Iris
"Mum!" I hollered for the umpteenth time, my voice bouncing off the walls like a desperate banshee.
In the name of all the sacred paintbrushes, why did I have to be cursed with this woman?
She wasn't hearing me. Oh no, she was too busy playing DJ on her disco disc, turning my very messy life into her personal Grammy performance.
"I'm a cool mum," she sang at the top of her lungs.
"But my daughter's uncool!" she rapped off-beat, shaking her butt like an uncoordinated penguin.
"No dates, no boyfriend, nerd friends and now she's eighteen," she freestyled, flipping her imaginary mic.
"Will I ever have grandkids? Huh huh huh!"
Then she cranked up the beat, tossed her invisible dreadlocks, and started dancing like she was auditioning for a reality TV show called How to Embarrass Your Child 101.
I stood there, eye twitching in slow horror.
"I'm off to school," I muttered stiffly, clutching my paintbrush and plate like they were shields, and bolted out the door before she started twerking.
Escaping through the tiny garden outside, I flagged down a taxi heading towards Pepperdine College, which was thankfully just a stone's throw away. Or in my case, a desperate sprint away from my cool mother.
---
Marching toward the Business Administration building, I tried-and failed-not to look like a skittish kitten about to get hit by a semi-truck.
Passing the school field, I did everything humanly possible to blend into the scenery.
Maybe if I walked slower? No, faster? Or maybe if I just morphed into a decorative bush?
But alas, camouflage wasn't my superpower.
Because ever since the Incident-a.k.a. that time Lizzy tricked me into singing after the soccer team's big win and I made noises only guinea fowls and dying car engines could appreciate-my peaceful, invisible life had become a flaming trainwreck.
I was popular now, sure.
Popular in the same way a whoopee cushion is at a royal banquet.
Passing the cheerleaders during their very serious rehearsal (practicing who could be the loudest gossip machine), I caught snippets of their oh-so-enlightening conversation:
"Hey, isn't that the school creep?"
"Such a loser. I'd transfer schools if I were her."
"Ugh, is she carrying her painting junk again?"
"I bet her art sucks just as bad as her voice. Might actually bleed from my eyes."
Fantastic. I was officially the human equivalent of a cursed artifact.
I kept walking, praying no one would directly bully me today. And just when I thought, maybe, just maybe I could get through the morning without public humiliation-
"Hey sore throat!" a voice hollered from the basketball court.
A black-skinned boy grinned wickedly, basketball in hand. "Catch this, honey! Maybe I'll date you if you do!" he cackled, throwing the ball.
The basketball whizzed through the air with the speed of karma-and smacked me square in the face before bouncing off dramatically. The court erupted in explosive laughter as everyone joined in, unable to hold back their amusement.
I frowned, holding my poor, innocent nose.
I could handle insults. I could handle gossip.
But getting physically touched by a sweaty, bacteria-infested basketball? Now that was a personal attack.
Too rattled to start a scene, I power-walked into the general hallway, pretending the eyes boring into my soul didn't exist.
Straight to the girls' bathroom I went, carrying my paint stuff like a knight fleeing to their fortress.
Half a dozen girls were inside, applying makeup like they were about to shoot a beauty pageant movie.
I tucked myself into a corner, splashed cold water on my face...
and felt tears slip down my cheeks.
Huh. Why was I crying?
Oh right. Because my life sucked.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
College was supposed to be the place where I met a broody hot vampire who would fall madly in love with me, turn me immortal, and we'd raise adorable half-vampire babies while wearing matching black leather jackets. (Okay, maybe only one or two babies. Immortality plus unlimited babies was a logistical nightmare.)
Instead, here I was-starring as the school's personal meme.
People were supposed to mature in college, not continue acting like drunk middle schoolers at a sleepover!
But reality had slapped me harder than that basketball.
I was a joke. A living, breathing meme.
You know, the kind of sad story guys bring up on dates when conversation gets dry. "Hey, remember the guinea fowl girl from semifinals?"
And then the bitch he's with will probably laugh louder than he does.
More giggles broke out behind me, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. New girls had entered, excitedly checking their lip gloss and fake lashes.
"Damien's on campus!" one girl squealed, trying to contour herself a new face.
Immediately, the bathroom became the Hunger Games, Makeup Edition.
Eyeliners were drawn like weapons.
Lipsticks were loaded. There was even a mascara duel at one point.
I sighed in exhaustion. This was too much energy for a Monday.
Clutching my painting plate and brush, I made my way out of the bathroom...
...only to walk straight into an even bigger apocalypse in the hallway.
Because, turns out, when you imagine the Business Department, you expect mature, sophisticated future business moguls right?
Wrong.
This place looked like a bad crossover between a pop concert, a reality show, and an influencer convention gone rogue.
Some girls in their black-and-white suits were practically combusting with excitement, giggling, squealing, rearranging their collars, and pulling down their skirts like they were about to meet Santa Claus - only hotter and with a bank account. Meanwhile, the guys, dripping with jealousy, huddled together in tiny hate groups, muttering enough vulgarities about the school billionaire to fuel a full-blown Twitter war. Cowards, all of them - like they'd ever say it to his face.
Whatever chaos was happening here, I was willing to bet my last slice of pizza it was happening in every department across campus. Not every day do you get the CEO of a global company slumming it in college like a commoner.
Damien Vanguard.
Ugh. Just saying his name made my eye twitch.
He was like a foot trying to fit into a baby sock - way too big for this place - and it seriously fried my brain every time I thought about it. Why was he even here? The boy didn't need school. He already had more money than a small country. The only reason someone like him would step foot here was to play god or get bored and buy the whole campus for kicks.
I clicked my tongue as I stomped towards class. Fine, yes, he was hot. Hotter than the summer I got grounded with no AC. He had dreamy eyes, lips that looked way too kissable for public safety, and a dangly shiny earring that screamed, "Hi, I'm the man from your embarrassing late-night fantasies."
But come on. He was obviously a proud, arrogant prick - confusing every innocent girl in school with his Disney prince looks and dollar-sign aura.
Call me biased, but I automatically hold grudges against popular people.
Meaning, yes, Damien Vanguard was an asshole. Case closed.
...Wait, hold up.
I'm popular too.
Does that mean I have a grudge against myself?
Ugh. Existential crisis. I'll schedule a mental breakdown for later.
I bumped into Brian on my way down the hallway - one of my very few friends. Brian was like me, except quieter, nerdier, and somehow always looked like he was trying to hack into the Pentagon just by existing.
"Hey," Brian greeted, pushing his glasses up like an anime character.
"Hey," I echoed back.
He eyed the painting board under my arm. "Painted anything today?"
I waved a hand in front of his face like I was swatting flies. "It's morning, genius. The day just started."
"Yeah, yeah. I thought you were a night bloomer."
"Night bloomer, huh."
Oh, I bloomed at night alright - just not the way he thought. I wasn't studying or painting.
Nope.
I was becoming one of the world's most wanted cyber hackers. No big deal.
The awkward silence between us settled like a comfy old sweater. Another reason why I liked Brian - minimal conversation, zero social pressure. Just the way I liked it.
"See you around," he said.
I smiled. That was practically a full TED Talk by our standards.
Dragging myself to Econometrics - the human equivalent of a snoozefest - I survived until noon. Barely. By then, I was half-dead from hunger, so I stumbled into Waves Café and ordered fries so greasy they could probably power a small city.
I was halfway through inhaling them when-BAM - my voice blared from the TV overhead.
I didn't even look up. Didn't have the strength. My focus was on the golden, heavenly fries before me. Priorities.
Thankfully, no one in the café laughed anymore when my cursed video played - guess the joke was getting old. Small mercies.
Painting board and brush in hand, I escaped to my sacred place: the empty, glass-walled art room. I set up, closed my eyes, and let the world melt away. Just me, my board, and a white void begging me to create something insane.
I saw it.
A girl running across the ocean, arms wide, hair whipping in the wind, waves sparkling under the sun.
Perfect.
My hands moved. I drew the shore, the girl, the wild crashing sea behind her. A miracle spilled out onto the canvas.
Was it good? No clue.
The only people who ever saw my paintings were Brian (who always nodded politely like a hostage) and my mom (who would grunt and mutter something like something like, "A boyfriend would be a better hobby." Thanks for the encouragement, Mother.)
Other than that, my art was my secret. Like everything else about me.
I was packing up when a voice behind me startled me so hard I nearly threw my brush across the room.
"Marvelous," the voice said - deep, smooth, and rich enough to charge a listening fee.
I turned, but thanks to the reflection off the glass and the darkness outside, I couldn't see his face. Just a tall figure standing there, annoyingly mysterious.
Wait. Was it night already?!
"Who are you?" I asked, scowling.
A chuckle answered me. Oh, great, a mysterious chuckler. How original.
"You look familiar. Aren't you that girl on TV?" the voice asked.
Instead of panic, weirdly, I felt... calm.
Maybe because I couldn't see his face.
Talking to him felt more like talking to a wall. A very sarcastic, male wall.
If he knew I was mentally comparing him to a robot, I'm pretty sure he would've cried.
"You mean the viral video where I sound like a dying llama?" I snarked. "Yeah, that's me. Autographs later."
He was quiet for a beat. I could practically hear his imaginary eyebrow raise.
"You do know this is college, right? Nobody actually cares about that stuff."
Oh, wow. Sherlock Holmes has joined the chat.
"Yeah, thanks, genius," I shot back. "You recognize me but no one cares. You're a regular Einstein."
"You're an idiot," he said bluntly, sounding way too amused for my liking.
I choked. "Wha- what?!"
Yup. Confirmed. Even strangers I hadn't met yet were getting in line to roast me.
"You're so dramatic," he sighed. "Laugh it off, own it. Everyone will think you planned it. Nobody here gives a damn anyway. Grow up, little girl."
Little girl?
Excuse you, I am a grown woman of nineteen years, thank you very much.
(Okay, technically that's still a little girl to the world, but whatever.)
Still, his words buzzed in my head. What if he was right? What if all the whispering and staring was just in my brain, blowing it up bigger than it was?
Or what if only the jocks cared, because they had the emotional maturity of wet socks?
Before I could think of a good comeback, I heard footsteps fading away. I spun toward the glass - but he was already gone. All I caught was a flash of a shiny earring under the moonlight.
It hit me.
That was the longest conversation I'd had with anyone since starting college.
God help me.
-----
Damien
I breathed in a wisp of the cool night air, feeling deeply content with myself. Tonight, I'd stumbled upon a lost soul-someone stupid and starved of common sense. And judging by the look in her eyes after I was done talking, my ultimate brain must have worked its wonders yet again.
What would the world be without me? I was the answer to everything. That wasn't pride speaking-just cold, hard facts.
Leaning against the bonnet of my Ferrari, I waited, focusing on my internal clock.
Two minutes.
Four minutes.
At exactly fourteen seconds past the fourth minute, I sensed movement-multiple figures stirring from the shadows that cloaked the silent, still night. My eyes turned cold.
Four men stepped into view from behind a shuttered shopping store. Two of them dragged a bloodied man, his body limp, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Adrien, my right-hand man, led the group, dressed in a sleek black suit that devoured light. The digital glasses perched on his face gave him an air of precise refinement.
Nothing less would do. Anyone affiliated with me had to meet a standard. A being of my excellence couldn't afford embarrassment.
Adrien stopped behind me while the others halted in front, dropping the mangled man at my feet. Zack-my shadow, my assassin-waved casually, then disappeared into the dim-lit buildings. He blended seamlessly into the darkness, but I knew he was still there.
Watching. Waiting. Ready to kill or die for me.
But I had no interest in Zack right now. My gaze fell to the bloodied man. He was a mess-teeth gritted, blood dripping from his lips. With a wince, he raised his head to meet my eyes.
Maybe he was looking for the person who'd done this to him. Maybe he wanted a face to remember when dreaming of revenge. His face was twisted with hate, but mine was unreadable. Cold.
My logic was simple: emotions were wasted on ants. You crush them. Walk away. Problem solved.
"You took too long," I said quietly to Adrien. He knew that tone meant I was pissed.
He adjusted his glasses-a familiar gesture. "One of our men got sloppy. Triggered the alarms. Things got complicated."
I raised an eyebrow. "There was a shootout."
"Two casualties," he replied.
I didn't ask further. Men who died on a simple mission had no use to me. They were unworthy of being subordinates to Damien Vanguard. May they rot in hell.
"You..." the bloodied man rasped, trembling. "It's you."
I looked down at him, mildly amused. Bending close, I touched his face gently with my gloved hand-no need to ruin my specimen further. In a soft, calm voice, I smiled and said, "You don't look familiar. But I'm honored, truly, to be recognized by a worm. No-wait. That came out wrong."
I straightened abruptly, as if struck by a thought. Snapping my fingers, I widened my eyes. "I see it now. It's pathetic, really, that you know my face. That your wretched existence even breathes the same air I do. My lungs are tainted by your stench. You've committed a crime, and you deserve to die."
He shivered, his limbs trembling. "Please... spare me. I'll tell you everything! They hired us-Digicram, those bastards! Two contracts they'd chased for years got awarded to you. The old boss wanted to send a message. We were just told to harass your workers. Empty threats-nothing physical, I swear! Please, I don't want to die. Spare me!"
My brow twitched. He was getting noisy. That grated on my nerves.
"Spare you, huh?" I turned from him, gazing up at the sky. The stars shimmered, and the moon was full-beautiful. "Old man, this night is elegant. You'd be a fool to miss your chance to die under a sky like this."
I faced him again, a glint in my eyes. "Let's make your journey beautiful, shall we?"
His fist clenched. Fury burned in his eyes. "You're a demonspawn. A devil. An abomination. How many have you killed, you vagab-"
A single bullet silenced him. Adrien never missed.
The night returned to its quiet state as the body dropped. I had already turned, stepping toward my Ferrari. Once a specimen began to bore me, it lost all worth-and Adrien always knew when that moment came.
He entered the car after me, shut the door, and started the engine. As the Ferrari rolled away from the damp, dark street, I watched the two men drag the corpse into the shadows. Probably to burn it.
But the fate of a worm didn't concern me. I had more pressing matters.
"You know what to do," I told Adrien.
He nodded. "Frame Sirius Vexley with allegations of human and drug trafficking. The evidence will be airtight-no chance of recovery for Digicram. Our PR team will fan the flames. Once that bastard's in prison, we'll make his life a never-ending nightmare of fists and blood. We won't kill him, but we'll break him. Slowly."
"Good," I said.
Adrien hesitated. "Should I call Jessy to attend to you tonight-"
"No need," I waved him off.
My mind drifted to that girl I'd met earlier-the lost soul. I didn't know why, but a strange hunger stirred in me. Maybe it was a new fetish. Something about purity and naivety... like hers.
I felt myself growing hard.
"I've set my eyes on a new specimen," I told Adrien, my voice laced with anticipation. "And I have a feeling... she'll be absolutely delicious."