Zephyra

Prologue

Chemistry my term paper’s half-dead, and this formula isn’t going to solve itself.

Every number has to be exact. Precision isn’t just science—it’s survival. One wrong decimal, and brilliance turns to poison.

I rake a hand through my hair and grab my coffee.

It’s cold again. Of course it has. I should stop.

I know I should. But rent’s due, and my campus job barely covers groceries, so here I am—Friday night, alone, cooking formulas instead of dinner.

The money from this batch means no more sleepless nights counting what’s left in my account, praying it lasts until payday.

It means I don’t have to call my mom with another excuse for why I can’t “come home for the weekend,” knowing she’d offer to send money she doesn’t have.

My parents gave everything to get me to get into Berkeley. Dad worked nights until his back gave out. Mom tutored kids after church to help cover my books. I’m barely hanging on, but I can’t let them down over something as stupid as rent.

A sharp knock makes me jump. My heart kicks once, hard. I shove the tablet under a pile of notes like a guilty reflex.

“Vi?” Cami bursts in, all perfume and chaos, golden curls bouncing like she’s never known exhaustion.

She’s already dressed for a party she’s been begging me to go to.

She’s everything California isn’t—New York polish wrapped in trouble.

As a diplomat’s daughter, raised in penthouses and private schools, she’s different from me in every way.

Yet, somehow, she decided I was worth keeping after we got paired in freshman English.

We bonded over missing home—me from small-town Jersey, and she, a Manhattan royal pretending to survive cafeteria coffee.

“Still working?” She tilts her head at the mess of papers on my desk. “Come on. One night won’t kill you.”

I drag a hand down my face. “I can’t. I still have to—”

“Make drugs?” she cuts in, grinning. “You’ve been at this for hours, Vi. You’re not even trying to sell it tonight. Just come out, have a drink, and exist for five minutes.”

“Cami, I need to finish this batch before rent’s due.

” I don’t look up because she already knows why I do this.

I keep it small and quiet, selling only to friends and people I trust. My formula’s clean—no fentanyl, no random kitchen chemicals—just something that lets people breathe for a little while. Something safe.

It pays for school. It keeps me here.

My drug, Zephyra, isn’t like anything else.

The warmth hits first—slow, deep in your chest—then it spreads, fire looking for a way out.

The air thickens; every inhale tastes sweet and heavy.

Sound hums through your skin, colors get brighter, and for a heart beat, the world stops keeping time.

Then it grabs you. You move without thinking, chasing heat and touch.

Every brush of skin burns, too much and not enough all at once.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s a craving. And for a few hours, you believe the world was made for that feeling—-touching, feeling, and living.

But something’s wrong with it still. It’s stronger than ecstasy, too immersive. It magnifies every sense until it feels like falling in love, or something close to it. Too close. I only ever take half a dose. Just enough to feel the warmth, but not enough to drown.

My phone buzzes on the desk.

Incoming Call: Mom

Guilt twists in my stomach as I send it to voicemail. I’ll call her when I’m not balancing formulas and moral crises.

Cami sighs and drops into the chair across from me, heels dangling off her toes. “Vi, you can’t keep doing this forever. You’re too smart for this shit.”

I exhale, shoulders sagging. Maybe she’s right. Maybe one night won’t kill me.

“Fine,” I mutter. “One drink.”

Cami grins, triumphant. “That’s my girl.”

I forgot what it felt like to lose myself in the music and the moment.

The weight of school, money, and everything else fades in the haze of neon lights, and the burn of my first drink.

Cami grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor.

Her body moves as if she were born for it.

Years of black-tie galas and prep school dances make her effortless on any dance floor; I’ve always envied how she can own a room without even trying.

She’s wild, fearless; everything I'm not.

A familiar rush of recklessness hits, bright and heady, and a laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. The bass thrums through my chest. The heat of the crowd closes in, and I let go. We drink. We dance. For once, we just exist, caught in a moment where nothing else matters.

Cami leans in close, eyes sparkling. “Let’s have a little more fun,” she says, already pulling a small tin from her purse. The metal glints under the lights when she flips it open, revealing two iridescent pills.

Zephyra.

I hesitate, staring at the container—the word ‘No’ dances on the tip of my tongue.

I have too much to do tomorrow, too many reasons not to.

The thought of going back to the grind makes me feel sick.

Tonight, I don’t want to think. I just want to feel something. Alive—I just want to be fucking alive.

“Half a dose,” I say, “We don’t need to be climbing the walls.”

Cami smiles and taps her shot glass against mine before we both take our half of the pill. The effect is almost instantaneous—heat spreads through my veins, elevating every sound and every touch.

Cami grabs me. “Oh my God, Vi, this is incredible! You’re a real genius,” she says, her pupils dilated.

Everything is electric. Every beat seems to pulse within me, and every brush of skin feels like flames. It’s unbelievable. A guy from one of my chemistry labs smiles at me, moving his hands on my waist as we sway together. Usually, I’d shove him off, but tonight…Tonight, I don’t care.

Cami dances beside me, waving her arms in the air and laughing, “Promise, if I don’t make it home tonight to bury me in this dress,” she says dramatically.

“I’ll see that it’s included in your will,” I giggle.

The night is a blur of flashes, with Cami and I doing shots at the bar, singing at the top of our lungs. We collapse on the plush couch in the VIP lounge, laughing over nothing. It feels good. It feels free.

The world tilts when I open my eyes. For a second, I think the ceiling’s moving.

My head throbs, and my mouth tastes like vodka and cotton mouth.

I rub my face, trying to scrape off the headache, but it doesn’t help.

The dorm’s a wreck. Clothes everywhere. Papers, and bottles too.

One heel lies under the chair, and the other. .. I don’t even know.

Cami’s crashed out on my loveseat, dress twisted, and one shoe still on. She’s snoring quietly. I don’t know how she does that—just sleeps through anything.

There’s a knock on the door, and the sharpness of it makes my stomach roll.

“Go away,” I mumble, dragging the blanket over my head.

Another knock. Louder this time, seemingly more impatient.

I groan as I move, and instantly regret it. The room spins sideways. I grab the wall, blinking hard until things stop moving, and shuffle to the door.

When I open it, it’s like the air shifts and everything goes still.

I squint at the people standing in my doorway—two cops, the dean, and my RA. Why would they all be here? Their faces tell me I won’t like what comes next.

“Violet Cole?” one of them asks.

Every nerve tightens. I step sideways, blocking the view of my desk and the lab gear scattered behind me. Panic crawls up my throat. They know. Oh God, they finally know. My mind starts doing the math… How fast can I hide it? How bad is this? What do they have on me?

“Ma’am,” the older officer says, softer now.

I force my voice to sound normal. “Yeah? What’s this about?”

He hesitates. His mouth works once before he manages it. “There’s been an accident.”

The word hits harder than I expect. Accident. The sound of it hangs there, wrong and heavy.

“What?” My voice comes out small and broken. “What are you talking about?”

The younger cop clears her throat. “Your family was in a car accident early this morning. Your sister survived. Your parents didn’t.”

Dean Markum steps forward. His hand finds mine; it’s steady, but shaking all the same. “Violet,” he says quietly, “you should sit.”

Family.

Didn’t make it.

No. That’s not… No.

My brain blanks. It’s like I hear him, but he’s waterlogged. Everything smears together until there’s almost nothing left.

I just stand there. I can’t sit. Not now. I have to know what’s happening.

Something in me snaps. “No.” I shake my head. “No, that’s wrong. My mom just called. She called. See!”

I run into my room, drop to the floor, searching under the bed for my phone. My hands won’t stop shaking. I find it and dial MOM. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.

“She’s alive,” I whisper, holding it out like proof.

But the officer just looks at me with that same pity.“EMS did everything they could,” she says.

Everything they could. I keep hearing it. The words don’t make sense. My parents—gone? Just gone?

The air feels thin. My knees buckle before I realize I’m falling. Dean Markum’s hand lands on my shoulder, but I barely feel it.

All I can see is my mom bent over the kitchen table, with a pen in hand, writing scholarship essays with me, and my dad’s tired smile when I called to tell him about another A. They worked themselves raw so I could be here.

And I didn’t answer the call.

I told myself I’d call her back.

But later isn’t coming.