The morning was gray and heavy, the kind of day where every shadow feels alive, watching. I had spent the early hours pacing my dorm room like a caged animal. Messages, threats, the ghost of Celeste's death—they were **burning holes in my skull**.
Tessa, completely oblivious to the storm inside me, had been chirping about breakfast and campus gossip, but I barely heard her. My hands were shaking from too little sleep and too much adrenaline.
Finally, the **basketball lesson** came as a distraction I didn't want—but maybe needed. Coach Thompson was a gruff man with a bad habit of barking orders like a drill sergeant. "Vale, don't screw around. Court. Fifteen minutes. Drills," he barked.
I grabbed my gear and headed to the gym. The hallways smelled of wet sneakers and polish. My boots echoed against the tiles. Every glance from other students felt like an accusation, like someone was **tracking my every move**.
The gym doors creaked when I pushed them open. Hardwood stretched out like a battlefield. The faint scent of sweat and old varnish stung my nose. The echo of bouncing balls, sneakers squeaking, and whistles cut through the quiet air.
I tightened my hoodie, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked to the center of the court. Each step felt like dragging through molasses. I was on edge, heart hammering. Every shadow between the rafters or the bleachers felt like someone waiting to strike.
Coach Thompson tossed me the first ball, barking corrections as I dribbled. The rhythm of the ball on the floor calmed me for a second—*almost*. It was just enough to make the silence around me feel louder, like the space was stretching and twisting.
"Vale, bring another ball!" the coach shouted.
I groaned. Of course. One thing I couldn't let myself do was **hesitate**. Hesitation was weakness, and weakness got you hurt. I walked toward the storage closet at the far end of the court, shoes squeaking on polished wood.
The hallway leading to the storage area was narrow, lined with lockers. Shadows pooled in the corners, and I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. My stomach twisted. Something didn't feel right.
I shook my head. "Get a grip, Vale," I muttered under my breath.
I grabbed a ball and turned to head back. That's when it hit me.
A fist slammed into my ribs. Pain exploded across my body, stealing my breath. I stumbled, trying to catch myself, but a hand clamped over my mouth. Another strike hit my shoulder, hard enough to make me see stars.
I twisted, trying to break free. The assailant was fast, precise, pressing me against the lockers. My hoodie snagged, slowing my movements. Every nerve in my body screamed. My ribs screamed. Every breath was agony.
Then came the knife. A **flash of cold metal**, a sharp tear across my side. I cried out, tasting iron and adrenaline. Pain shot through me in a blinding flare. My knees buckled.
I kicked and struggled, twisting my body, blood soaking my hoodie. My hands clawed at the attacker, at the lockers, at anything to survive. But then—they vanished. One second there, the next—**gone**.
I sank to the floor, hands pressed to my side, whimpering and gasping. Blood slicked the polished wood. My vision blurred. My heartbeat sounded like a drum, deafening in my ears
I tried to crawl toward the court doors, but the pain and shock made every movement agony. My breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts. The gym was silent except for my own cries and the soft thump of my fists against the floor.
Minutes passed—or maybe seconds—I couldn't tell. Then came voices.
"Vale?" Tessa. Her voice was high, frantic. "Vale! Oh my God!"
Other girls appeared behind her, their eyes wide. I was still on the floor, screaming, clutching my side.
One of them ran to the phone, dialing the nurse while the others helped me stand, supporting my weight. Every step made the pain flare. My hoodie was soaked with blood. I kept muttering, half delirious, "Fuck… shit… help…"
They guided me to the nurse's office, my body trembling. Every breath burned. My hands pressed desperately to the wound. Tessa never left my side, whispering, "It's okay, I've got you. You're okay. You're okay."
The nurse arrived, alarmed, taking one look at the blood and panic-stricken girls. They helped me onto a bed. Cold antiseptic stung the wound as they worked. I bit my lip, trying not to scream again.
Tessa's hand stayed on mine, warm, grounding. Completely innocent. Completely unaware of how close she'd been to danger—or that the real threat was still out there.
As I lay on the bed, shaking, the adrenaline still coursing through me, my phone buzzed. I ignored it. My side throbbed, my ribs felt broken, my hoodie ruined.
And then—Lucian. Standing there in the doorway, calm and terrifying.
"You're alive," he said, his voice low. No warmth. No apology. Just the same storm I'd felt before.
I glared at him. "Fuck, Lucian, do you have *any idea* what just happened?"
"I do," he said. "And you're lucky I got here when I did. That could've been the end."
Pain twisted through me. My chest heaving, I pressed my hand to the wound. "What… what do you want?"
"Survival," he said simply. "You do exactly what I say. One wrong move, and you're dead. Simple."
I swallowed, heart pounding. "I… I'll think about it," I said through gritted teeth. Every fiber of me burned with fear, rage, and something I couldn't name.
He nodded. "Think fast. Time isn't on your side, Vale."
And then he left, leaving me bloodied, battered, and **terrified—but alive**.
Tessa squeezed my hand, whispering, "You're going to be okay." I forced a nod, smiling shakily. Innocent, unaware, trusting.
I closed my eyes. Pain screamed in every rib, every nerve. My chest heaving. And I knew: **everything had changed.**