The morning started with a sound that could raise the dead.
BRRRIIIIIIIIINGGGGG.
I jolted upright, nearly knocking my head on the metal bunk above me. Zara groaned from below. "They call that a bell. I call it trauma."
"What time is it?" I croaked, my voice raspy from last night's unauthorized pillow fight.
"Too early for humans," she said, already pulling on her knee-length pleated skirt like she'd been trained in combat dressing.
I flopped back onto my pillow. "I don't care how bad I was. No one deserves this punishment. Not even serial killers."
"Get up or Sister Margaret will start the day by screaming scripture into your soul."
That got me moving.
The uniform was still a tragedy: gray skirt, white shirt, navy blazer with a crest so aggressive it looked like it had a superiority complex. My tie was a joke—I tied it in a sloppy knot and pretended it was fashion.
In the dining hall, we were served something that might've once been eggs and toast, if you used your imagination and squinted real hard. I poked it with a fork. It didn't fight back, but I wasn't convinced it was dead.
"This food should be illegal," I muttered.
Zara was smearing butter onto hers like it owed her money. "Word is the chef used to cook for military dogs."
I scanned the dining room. And there he was.
Jace Donovan.
Sitting at a table with three other boys, all of them radiating bad-decision energy. Jace had his hoodie down for once, revealing a shock of black hair and a jawline that could probably slice bread. He looked like the poster child for "Do Not Date This Boy."
Naturally, I stared.
Zara noticed. "Don't even think about it."
"Think about what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. Stop it."
I shrugged. "I'm not thinking anything. I'm just… observing the wildlife."
Just then, Sister Margaret burst into the dining hall, her face already in mid-scowl. "Attention, children of God and regret!"
That got everyone's attention.
"We will be conducting a fire drill this morning," she declared, as if she'd just announced the arrival of the pope. "There will be no talking. No running. And absolutely no wandering."
A few students groaned. Someone muttered "again?" under their breath.
"This place catches fake fire more than my ex's Instagram," Zara said as we headed to the courtyard. "Last month, someone lit a prayer candle and nearly burned the altar."
"Holy flame," I whispered dramatically.
Outside, we were lined up like army recruits. Boys on one side, girls on the other. Sister Joan blew her whistle like she was coaching Olympic sinners.
Jace was on the boys' side, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. When he caught me staring, he raised an eyebrow and gave me a smirk so cocky I wanted to throw a shoe at him.
Challenge accepted.
Sister Margaret was pacing with a clipboard like a military general. "Alphabetical order! Backs straight! Eyes forward!"
I was mid-eye roll when a loud buzzing rang out from the admin building.
At first, we all assumed it was part of the drill. But then came the actual fire alarm.
BWAAAAAAAAAH.
The sprinklers activated somewhere, misting the edges of the courtyard. And then we saw the smoke—real, thick, gray smoke—curling out of the music building.
"What the hell?" I gasped.
"Please tell me this is staged," Zara said, backing up.
It was not staged.
Students started whispering. A few screamed. Sister Margaret dropped her clipboard and said a word I was pretty sure wasn't in the Bible.
And then—through the chaos—he appeared.
Jace. Walking casually out of the smoke, covered in black soot and smugness, with a half-burnt songbook in one hand and a lighter in the other.
Sister Bernadette chased after him with a fire extinguisher, screaming Latin prayers.
"I'm sorry, what?!" I laughed, pointing at the spectacle.
Zara clutched her chest. "He really lit the music room on fire?!"
He gave the crowd a one-shouldered shrug and said loud enough for everyone to hear, "Mozart was asking for it."
The chaos that followed could only be described as biblical. Sister Margaret tried to maintain order by yelling louder. Sister Joan fainted. Someone let off a second fire alarm just for fun.
Meanwhile, the rest of us were ushered back inside to "safety" while Jace was dragged away by two faculty members like a rockstar leaving a concert.
Later that night, the story had already mutated.
"I heard he burned the piano to keep warm."
"No, he was trying to roast marshmallows during choir practice."
"I heard he was performing a satanic ritual using Chopin!"
When Zara and I got back to our room, I found something taped to my bunk.
A single sheet of paper, folded neatly.
Inside, it read:
You looked way too amused out there. I like your style. — J.D.
Zara peeked over my shoulder. "No freaking way. He wrote you a note?!"
"It's not a note," I said quickly. "It's—uh—a… warning?"
"You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing!"
"You're crimson."
I shoved the paper into my desk drawer and turned away. "He's a pyro. It's probably a trap."
She snorted. "And yet, you're smiling."
I tried to hide it. I failed.
That night, as I stared at the ceiling of my bunk, I thought about all the things I'd done to land myself here. The bad decisions. The rules broken. The chaos I'd caused.
And somehow… Jace Donovan made it all look like child's play.
Maybe this place wasn't the prison I thought it was.
Maybe—just maybe—it was where I'd find my match.