1. Predator And Prey
1
PREDATOR AND PREY
~JESSICA~
T he crack of the bullet echoes against concrete and steel, ricocheting through the abandoned structure like thunder.
I watch through my scope as the round connects—a beautiful, perfect hit that sends my target stumbling forward. Not a kill shot. Not yet.
Calculated. Precise. Just enough to make him suffer.
The Alpha drops to his knees, clutching his shoulder. Blood blooms through his pristine white shirt like spilled wine. I can't help the flicker of satisfaction that warms my chest as he screams—a high, keening sound that carries on the wind.
"Target down," Emilia's voice crackles through my earpiece, the enthusiasm in her tone unmistakable. She's enjoying this almost as much as I am. "Wait... you missed his vitals. Did you do that on purpose, Vesper? The poor Alpha's struggling like a crawling waste of space."
I don't answer immediately, savoring the moment as I rise from my hidden position. The sniper rifle feels like an extension of my body—comfortable, familiar—as I sling it over my shoulder. The afternoon sun glints off the polished barrel, catching light like a warning beacon.
Let them all see. Let them know what's coming.
My fingers move automatically to the pocket of my leather jacket, retrieving a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes. I tap one out, place it between my lips, and light it with practiced ease. The first inhale burns, the nicotine flooding my system and quieting the chaos that constantly swirls through my mind.
The smoke coils from my lips like a living thing, dancing in the breeze that sweeps across the rooftop. Seventeen stories up, the wind carries the scent of rain and desperation—the distinctive perfume of Dead Knot.
"Vesper?" Emilia's voice comes again, more insistent this time. "You with me?"
I continue staring at the figure below, watching him drag himself across the concrete, leaving a smeared trail of crimson. Something about his movements—frantic, terrified, animalistic—triggers a memory that threatens to pull me under.
Crawling. Rain. Pain. The feeling of concrete beneath broken fingernails.
"Jessica!"
The use of my real name snaps me back, like being doused with ice water. I blink, forcing myself back to the present.
"I'm here," I mutter, taking another deep drag from my cigarette. The ember burns bright, then fades—like life. Like hope. Like everything eventually does in this godforsaken place.
"You sure?" Emilia's tone softens. "You went somewhere else for a minute. Are you back with us?"
"Yes." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "I'm fine, Emi. Just thinking."
"Thinking or spiraling?" She doesn't bother hiding her concern. She's known me long enough to recognize the signs, to see when the past starts clawing its way into the present.
I ignore the question, flicking ash over the edge of the building as I turn toward the roof access door. "I need to finish this. Clock's ticking."
"You've got eight minutes before you lose points," she confirms, all business now. "Want me to pull security feeds for your exit route?"
"Already mapped it." I crush the cigarette under my boot, grinding it into the gravel with perhaps more force than necessary. "But keep an eye on the quad cameras. Last thing I need is some professor deciding to take a shortcut through the east side."
"On it." I hear keyboard clicks in the background, the familiar sound of Emilia doing what she does best—ensuring the digital world bends to her will.
The stairwell smells of dust and disuse, the emergency lighting casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. My footsteps echo as I descend, each floor bringing me closer to my prey. The rifle bumps rhythmically against my back with every step, a comforting weight. My heartbeat remains steady, a stark contrast to the rapid pounding I can almost imagine from the Alpha below.
Fear makes the blood pump faster. Makes it spill quicker, too.
"So," Emilia's voice fills the silence as I continue my descent, "want to tell me what this one did to earn a bullet?"
I push through a door on the third floor, moving swiftly down a corridor lined with abandoned classrooms. Through broken windows, I catch glimpses of my target's agonized crawl across the courtyard.
"You saw him at lunch," I reply, my voice low despite the empty hallway. "The way he was preying on that Omega—the one with the red hair and freckles."
"The freshman? The one who spilled his coffee?"
"That's the one." My jaw tightens at the memory. "She apologized like he was God himself, and he still made a scene. Humiliated her in front of everyone. Called her worthless. Threatened to teach her a lesson after hours."
"And that's worth a bullet?" Emilia doesn't sound judgmental—just curious. As if she's gauging my moral compass, seeing where the needle points today.
I pause at a window, watching as my target drags himself toward what he probably thinks is safety. There is no safety. Not from me. "He crossed into my territory, Emi. He should know better than to hunt on my grounds."
Her laugh is bright, unexpected in the gloom of the abandoned building. "Vesper, you don't actually own Dead Knot, you know. Though I'll admit your reputation makes everyone believe you do."
I shrug, though she can't see the gesture. "Six years earns you certain privileges."
"Six years earns you graduation papers and a one-way ticket out of this hellhole," she counters. "Speaking of which..."
"Don't start." My tone carries a warning, but Emilia has never been one to heed caution.
"I'm just saying, most people don't spend six years in Knot Academy by choice. The point of this place is to help 'difficult cases'—" she makes air quotes audible in her tone, "—find suitable packs. You know, so you low-lives can hook up the proper way and be crazy together."
"I'm aware of the mission statement," I say dryly, reaching the ground floor. The lobby is cavernous, once grand but now decaying—a fitting metaphor for the entire Dead Knot sector of the academy. Marble floors cracked and stained. Crystal chandeliers missing half their pendants. Brass fixtures tarnished to the color of old blood.
"Then you should also be aware that you're running out of extensions," Emilia continues, relentlessly. "The administration is already labeling you as—what was it? A psycho with anger issues, panic attacks, and bipolar disorder?"
"Don't forget the PTSD," I add, pushing through the massive front doors. The hinges protest with a screech that sets my teeth on edge. "Though that one's probably accurate."
Outside, the late afternoon light is hazy, filtered through clouds that promise rain by evening. Perfect hunting weather. The scent of my target's blood is stronger here—coppery and fresh, a breadcrumb trail leading to salvation or damnation, depending on which side of my rifle you find yourself.
I follow it leisurely, in no rush. He won't get far, not with a shattered scapula. Not with the amount of blood he's losing with every frantic movement.
"The point is," Emilia continues as I track the blood spatters across cracked pavement, "do you actually have any intention of graduating? Of finding a pack? Of leaving this place behind?"
I consider the question as I duck under a rusted chain-link fence. The quad stretches before me, once-immaculate landscaping now overgrown and wild in this forgotten sector of campus. Somewhere ahead, my target is still crawling, leaving crimson evidence of his desperate flight.
"Unless I meet a group of Alphas as psycho as me? No." I pause, adjusting my rifle strap. "And you're one to talk, Emi. Miss Hacker whose parents want her to have some traditional Omega wedding. How's that going for you?"
She groans, the sound dramatized for my benefit. "God, don't remind me. It's absolutely impossible. My Korean mother and Japanese father are thinking of such miracles when I can barely find a pack that can handle my cozy gaming addiction."
"And your hacking," I add, spotting a fresh blood smear on a nearby bench. I change course slightly, following the new trail. "And your trading. And your tendency to destroy anyone who crosses you online."
"Fair point."
"If they knew how much coffee you drank, they'd put you on the heart transplant list early."
"Fuck off," she laughs, the sound bringing an unexpected smile to my lips. It fades quickly when I hear a weak moan from behind a cluster of overgrown hedges. "You've got two minutes to kill that Alpha before you lose points, by the way."
"Yeah, yeah," I murmur, approaching cautiously. Not that I need to—my target is well past the point of fighting back. But old habits die hard, and in Dead Knot, complacency gets you killed. "Rules of engagement duly noted."
The three cardinal rules of Dead Knot are simple, brutal, and absolute:
One: Killing is allowed, but only if the target dies within the ten-minute window from first blood to last breath. Anything longer is considered torture, and torture is punishable by exile.
Two: No witnesses. Leave evidence and face consequences from both sides—the administration and the underground.
Three: Never, under any circumstances, target the protected ones—those marked with silver bands around their wrists. They belong to powers beyond even Dead Knot's lawless jurisdiction.
I round the hedge, weapon raised despite knowing it's unnecessary. The Alpha is sprawled on his back now, chest heaving with labored breaths. Blood has soaked through his shirt, darkening the fabric to nearly black. His eyes widen when he sees me, fear dilating his pupils until only a thin ring of brown remains.
"Please," he gasps, one hand raised in feeble supplication. "Please, I'm sorry. I know what I did. Let me go, and I swear?—"
"If you know what you're dying for," I interrupt, my voice cold, "then you're already a step too late."
His face crumples, tears mixing with sweat and dirt. "I have money. Connections. Whatever you want?—"
"What I want," I say softly, taking aim, "is for you to deliver a message."
Hope flickers across his features, pathetic in its desperation. "Yes, anything?—"
"Tell your creator I say hi."
The second shot is louder than the first, the sound no longer contained by concrete and steel. It rings across the empty quad, a period at the end of this Alpha's life sentence. His body jerks once, then goes still, eyes fixed on the darkening sky above.
Another one down. How many more to go?
"Clean kill," Emilia confirms in my ear. "Eight minutes, twelve seconds from first shot to last. Well within parameters."
I don't respond, staring down at the body. There's none of the satisfaction I expected—just the same hollow emptiness that follows every kill. The rage that drives me, that keeps me moving forward, subsides briefly, leaving a vacuum that threatens to pull me under.
Is this what you wanted, Jessica? Is this who you've become?
The thought intrudes unbidden, unwelcome. I push it away, focusing on the practical. "Send the cleanup text. I want this mess gone before dinner."
"Already done. They'll be there in ten." The clicking of her keyboard provides a steady backdrop to her voice. "Meet you at the usual spot? I could use some company while I work on this new security challenge."
I hesitate, suddenly wanting nothing more than solitude. The aftermath of a kill always leaves me raw, exposed in ways I can't afford to be. But Emilia is the closest thing to family I have left, and I know what isolation does to me.
"Yeah," I agree finally. "I'll be there in twenty. Need to ditch the hardware first."
"Don't forget to wash up. You know how I feel about blood on my keyboards."
Her attempt at lightness helps ground me, pulling me back from the edge of something darker. "Wouldn't dream of it, Emi."
I take one last look at the body before turning away. Another name crossed off a list that never seems to end. Another piece of the past avenged. Another step toward... what, exactly?
Justice? Retribution? Or just more emptiness?
The question follows me as I make my way across campus, a shadow I can't outrun.
* * *
The eastern wing of Knot Academy is a study in contrasts—pristine facade masking rot underneath, just like everything else in this place. I blend in with the flow of students moving between classes, my rifle disassembled and tucked into an ordinary backpack. My bloodied clothes have been exchanged for the standard-issue uniform, though I wear it with deliberate incorrectness: tie loosened, top button undone, skirt shorter than regulation.
Small rebellions. They all add up.
No one gives me a second glance, their eyes sliding over me as if I'm made of smoke. That's the beauty of Dead Knot—everyone is hiding something, running from something, fighting something. One more damaged Omega barely registers in this circus of the lost and broken.
I find Emilia where I always do—in the abandoned computer lab on the fourth floor of the Technology building. The room is perpetually locked according to official records, but Emi has a way of making electronic barriers disappear.
She doesn't look up when I enter, her fingers flying across multiple keyboards. Six monitors surround her like technological sentinels, each displaying a different stream of data. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, streaks of blue and purple catching the light from the screens.
"You're late," she says without looking away from her work. "And you didn't wash your hands properly. I can smell the gun oil from here."
I drop my bag by the door, crossing to the sink in the corner. The water runs rust-colored for the first few seconds, another quirk of Dead Knot's decaying infrastructure. "The cleanup crew was efficient. No traces left."
"Of course not. I only work with the best." She finally glances over, her mismatched eyes—one brown, one green—assessing me with the same precision she applies to code. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." I dry my hands on a paper towel, moving to claim the chair beside hers. "What's the security challenge? Please tell me you're not hacking the administration again. The last time?—"
"Relax," she interrupts, spinning her chair to face me. "This is external. A little side project for some contacts in Seoul. Nothing that traces back here."
I raise an eyebrow. "Your parents know you're freelancing for Korean hackers?"
"My parents think I'm taking advanced computer science to improve my marriage prospects." She rolls her eyes, but there's genuine pain beneath the sarcasm. "They've got my future all mapped out—nice traditional Alpha, three kids, a house with a picket fence. The perfect Omega daughter."
"Could be worse," I muse, picking up a stress ball from her desk and squeezing it rhythmically. "They could be dead."
"Jesus, Vesper." Emilia's expression softens. "That's not what I?—"
"I know." I cut her off, not wanting to venture down that particular emotional rabbit hole. My parents are a subject I avoid even with Emi, who knows more about me than anyone else alive. "Just saying, traditional expectations are better than no expectations."
She watches me for a moment, those mismatched eyes seeing too much. "The kill didn't help, did it? You're still spiraling."
I shrug, tossing the stress ball from hand to hand. "It never helps. Not really. But it's something."
"Something that's going to get you kicked out—or worse—if you keep pushing the boundaries." Her voice lowers, serious now. "The administration is watching you, Vesper. They know what you did to that Alpha last month."
"Which one?" I ask, a spark of dark humor flaring. "I've been busy."
"The one you left alive." She leans forward, her screens temporarily forgotten. "The one who's still in the medical wing, missing parts that don't grow back."
My jaw tightens. "He deserved worse."
"I'm not arguing that. But you're drawing attention. The kind that could expose everything—who you really are, what happened six years ago, why you're really here." She reaches across the space between us, placing a hand on my arm. "Jessica?—"
"Don't call me that," I snap, pulling away. "She's dead. You know that better than anyone."
Emilia doesn't flinch, too familiar with my sudden shifts to be startled. "Fine. Vesper. But dead or not, you have a cover to maintain. If they realize who you really are?—"
"They won't." I stand abruptly, too restless to remain seated. The lab suddenly feels confining, the walls pressing in. "I've survived six years in this hellhole. I've played their game, jumped through their hoops. I've buried Jessica Vesper Calavera so deep not even the government's best diggers could find her."
"And yet you're still hunting." Emilia's words land with precision, striking at the heart of the contradiction I embody. "Still killing. Still making it obvious these aren't random targets."
I move to the window, staring out at the sprawling campus below. From this height, even Dead Knot looks almost beautiful—the ruined buildings taking on a romantic, gothic quality in the fading light. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, promising the rain I smelled earlier.
"I can't stop," I admit quietly. "Not until they've all paid."
"All of them?" Emilia's reflection appears beside mine in the glass, her expression troubled. "Vesper, there were six Alphas that night. You've eliminated four. The last two?—"
"I know who they are." My voice hardens. "I know exactly where they are. But they're protected. Connected. I need more time, more resources."
"More than you already have?" She gestures around the lab, at the technology that could buy a small country. "More than what your mysterious benefactors have already provided?"
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the past press down on me. Six years ago, I woke up in a sterile room, my body broken but inexplicably alive. Four men stood around my bed—men who, by all rights, should have left me to die in that alley. Men twice my age with hands stained by blood and eyes that had seen too much.
Men who looked at a shattered Omega and saw not a victim, but a weapon waiting to be forged.
"They're not benefactors," I correct, opening my eyes to meet Emilia's gaze in the reflection. "They're my pack. And they've given me everything I've asked for, except what I need most."
"Which is?"
"Permission to burn this whole place to the ground." My fingers trace the invisible scar along my collarbone, a reminder of that night. "To finish what those Alphas started."
Emilia steps closer, concern etched in every line of her face. "And then what? When they're all dead, when you've had your revenge—what happens to Vesper?"
The question hangs between us, unanswerable. Because the truth is, I don't know. I've spent six years consumed by a single purpose, a single driving force. Without it, who am I? What remains when vengeance is satisfied?
"I don't think that far ahead," I say finally, turning from the window. "One target at a time. One day at a time."
"That's not living, Vesper. That's just... existing."
"Living is a luxury I lost the right to six years ago." I move back to my chair, dropping into it with sudden exhaustion. "The girl who had dreams, who wanted to dance and live and love—she died in that alley. Whatever rose from those ashes only knows how to do one thing well."
"Kill," Emilia supplies, her voice soft.
"Survive," I correct. "Killing is just a means to that end."
She sighs, returning to her workstation. "Well, speaking of survival, you're going to need to lay low for a while. That Alpha today—he had connections. Not just to the administration."
My interest sharpens. "What kind of connections?"
"The kind that might lead back to one of your final two targets." Her fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, pulling up files that flash too quickly for me to follow. "I've been tracking communications. There's a pattern emerging, something connecting several recent transfers to Dead Knot. Something that might help you get to the ones you can't reach."
I lean forward, a familiar fire igniting in my chest. "Show me."
For the next hour, we lose ourselves in data—messages intercepted, patterns identified, connections made. It's a tangled web, but Emilia's genius lies in finding order within chaos. By the time the rain finally begins to fall, pattering against the windows in a soothing rhythm, we have the beginnings of a plan.
"So these new transfers," I summarize, staring at the profiles Emilia has compiled, "they're connected to Alpha Elliott Prescott?"
"Not directly," she cautions. "But they run in the same circles. Same clubs, same underground fighting rings, same business ventures. And they've all been reassigned to Dead Knot within the last month."
"Why?" I muse, studying the faces on the screen. Three Alphas, all from privileged backgrounds, all with records that should have kept them out of Knot Academy altogether. "What's the connection?"
"That's what I'm still working on." Emilia stretches, her spine popping audibly. "But whatever it is, it's got the administration nervous. They've been increasing security, changing protocols."
"Which means we need to move faster." I stand, restlessness driving me once more. "If Prescott is somehow connected to these transfers, it could be my best chance to get close to him."
"Or it could be a trap," Emilia warns. "Think about it, Vesper. Four Alphas from that night are dead. The remaining two—the highest-ranking, most connected ones—suddenly have associates showing up in your territory? It's too convenient."
"Maybe," I concede. "But it's also an opportunity I can't ignore."
She watches me pace, concern evident in her expression. "Just... be careful. Promise me you won't do anything stupid until we know more."
"Define stupid."
"Vesper."
"Fine." I stop, offering a half-smile that feels foreign on my face. "I promise not to kill anyone new until we figure out what's going on. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," she says dryly, but her relief is palpable. "Now can we please get some food? I've been running on coffee and spite for the last twelve hours."
My stomach growls in agreement, reminding me I haven't eaten since breakfast. "Cafeteria should still be open. You buying?"
"With what money? My hacking skills don't exactly come with dental and a 401k."
I grab my bag, checking that the disassembled rifle is still securely hidden. "Good thing I just collected a bounty, then."
"Blood money buying dinner. How poetic." She shuts down her systems with practiced efficiency, each screen going dark in sequence. "Just promise me one more thing?"
"What's that?"
She pauses, her mismatched eyes serious. "No matter what we discover, no matter how close you get to finishing your list—don't lose yourself completely, okay? Jessica might be dead, but Vesper doesn't have to be just a weapon."
The request strikes deeper than she probably realizes, touching a fear I rarely acknowledge even to myself. But I nod, unable to deny Emilia this small comfort.
"I'll try," I say, and in that moment, I almost believe it's possible—that there might be something waiting for me beyond vengeance, beyond the blood-soaked path I've carved through Dead Knot.
But as we step into the corridor, as the familiar weight of my concealed weapon settles against my spine, I know the truth. I made my choice six years ago, when those blue eyes found me in the rain. When four Alphas offered me a way to rise from the ashes of my former self.
Vesper exists for one purpose, and one purpose only: to bring death to those who thought they could break me.
And until the last name is crossed off my list, until the last drop of blood is spilled, nothing else matters.
Not even my own humanity.