*Trigger warnings* vehicular manslaughter, attempted kidnapping, dark humor as a coping mechanism, attempted euthanasia, teenage run aways
First period felt like a joke.
The bell rang. The overhead lights buzzed. Ms. Calder talked about chemical bonds like the world hadn't just split open and dumped me in the dark part of it.
I spent most of class watching the door.
She never walked by it.
Second period? Same.
By lunch, I started scanning every hallway. Not because I wanted to talk—okay, no, I did want to talk—but mostly, I just needed to see her. Make sure she was okay. Breathing. Conscious. Real.
I spotted her just before third period, half-hidden behind the east stairwell near the arts wing. She wasn't standing still. She was moving. Fast. Hoodie up. Head down. Zig-zagging between groups like she was training for evasive maneuvers. Every time I got close, she'd dip into a classroom or vanish into the girls' bathroom.
Avoiding me like it was her full-time job.
It was the fourth time she ducked into a different hallway that I stopped pretending this was coincidence.
She saw me and flinched.
Turned on her heel like I was a fire alarm and she didn't want detention.
I picked up my pace. "Ardere—hey, wait!"
But she was already weaving through a clump of freshmen and bolting for the other stairwell. She didn't even look at me when I sat down beside her in third period.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Just stared at her desk like it held the secrets to the universe, lips pressed into a line so tight I wasn't sure she was even breathing right.
"Hey," I said quietly.
No response.
I tried again. "Ardere… about yesterday—"
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
"I just want to make sure you're okay. That you're not alone in this."
Still nothing.
She kept her eyes locked on the top corner of her notebook like I didn't exist. Like if she didn't acknowledge me, then nothing that happened—none of it—could be real.
I opened my mouth again, ready to push, to say something real, something that might get through—
But that's when the door opened.
And the room went silent.
Two men stepped inside.
Military-looking. Dark suits, earpieces, boots polished to a mirror sheen. Not the kind of people who looked like they belonged anywhere near a public high school. They didn't speak right away. Didn't need to.
Every head in the room turned.
Ms. Rell straightened from her desk, brow furrowing. "Can I help you?"
The one in front—tall, buzzcut, clean-shaven with the kind of presence that made your skin crawl—held up a badge. Didn't flash it. Held it, like it was supposed to mean something without explanation.
"We need to speak with Ardere Anderhale."
Every eye snapped to her.
Except hers.
She didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even breathe.
"Now," the man added.
Ms. Rell looked between them and Ardere. "Is there a reason? I'd like to know what—"
The second man, broader and meaner-looking, cut her off. "Official clearance. We'll return her after questioning."
I turned to her.
She was pale.
Hands clenched into fists under the desk.
"Hey," I whispered, trying not to draw more attention, "Ardere, what's going on?"
"Now," the second man added, more forcefully.
Ms. Rell blinked. "Excuse me—?"
Before she could finish, Ardere stood.
But not to walk with them.
No.
To run.
In one fluid motion, she shoved her chair backward, grabbed the edge of the desk beside hers, and launched herself between the two men.
The tall one tried to grab her arm—she twisted, fluid and fast like she'd trained for this, ducking under his hand and hitting the hallway door at full speed.
"Hey!" one of them barked.
Then they were running.
Right after her.
Chairs scraped back. Students shouted. The whole class buzzed into chaos.
I didn't even think.
I bolted from my seat and chased after them.
By the time I hit the hallway, Ardere was already halfway down it—hair flying, boots pounding the tile like thunder. One of the men was gaining on her. The other spotted me and reached for something under his jacket, but I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
She was scared.
Really scared.
And I still didn't know why—but I was going to find out.
I sprinted after them, dodging lockers and confused students, heart jackhammering in my chest.
Up ahead, Ardere veered right—toward the exit doors.
And behind me, I could hear one of the men shout, "Get back inside!"
My boots slammed against the tile, lungs burning as I rounded the corner toward the exit.
But then—
Noise.
Not from ahead.
From the side.
A crash.
Shouting—someone yelling something unintelligible, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a desk getting knocked over.
I slowed, just for a second.
Just long enough to turn my head—
—and that's when I saw him.
Lysander.
Exploding out of a classroom like a wolf set loose from a cage.
No coat. That clean, cold look of his twisted into something sharp. Eyes burning. Shoulders tight. Already moving before he'd even finished registering what direction to go.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't glance at me.
Just ran.
Toward the same hallway Ardere had vanished down.
I nearly slipped trying to turn.
"Lysander!" I shouted.
No response.
Students stumbled out of his way like they could feel the danger radiating off him. Some stared after him. Some backed into lockers. One guy just dropped his phone.
More soldiers chased after him, the same type that Ardere was running from. I sprinted after him, questions forming and dying on my tongue. Something had shifted.This wasn't just about Ardere anymore.This was bigger.
And whatever it was—
It had just pulled Lysander into the open.
Which meant we were past the point of pretending everything was fine.
I lost her.
One second she was twenty feet ahead of me, about to blow through the side exit—
The next?
Gone.
Vanished into the crowd of scattering students, hall monitors shouting, fire alarms flickering. Just another blur of movement swallowed by panic.
I skidded through the doorway, eyes scanning the corridor like I could will her back into existence.
"Ardere!" I shouted.
No answer.
Only chaos.
And then, from somewhere behind me—
another shout.
Another crack of something hitting metal.
I turned—
Just in time to see Lysander slam one of the suited men against a row of lockers so hard the entire row buckled inward with a sickening clang.
The man tried to fight back—
Big mistake.
Lysander moved like shadow wrapped in steel, hand around the guy's throat before he could draw his weapon, his other arm pinning the man's wrist to the wall so tight I heard the bones pop.
"You followed her here?" Lysander hissed, low and deadly. "To a civilian school?"
The man choked out something—probably a warning, maybe a plea—but Lysander wasn't listening.
His voice dropped further.
"I warned you what would happen if you scared her."
Then he leaned in. Close.
Too close.
The man twitched once—and froze.
I don't know what Lysander said. Maybe it wasn't words at all. Maybe it was just the promise of something worse than death.
But in that second, the man pissed himself.
And Lysander let him drop.
"You're lucky she ran," he muttered. "Because if she hadn't, I'd be dragging your corpse out of the art wing."
I should've said something.
I should've stopped him, or asked what the hell was going on, or even blinked—
But I couldn't.
Because the air suddenly changed.
Again.
It dropped ten degrees.
And every ounce of joy in my body—every shred of hope, curiosity, adrenaline, even anger—
Vanished.
Gone.
Like someone reached inside my chest and gutted me.
The hallway fell silent.
Then—
BOOM.
Not a real explosion.
But that's what it felt like.
Soundless. Violent. Heavy.
A grief bomb.
And it hit like a tidal wave.
I dropped to my knees. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My vision blurred, and I could feel students around me collapsing like dominoes—some crying, some screaming, some just sinking.
Grief.
Raw.
Untouched.
Amplified tenfold.
The grief was going to kill me.
It wasn't just sadness. It was despair—pure, unfiltered, like drowning in the memory of every terrible thing that had ever happened to me, and then some that hadn't.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
My head was pounding. My lungs screamed for air. My knees had buckled, and I didn't even remember falling.
I thought—honestly—I was going to die like this.
And then—
A hand grabbed the back of my jacket and hauled me upright.
"Get up," Lysander growled, his voice slicing through the haze like cold steel. "Get the hell up."
I tried. I really did. But my legs weren't working, and my chest felt like it was caving in.
He didn't wait for me to cooperate.
He dragged me.
Down the hallway, away from the worst of the grief blast, each step scraping fire down my spine. His hand stayed clenched in my collar, like letting go even for a second might kill me.
"You idiot," he snapped, breath short. "Do you ever think before you throw yourself into a disaster?"
"Y-You mean like you?" I gasped, trying to stay conscious.
He shot me a sharp glare. "I don't chase her in front of armed government officials."
We rounded a corner. Most of the students were curled on the floor, some unconscious, others sobbing. The teachers looked just as lost. The grief didn't care about age or rank—it hit everyone the same.
Everyone but Lysander.
Of course.
He shoved open a side stairwell door and pulled me in behind him, kicking it shut as the echoes of chaos dulled behind the concrete walls.
He let go of me then.
I dropped against the railing, head between my knees, lungs still clawing for air.
"What the hell was that," I wheezed.
Lysander's voice dropped to a dead whisper.
"That," he said, "was Ardere losing control."
I looked up at him, heart still racing. "You think I don't know that?"
"She doesn't set off a grief bomb like that for no reason," he continued, tone clipped. "Not in public. Not in daylight. Not unless something is seriously wrong."
I swallowed hard. "Then why the hell are we standing here?"
He met my eyes.
Flat. Cold. Furious.
And scared.
"We're not," he said. "We're going to find her."
He turned and started down the stairs two at a time.
I staggered after him.
My ears still rang. My ribs ached like they'd been stomped on. My skull felt cracked open.
But I kept going.
Because he wasn't slowing down.
"Wait," I gasped. "How do you even know where she went?"
"She left a trail," he said, not looking back. "You just can't feel it anymore."
We took a turn past the maintenance hall. The overhead lights were flickering like they couldn't decide if they wanted to stay on or shut off for good.
"What trail?" I asked, breath catching.
Lysander finally glanced back. "You think a grief blast like that just disappears? It clings. It seeps into things. Floors. Walls. People. But mostly... air."
He pressed his palm against a patch of cinderblock and flinched.
"There," he muttered.
I watched him in disbelief. "You're tracking her with grief?"
He gave a humorless half-smile. "She left her signature all over this place. I can follow it. You just try not to pass out again."
"Noted," I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "You make it sound like she did it on purpose."
He slowed slightly, just enough for me to fall into step behind him.
"She didn't," he said. "But her power doesn't care."
We turned a corner.
A janitor sat slumped in a chair near the end of the hall, head bowed, hands trembling. Another student was sobbing quietly in the fetal position against a locker.
I could feel the grief here. Thinner than before, but still there. Like the aftershocks of a bomb that hadn't finished going off.
Lysander didn't stop.
"She's panicking," he said under his breath. "This is the pattern she leaves when she's panicking."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've seen it," he snapped. "Too many times."
We followed the grief through the art wing.
Then deeper.
Past classrooms no one used anymore. Down halls no one even remembered existed. Into the dark places.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
He stopped at a utility stairwell door, hand resting on the handle.
And for the first time since the blast—he hesitated.
"She's going down," he said. "Which means this is about to get worse."
Lysander pushed through the back doors of the school without breaking stride, boots hitting the pavement hard enough to echo. I stumbled after him, blinking against the sun—it shouldn't have felt wrong, but somehow daylight made everything worse.
And then—
I saw her.
Across the lot.
Standing by a black SUV at the far edge of the staff parking section.
Ardere wasn't just tense—she was rigid, shoulders locked, mouth trembling, eyes distant and glassy, like she'd left the building of her own body and didn't know how to get back. One of the soldiers was talking low, like he thought no one else could hear him.
Then I saw it—
His hand.
Moving toward her hip.
No—not her hip.
A pocket.
A syringe.
He lunged, grabbing her by the wrist.
She screamed—not the theatrical kind. Real.
Raw.
Animal.
She twisted and slammed her elbow into his jaw.
He staggered. Recovered. Grabbed her again by the back of the neck.
And that's when she snapped.
Grief radiated off her like a pressure wave.
Not an explosion—not yet—but a rippling pulse that cracked the asphalt under her boots. Ardere was fighting now—kicking, punching, trying to break free. He grabbed her arm again, and that's when I saw his other hand pull out a second syringe.
She saw it too.
And something behind her eyes just—
Shattered.
"No," she gasped. "No, no, not again—not again—"
She slammed her head back into his nose.
Blood spattered.
He roared, grabbing her tighter. He had her pinned against the SUV now, the syringe back in his hand, and she was screaming—really screaming now.
"Wait—" I started.
But it was already too late.
The sound of tires shredding pavement.
The SUV's reflection in Lysander's windshield.
And the soldier—
Turning.
Realizing.
Too late.
CRUNCH.
Lysander's truck slammed into him like a goddamn freight train.
The guy flew—hit the asphalt and skidded, limbs twisting, blood streaking behind him like a smear on canvas.
The impact rocked the entire row of cars.
And for a second—
Everything stopped.
Even Ardere.
She dropped to the ground, hands over her ears, shaking like she didn't know where she was anymore.
And I—
I just stood there.
Staring at the crumpled body on the pavement.
At Lysander behind the wheel.
Unblinking.
Unbothered.
The truck door flew open.
"Get in!" he shouted at me.
I didn't move.
"Dorian—move!"
That snapped me out of it.
I stumbled forward, barely able to process what I was doing. Climbed into the passenger seat without a word. Lysander already had the truck in reverse.
He hit the gas.
The tires shrieked.
And we were gone.
The lot shrinking behind us. The body. The blood. The sirens I thought I might be imagining.
I turned to look at him.
Lysander didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Just drove like it wasn't the first time he'd run someone over for her.
****
The inside of the truck felt like a coffin.
Tires still howling on pavement. Wind slamming against the windows. Ardere curled in the back seat, shaking and whispering something under her breath I couldn't understand. I couldn't even turn around to look at her.
I was still staring at Lysander.
"You—" I choked out, my voice raw. "You just—you ran him over. You ran him over, Lysander. Are you insane?"
He didn't flinch. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes locked on the road.
"He had a syringe."
"That doesn't mean you can murder someone—!"
"He was going to inject her. You know what that means."
"I don't! I don't know anything because none of you will tell me what the hell is going on!"
My voice cracked.
Ardere was still crying. Hyperventilating. Curled in on herself like she was trying to disappear into the upholstery.
Lysander's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Both of you need to shut up."
"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting your post-homicide joyride?"
The truck jerked as he whipped the wheel into a sharp turn down a gravel road, the tires slipping before catching.
"I said shut up," he growled. "I'm not doing this with you right now. I don't have the time."
"You think I care? You think I'm just gonna pretend that was normal?"
"No," he snapped. "But I need you to get a grip—because if they found her at school, then they already know where we live."
That hit me like a brick.
I stopped talking.
Lysander's jaw was tight, his voice clipped and sharp like steel. "They don't send people like Marek unless they're ready to move. And if they're moving on her now, it means Ms. Marvos is already in danger. Maybe Araxie. Maybe even Riven."
Even that name made me shiver.
Lysander finally looked at me—just for a second—but it was enough.
He wasn't just angry.
He was terrified.
"I need you lucid, Dorian," he said. "I need you with me. Not shaking in your seat like a civilian with a stomachache. You made yourself part of this. Now act like it."
I looked back.
Ardere was rocking back and forth, still not breathing right. Still somewhere miles away from this car.
I wiped my face. My hands were still shaking.
"What do we do?"
"We go home," he said. "We find out if it's still standing."
He glanced in the rearview mirror—at Ardere.
—
We pulled up to the house expecting fire.
Explosions.
Broken glass.
At minimum, an armed convoy parked out front.
But instead?
There was… nothing.
No smoke.
No bullet holes.
Just the same ivy-covered porch, the warm yellow light spilling from the windows, and the faint sound of a kettle whistling somewhere deep inside.
Lysander killed the engine but didn't move.
I opened the door first, slowly, as if something might jump out at me.
Ardere stumbled behind me, still in her oversized hoodie, her legs barely holding her weight.
We crept up the steps like burglars in our own lives.
And then—
The front door opened.
Ms. Marvos stood there in an emerald-green cardigan, holding a teacup.
She blinked at us. "Oh. You're home early."
I stared at her. Then back at the house.
"…What."
Ms. Marvos tilted her head. "Is there a half-day I wasn't informed about?"
No one answered.
I think my mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Lysander stepped past me, straightening his coat. "We need to check the perimeter."
"Why?" she asked, suddenly more alert. "What happened?"
I turned to Ardere because suddenly I needed answers. My heart was still racing, my shirt soaked with sweat, my brain short-circuiting.
I pointed at her. "No. No—you don't get to just walk in here like everything's fine. Who the hell were those people at the school?"
Ardere blinked at me.
Still pale.
Still disoriented.
But something flickered behind her eyes. A weak defense mechanism.
She tried to smile.
And shrugged. "Social workers."
For a second—
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
From me.
Not because it was funny.
Not because it was clever.
But because it was insane.
Horrible.
Stupid.
And exactly the kind of thing she would say.
I laughed.
I doubled over, laughing so hard it hurt, hands on my knees, gasping for air I couldn't catch. The kind of laugh that felt more like sobbing. The kind that scraped the bottom of your sanity and left you raw.
"Oh my god," I wheezed. "Social workers. Social workers? Jesus Christ."
Ardere's half-smile vanished.
Ms. Marvos looked between us, confused and cautious. "Dorian…"
I wiped my eyes. Still laughing. Still unhinged. "He ran a guy over with a truck. You know that? Lysander? Just boom. Right in the lot. And now you're telling me they're social workers?"
"I was kidding," Ardere whispered, suddenly small again.
"Was that before or after the grief bomb?!" I shouted, spinning toward her, voice cracking under the weight of everything. "Because I'm having trouble keeping up!"
That made her flinch.
The laughter stopped.
Dead quiet again.
Lysander returned from wherever he'd gone, silent as death, eyes scanning the street.
Ms. Marvos gently stepped forward. "Dorian, I think you should sit down."
I did.
Because I didn't trust my legs to keep me upright anymore.
Ardere just stood there in the middle of the porch, arms crossed tight over her chest, shrinking inch by inch like she wanted to fall through the floor. Ms. Marvos was trying to offer me tea like that was going to do anything. And Lysander… well. He was watching the street like he expected gunfire.
Then I heard him.
"Wow," said a voice that made my skin instantly crawl. "I always miss the best parts."
I turned, and there he was—Riven.
Leaning in the doorway, barefoot, holding a pear like it owed him something. He looked like he hadn't slept in days and didn't care. There was something off about the way he smiled. Like he knew something none of us did. Like he'd be happy if things got worse.
"Was that laughter I heard?" he asked, eyes flicking to me with a kind of clinical interest. "Grief bombs don't usually come with a laugh track. I gotta say, the tonal shift? Kind of brilliant."
Lysander glanced over with that cold, calculated stillness that usually meant something sharp was coming—but Riven didn't flinch.
"Let me guess," Riven continued, stepping further into the room. "Ardere cracked. You charged in. Big dramatic moment. Grief tsunami. And bam—plot twist: the 'social workers' had military-grade sedatives. You kids and your after-school specials."
"You think this is funny?" I snapped.
He blinked at me slowly, like I'd asked if water was wet. "Yeah," he said. "I think everything's funny."
I shot to my feet. "She could've died."
"She's always almost dying," Riven said with a shrug. "Don't take it so personally. It's just a Tuesday."
"Riven," Ardere muttered. Her voice was paper-thin. "Don't."
"Oh come on," he said, flashing teeth. "You can't seriously expect me to ignore the fact that your old handlers just waltzed into your history class like they were picking you up from daycare. That's rich. God, did they even ask about me? I always thought I made a lasting impression."
My hands were in fists before I realized it.
He turned toward Ardere now, circling slowly like a vulture with good posture. "So, Ar. Feeling better? Or do we need to call your little playgroup down at The Drop again?"
Her breath hitched.
Riven just smiled wider.
And then he said it.
Soft. Sweet. Poisonous.
"You remember the one who used to call you angel? The lullaby creep? Scalpel collection in a candy tin?"
Ardere flinched.
So hard it physically hurt to watch.
Lysander moved.
Didn't speak—just cut the distance between them in a blink. He stepped in front of Ardere, all ice and blade, and stared Riven down with that terrifying, empty calm that somehow said don't test me better than words ever could.
But Riven? He just sighed.
Like we were all a bit boring now.
He backed off a step and flopped onto the couch like he owned it, pear juice trailing down his wrist in red-streaked drips.
"So sensitive," he muttered. "You'd think I was the one who ran a guy over in broad daylight."
My spine snapped straight.
Lysander didn't react.
Ms. Marvos didn't either.
Only I did.
Because I was the only one still pretending any of this made sense.
I looked at Ardere, who still wouldn't meet my eyes.
And then at Riven.
"Why are you like this?" I asked him.
He glanced over, bored. "Built different."
Then he bit into the pear again. A loud, wet crunch.
"Wait. Did you guys seriously leave Araxie at school?"
The words didn't even hit right away.
There was a full two seconds of blank, horrified processing.
And then it landed.
"What?" I said.
Ardere's head snapped up. "No—"
"Because," Riven went on, tone light, conversational, "I don't remember seeing her in the truck. And it'd be so awkward if we forgot her, y'know? Considering the armed men. The trauma. The grief nuke."
He arched an eyebrow. "Kinda rude."
"Lysander," Ardere breathed, "did you—?"
Lysander had gone perfectly still.
Like a computer trying to process a system error.
"No," he muttered. "No. She—she left with Ms. Marvos this morning. Early. For her appointment."
Ms. Marvos nodded slowly, lips parted like she'd forgotten how to breathe. "Yes. Yes, she did. But—she was supposed to come back by lunch."
"She didn't text me," Ardere said, pulling her phone from her pocket with shaking fingers. "She always texts me when she gets in."
Riven clicked his tongue. "Yikes."
I was already halfway toward the door.
Lysander stopped me with one sharp look.
"Dorian."
"We have to go back—"
"Not yet," he snapped. "We don't know what we're walking into."
"Look on the bright side," Riven said, voice lazy. "Maybe they got what they came for."
Ardere spun on him. "Shut the hell up."
Riven just smiled.
Sharp.
Teeth and nothing else.
The gate banged open so hard it rattled the windows.
I flinched.
Riven grinned.
And then Araxie's voice—sharp, furious, and echoing with fire—cut through the room.
"Thanks for leaving me to fend for myself, you absolute circus of freaks."
She stomped in, backpack barely hanging off one shoulder, her braids wild and wind-tossed, and the kind of expression that could send grown men into hiding.
Lysander exhaled—an actual breath of relief.
Ardere looked like she might cry all over again.
I just blinked.
"You're okay," I said stupidly.
Araxie threw her hands up. "I'm furious, but yeah. Okay. Barely." She pointed at all of us like we were individually and collectively responsible for war crimes. "You people ditched me in a live-action supernatural hostage situation. Do you know how many people saw that go down?"
Ms. Marvos stepped forward, gentle. "Araxie, I thought you were at your—"
"I was. And then I walked into school just in time to see two government goons try to detain Ardere, Dorian having a breakdown, and Lysander doing his very best Terminator impression."
"You left me," she hissed, turning on Ardere now. "You always tell me when something's happening. You promised."
Ardere tried to answer but only managed a broken whisper. "I didn't think they'd come to the school."
"That makes it worse," Araxie snapped. "Because it means you thought they'd come somewhere else. And you didn't say a damn word."
"Okay, alright," Riven cut in, looking unbothered as ever. "She's alive. We're all alive. What's the real problem?"
Araxie turned on him so fast even he blinked.
"The real problem is every single person in that school just watched Ardere melt a hallway with her soul, and no one even tried to cover it up. We're screwed. All of us."
The silence that followed was worse than the yelling.
Because she was right.
And no one had a plan for that.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"She grief-bombed a whole floor," I whispered. "Someone probably filmed it."
"Oh, not probably," Riven said, swinging his legs over the couch. "Definitely. You think high schoolers don't whip out their phones the second someone starts screaming in Latin and crying blood?"
Lysander clenched his jaw.
Ms. Marvos paled.
Araxie threw her bag down with a thud. "We need to fix this. Now."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Define 'fix.' Are we talking memory wipes, threats, or a casual fire to distract from the evidence?"
"I swear to god—" Lysander started.
"Hey!" I shouted over everyone. "Maybe we should start with figuring out who those guys even were. Because I still don't know why they came after her, or why one of them had a needle, or why you"—I pointed at Lysander—"decided vehicular homicide was the solution!"
Ardere flinched again.
My voice cracked near the end.
Riven looked delighted.
"There's only one solution," Ms Marvos said softly. "We leave."
No one responded at first.
I felt my heart skip like it was trying to process it ahead of the rest of me.
Ardere slowly lifted her head. "You mean like—"
"Again," Ms. Marvos confirmed.
That word did something awful to Ardere. I saw her shoulders draw in tighter, her whole body coil in on itself. Not surprised. Just… bracing.
"Before they find us," Ms. Marvos continued, quiet and measured. "Before we give them another chance to take one of you."
Araxie muttered a curse under her breath.
Lysander was already moving. Pulling out his phone. His face had that cold mask again—the one that said this wasn't new.
But it was new for me.
All of it.
"What the hell do you mean leave?" I said. "Just—what? Pick up and vanish?"
Ms. Marvos didn't answer right away.
But Riven did.
Of course he did.
He stood slowly, stretching like he'd just woken from a nap.
"You might want to start packing too, Dorian," he said casually, licking pear juice off his wrist. "Y'know. Before they decide you're part of the experiment."
My stomach flipped.
"That's not funny," I said.
"Wasn't a joke," Riven replied, eyes gleaming. "They saw you with her. Chasing her. Shielding her. Driving off together. That's a narrative waiting to be written. You think people like that need the truth?"
He stepped closer to me.
Not threatening.
But not not threatening either.
"They'll come for you too. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But if you keep showing up like this, they'll label you a liability. A leak. And you know what happens to leaks, right?"
I didn't answer.
He leaned in a little more, voice dropping an octave.
"They get plugged."
Ardere moved between us before I could speak, planting herself squarely in front of me.
Still pale.
Still shaking.
But her eyes—those were steel.
"Back off," she snapped.
Riven just smirked. "You gonna grief-bomb me again, sweetheart?"
"Try me."
Ms. Marvos clapped her hands once, loud and sharp.
"That's enough," she said. "All of you. We don't have time for this."
The room stilled again.
And I realized the weight of it. For them, this was just the next chapter in a life that had never known safety. But for me? This was the moment everything tipped.
No going back.
Riven turned away with a hum, already losing interest.
But as he passed me, he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Tick tock, Dorian. Pick a side before someone picks it for you."
****
Her room was dim, lit only by the pale gray spill of early evening light leaking through the window. It made everything look muted, like the house was already starting to forget her.
Ardere moved around with mechanical focus, pulling open drawers, shoving things into a backpack like she wasn't really seeing them. A sweatshirt. A sketchbook. A half-used tube of mascara. None of it looked like it belonged to someone ready to run. Just... someone trying to hang on.
I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, heart trying to climb into my throat.
"So that's it?" I asked. My voice cracked more than I meant it to. "You're really just gonna leave?"
She didn't answer. Just zipped the bag with a little too much force and moved on to her closet.
I stepped farther into the room.
"Where are you even going?"
Still nothing.
I watched her grab her boots. The pair she always wore when she was nervous. Her hands were shaking.
"Ardere."
That finally got her to look at me.
Only briefly.
But enough to break something in both of us.
I swallowed hard. "Are you ever coming back?"
She blinked, jaw tightening. "Don't ask me that."
"Why not? You think I don't deserve to know?"
She turned away again, like facing me made it harder to keep herself together.
"I don't know," she muttered. "I don't know what's gonna happen. I don't know if it'll be safe. I don't know if I'll even—" She cut herself off and threw a hoodie into the bag. "That's the point, Dorian. I don't know."
I took another step closer.
"You could stay. We could figure something out. My mom—"
"No," she snapped, spinning to face me again. "Don't you get it? You can't fix this. This isn't a detention or a fight behind the gym. This is my life. My reality. And you don't belong in it."
That one hit like a punch to the chest.
I stared at her. "So that's it? You're just gonna pretend none of this meant anything?"
She shook her head, eyes flashing. "This is exactly why I didn't want you in my life in the first place!"
There it was.
The truth she'd been holding back like a mouthful of broken glass.
She looked furious. And scared. And exhausted.
I didn't say anything right away. I couldn't.
Because underneath the words, I could hear what she was really saying. She didn't mean she never wanted me in her life. She meant it was too painful now that I was.
That I made it harder to run.
Harder to disappear.
Harder to survive.
Her voice softened after a second. "You were supposed to stay on the outside. That's how I keep people safe. That's how I don't lose them."
I stepped in closer, slower this time.
"You're not gonna lose me."
She let out a bitter laugh. "You say that like it's a choice."
I looked at her—really looked.
The girl with storm clouds in her veins. With grief in her touch. With a past sharp enough to bleed anyone who got too close. She turned away again like she was trying to armor herself back up. But I couldn't take it. The silence. The space. The idea of her walking out of this room like she never planned to come back.
So I stepped forward.
No warning.
No logic.
Just... instinct.
And I wrapped my arms around her.
At first, nothing happened.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there like I'd dropped a bomb in the middle of her chest.
I felt it almost immediately.
That slow, creeping cold. The tidal pull in my gut. That hollow, gnawing ache that belonged to her, bleeding into me.
Her grief.
It was crawling through my veins like fire made of memory. My heart clenched like it was trying to unlive something. My eyes stung with tears that weren't mine.
But I didn't let go.
I held her tighter.
Because maybe if she couldn't carry it alone anymore, I could take some of it. Even just for a second.
"You don't have to keep doing this alone," I whispered.
She was still frozen.
Like her body didn't even know how to react to being held.
And then—
"I was gonna say something gross about this moment," came Riven's voice from the doorway, "but it's honestly kind of sad. Like a dog hugging a knife."
I jerked my head up.
He was leaning against the frame like a corpse with too much personality, arms crossed, that awful pear still in hand.
Ardere didn't move.
Didn't even flinch.
I slowly let her go, though it physically hurt.
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Not to interrupt the emotional breakthrough and soul-binding whatever, but if we're done with the tears and touching, the 'getting-the-hell-out-of-here' part should probably start now. Unless you want a SWAT team for breakfast."
I stared at him, still trying to breathe through the grief crawling off my skin like phantom limbs.
"You really can't shut up for five minutes, can you?"
"Nope," he said brightly. "Trauma makes me chatty."
He tossed the pear in the air and caught it one-handed.
"Truck leaves in ten," he added, voice suddenly flat. "You're either in or you're not."
He disappeared down the hallway with the echo of his bare feet.
I looked back at Ardere.
Her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed.
But she finally moved.
Slowly.
She didn't speak.
Didn't thank me.
Just bent down and zipped her bag closed.
And I realized… she didn't need to say it.
She was still here.
So was I.
For now.
And ten minutes was already too short.
The door clicked shut behind Riven, and the house went quiet again.
But it wasn't the kind of quiet that offered peace.
It was the kind that felt like something was about to break.
Ardere hadn't moved since zipping her bag. She stood there, hands curled at her sides, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.
I didn't push her.
Didn't speak.
I just waited.
She finally looked up at me—and I swear something inside her shattered without making a sound.
"Dorian," she said quietly. "I need your help."
"Yeah," I said immediately. "Of course."
"No." Her voice cracked. "You don't understand."
She took a step toward me.
Another.
Her eyes—those stormy, hollow eyes—locked with mine like she was about to hand me something sacred and terrifying.
"These people," she said, barely above a whisper. "The ones who came to the school. The ones I call the Social Workers—they've been after me for years. Before the Marvos house. Before the group homes. Before everything."
My breath caught.
She kept going.
"I thought I could outrun them. That if I kept low, if I stayed broken enough, they'd stop seeing me as useful. As dangerous. But today…"
Her voice trembled.
"Today I proved them right."
I wanted to tell her no. That she was wrong. That what happened wasn't her fault.
But she was looking at me like she already knew all the arguments I could make—and none of them mattered.
"I endangered everyone," she said. "Ms. Marvos. Araxie. Lysander. You."
"You saved me," I tried.
She shook her head violently. "No, Dorian. I cursed you."
And then—she stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel the ache radiating off her.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out something small.
A thin black vial.
Unmarked.
I didn't recognize it.
But I didn't have to.
"I need someone to destroy me," she whispered. "Before they do it first. Before they use me to hurt anyone else."
My stomach twisted. "Ardere—"
She pressed the vial into my palm.
"You're the only one I trust."
Her fingers trembled against mine.
"Do it before they turn me into something I can't come back from."