
Somewhere to her left, someone was eating chips. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Her eye twitched.
She turned her attention back to the front just as the chamber door creaked open, revealing Caitlyn.
The third-year student council secretary walked in briskly, her sharp heels clicking like gunshots on the tiled floor. Her maroon ribbon was tied perfectly at her collar, blazer buttoned all the way up, and clipboard in hand.
Behind her came Morris, calm, unreadable, tall as always, holding a separate clipboard with a blue sheet tucked into it.
The room quieted in patches, pockets of noise still popping like firecrackers until Caitlyn clapped her hands once.
"Alright, listen up!"
The last whispers fizzled out.
She stepped forward, brushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear as her sharp eyes scanned the crowd.
"Out of the twenty-three who volunteered for the Night Patrol Initiative," she began crisply, "only sixteen of you have been selected."
A ripple of whispers followed, heads turning left and right.
"Eight from high school, and eight from the middle school division," she continued. "We based our selection on conduct, fitness, and ability to work with others. If your name is not called, we appreciate your interest, but please respect the outcome and leave the chamber quietly once the list is done."
Morris silently stepped forward, offering her the clipboard.
Aiva held her breath.
Caitlyn's eyes flicked down at the page. "In no particular order… we begin with the high school division."
She began to read.
"Renee Nomura."
A few people clapped. Someone let out a whoop.
"David Choi."
He raised a hand and nodded coolly.
"Aiva Brown."
Aiva's eyes widened. A small smile tugged at her lips. She sat up a little straighter.
Her name called third. Not bad.
There was a polite sprinkle of clapping around her, but she barely noticed it. Her heart was doing a little two-step of its own. She fought back the giddy grin threatening to bloom on her face.
Caitlyn continued.
"Emmanuel Han. Chelsea Grant. Minako Ito. Felix Abart…"
Aiva's thoughts started drifting. She recognized a few names, didn't recognize others. But honestly, she was barely listening anymore, not to the names, at least.
Her gaze discreetly scanned the room, toward the back, toward him.
And there he was.
Adam.
Sitting alone at the far end, beneath a narrow shaft of sunlight bleeding through a stained glass panel. The amber light spilled across his features, casting soft gold highlights on his cheekbones and catching on the delicate shine of his braids as he ran his fingers through them absentmindedly.
His dark skin looked carved from onyx, warm and rich beneath the light. His brows were furrowed, not in annoyance, but thought. Like his body was here, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Aiva tilted her head slightly.
Was he…?
Caitlyn's voice cut through the moment.
"…and Adam Greene."
Aiva blinked.
Her head whipped forward.
Wait.
Wait, what?
Had she misheard?
She turned back again, and sure enough, Adam hadn't flinched. Hadn't looked up. As the crowd of unselected students slowly began to file out of the room, she watched him from over her shoulder. He didn't meet anyone's eyes. He just sat there, almost perfectly still, his hand now resting on the back of his neck as if something unseen weighed it down.
But he had volunteered?
Why hadn't he said anything yesterday?
She thought back to lunch. Adam had seemed surprised when Morris had brought up the student council at all. He'd laughed it off. Literally brushed it away like lint on a jacket. And now here he was? A volunteer? One of the eight chosen?
Caitlyn stepped back, handing the clipboard to Morris. "Those not selected, thank you for your time. Please exit quietly. The rest of you, remain seated."
There was some grumbling as students left, but it soon faded with the shuffle of footsteps and creaking chairs. The chamber door closed behind the last group, and now only the chosen sixteen remained, a smaller, tighter circle in a much bigger room.
Morris stepped forward, calm and confident as always, his voice measured and clear.
"As some of you might've noticed," he began, "there are no third years on this list. That's not a mistake."
He paused.
"We're passing the torch."
He glanced at Caitlyn, who gave a small nod.
"Our time's nearly over. The school year is moving toward midterms, and in a few weeks, we'll begin prepping for the final stretch before graduation. So we, the third years won't be doing this round of patrols. This time, it's all you."
Some people nodded. Aiva chewed the inside of her cheek, absorbing his words.
"You've all been chosen for your commitment, for your willingness to help, and for your ability to take this seriously. Don't let us down," he added, his eyes briefly settling on Adam, and then, ever so slightly, on Aiva.
"Now then," Morris continued. "Here's how it'll work."
He raised his clipboard and began to pace slowly, almost like a teacher giving instructions before a final.
"You'll be working in pairs. Each pair will be assigned two shifts per week. Each shift begins at 22:20 sharp. You'll be making rounds across your assigned blocks, class halls, sports areas, clubrooms. Your job is simple: ensure that by lights-out, no students are loitering or skipping curfew. If someone gives you trouble, you report it. You don't confront them."
He paused again.
"You are not hall monitors. You're guardians. And a guardian's job is to keep peace, not start fights."
A few people chuckled nervously.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
Morris nodded. "Good. Caitlyn will now call out your pairings."
Caitlyn stepped forward again, flipping the sheet.
"We'll begin with the middle school division."
As names were read out, Aiva's attention began to drift again. She was half-listening, half-daydreaming, imagining herself and Bryce paired together. Patrolling dark corridors side by side, flashlights in hand, stealing glances… maybe a few kisses… leaning against the lockers, whispering so close their noses almost touched…
She was blushing before she could stop herself.
"Aiva Brown and Adam Greene. You take Thursday and Sunday"
Her breath caught.
What?
Her head snapped up.
No. No no no.
She must've misheard again.
But the quiet murmurs in the room confirmed otherwise.
She turned in slow motion, and there he was.
Adam hadn't reacted. Still seated. Still unreadable. But this time, she could feel him aware of her. Like the temperature in the room had shifted. Like the world was holding its breath for her response.
She looked away quickly, heart pounding.
Thursday and Sunday.
She was going to be patrolling with Adam.
Not Bryce.
Not even one of her best girlfriends.
Adam.
And she had absolutely no idea how to feel about it.
She swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the dryness in her throat.
Caitlyn continued down the list after assigning Aiva's group on Thursday and Saturday, but Aiva couldn't hear a thing anymore. The names faded to white noise. All she could think about was how strange, how random, this pairing was. Why them?
Was it coincidence?
Was it Morris?
Was it fate?
Her eyes flicked once more to Adam.
His gaze, for the first time, met hers.
It wasn't long, just a second. Maybe less.
But it was enough to leave her wondering if Thursday night was going to be a dream... or a disaster.
***
The soft clink of glass against wood broke the silence.
Alexander Farren stood alone in his sprawling penthouse office on the top floor of Farren Towers, Moonstone Square's gleaming centerpiece. The city lights below blinked faintly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he paid them no attention.
He was barefoot, dressed in nothing but a thick black silk robe, loosely tied at the waist. The scent of aged whiskey mingled with the sharper bite of antiseptic from the automated cleaning drones that patrolled the perimeter of the office.
He moved with a sluggish gait across the polished obsidian floor, his footsteps muted. He paused at the lacquered oak drinks counter, a marvel of craftsmanship carved by hand, untouched by his own since Clara's death, until this year.
A bottle of Highland Reserve, half-empty, sat uncorked next to an empty glass. His hand trembled slightly as he poured, the liquid sloshing unevenly.
He didn't bother savoring it. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, joining the five others he'd downed in the last hour.
His path back to the desk was uneven.
Twin monitors glowed from the wall behind the desk, casting flickering hues across the room. One showed live feeds from the border forests, militia cam footage, thermal scans, high-definition night vision. The other monitor pulsed with maps, casualty figures, and encrypted FSS dispatch reports.
Footage of his men, the soldiers who fought under his private militia, the FSS, played out in brutal silence: muzzle flashes lighting up the dark, soldiers shouting inaudibly through the screen, creatures with blurred, humanoid outlines crawling through flames.
A fresh alert appeared. FSS Unit 09, lost. All hands presumed KIA.
Farren exhaled sharply and sank into his chair. His spine never touched the backrest. He hunched forward, forearms resting on the edge of the desk, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the feed. The dim light deepened the grooves on his face, age lines that hadn't been there five years ago.
He looked like a man split down the middle.
He whispered to no one, "Monica's probably looking down on me right now from heaven... I'm so pathetic, everything he hated in me-- manifested."
But no one was listening.
A flickering image caught his eyed, Austin, standing among his squad, barking orders. Calm. Focused. Efficient. Doing what Farren no longer could.
Guilt churned in his gut like acid. He raised the glass again.
God help me.
The liquor did nothing to wash away the memory. Eight years ago, he had dared to say no to Elaine. Just once. That was all it took. Just one moment of rebellion, one refusal to continue funding her experiments, and his wife was dead within the holiday. Murdered right infront ogf him, in broad daylight.
Farren knew better.
Now she held his son in her claws. Every choice he made since had been under that shadow.
He slammed the glass down, shattering it against the desk. Shards flew, embedding into his palm. He barely reacted. Blood dripped in thin lines over his paperwork, some of it classified.
His voice trembled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The screen changed again. Another unit down. Screams, then static. More young men and women, most of them orphans, ex-cons, or idealists, people who had believed in his company's promises, dead in the dirt.
Because of him.
Because he had opened the gate.
Because he had helped Elaine.
But what choice did he have?
This was some plan concocted by Elaine that she refused to reveal to him the details on and just required his full obedience, or else.
Elaine was always like this. Mastermind at heart, she cooked up different ideas and planned that somehow always worked in the end. only revealing his plans to Farren when she deemed it necessary... Or when it was part of the plan to reveal it to him. Either way, Farren knew he was a puppet, and he couldn't escape, she had eyes everywhere.
He had once considered suicide. But he quickly realized that this escape would only bring about the damnation of his son. Elaine was merciless and would erase the Farren bloodline from existence by this act, and Farren knew it.
He gripped his bleeding hand, pressing it to his chest as if trying to still the rapid beating of his heart.
A message pinged on the encrypted line. It was from Elaine.
"They're advancing again. You know what to do. Don't delay."
No sign-off. No mercy.
Farren stared at the message for a long time, not blinking.
Then, slowly, almost ritualistically, he stood, walked to the mini sink, and washed the blood from his hand. He dressed the wound with a shaky bandage from a drawer. Then he returned to the monitors.
He opened a secure terminal.
Typed in the authorization codes.
Target: Sector Gamma.
He hesitated.
Then:
Execute.
A moment later, the sky on the screens lit up in white-hot missile flashes. Trees exploded. Creatures scattered. Friendly units too close to the edge vanished in the shockwave.
He closed his eyes.
Farren leaned back in his chair at last, a bitter laugh escaping him, hollow, ragged, bordering on a sob.
"You win, Elaine."
The chair creaked as he sank into it, a man folding in on himself beneath the weight of blood not yet dried.