Oliver
“You can’t. No!” Callan shouts at the screen as I let my animated character jump off the building on purpose.
“I have to head out.”
“And you couldn’t just go back to the safe house.” He groans dramatically as I stand.
“It was too far.”
“I’m never playing with you ever again.” Callan’s thumbs flex on the remote, his whole body leaning with the character, as if that’s going to change the outcome.
“I’d recommend it.”
“Where are you going?” He asks me where I’m going as if he isn’t in my room.
Callan refuses help when he can see it, so I give it in ways that don’t raise suspicion. I match Vienna’s paychecks, so whatever she makes, she gets double. And still, he doesn't move out of the shitty apartment he shares with Vee.
I pull on my hoodie, check my pockets, and grab my keys.
“Oliver.” I hear the game pause.
“Out,” I finally answer.
“Out,” he parrots. “Man of many words,” I smirk. Lyra said those exact words on the balcony.
He twists to look at me fully, a grin already forming like he can’t help himself. “Do I get to know anything about this little adventure? Or is it top-secret psycho business?”
Everyone and their labels today. I don’t answer, which is apparently an invitation.
His grin widens. “Does it have something to do with the fun, sassy blonde you’re obsessed with?”
This is why I don’t have friends. I tried for months to ignore Callan when we were six.
His mom was our live-in housekeeper and brought her kids with her.
Callan was relentless, loud, and persistent.
One day, I stopped resisting and decided it was easier to keep him close than spend my life trying to shut him up.
I look at him.
He slaps the remote down. “Knew it. The party. You two hooked up.” His voice drops. I know what’s coming before the words are out. “Just…remember what happened with Eva?”
“Not particularly.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose like my existence is draining years off his lifespan. “Exactly. That’s the problem.” I turn a fraction. Where is he going with this?
“You got bored. Fine. But bored for you means…”
“Enough.” My tone leaves no room for further comment. “You know it wasn’t intentional. Lyra is…” I don’t even have the words to articulate what she is to me without sounding more deranged than he thinks I am.
“No kidding,” he mutters, as if I’m the one missing the obvious. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”
I let the silence sit between us.
“You didn’t feel anything for Eva, and look what happened. Now you’re feeling…or whatever your version of it is. The one person who might actually mean something to you could get caught in the crossfire.”
“Because I’m unpredictable?” I state it as a question, but we both know the answer. That almost makes me laugh. Almost. He’s not wrong. He’s just dramatic about it. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
He gapes like I've grown a second head. “I know what happened with Eva was an accident, but it doesn't change the fact that it happened…and everything that followed after.” He gives me a pointed look.
“I wouldn’t hurt her. I need her.”
“That’s what every obsessed guy says five minutes before a restraining order. Or the headlines.” That does make me smile. I can’t help it.
Callan has no idea. No idea that if Lyra ever bled, I’d lick it from her skin, patch her up, and put every broken piece back together. “I’d rather bleed out at her feet than hurt her.”
Callan shivers dramatically. “You’re terrifying sometimes.”
“Don’t think I forgot about the one person you’d bleed out for.” His smile drops, and sadness fills his face.
“If it’s that type of feeling, then don’t let it go, ever.”
I turn around and head to the door. “Lock up when you leave, and don’t bring up Eva again.”
“Sounds good, psycho killer.” He starts to sing the tune, and I slam the door.
I don’t belong here. Parties are chaos without purpose.
Noise. Heat. Too many variables. But chaos is useful when people stop guarding their tells, and tonight I intend to collect a few.
The bass rattles the walls, hard enough to make the frames shake.
Bodies press together; the air is hot, sticky, and saturated with sweat, liquor, and the specific desperation of people who need to feel chosen.
I scan the room, leaning against the back wall, cup in hand.
I spot Vienna first. Interesting…I didn’t suspect her to be here, considering she told her brother she would be studying.
I’m not one to share secrets unless it benefits me.
She’s talking to some guy I don’t know. I keep scanning, catching a few girls' eyes and passing right over them.
Then Leo and Amelia. They’re arguing, which is typical for them lately.
Leo’s posture is defensive, shoulders squared, jaw set.
Amelia is the opposite: volatile body language, flushed skin.
I wonder if it’s about the comment Lyra made, and if Leo finally did what men always do too late: connect the obvious dots and act surprised he didn’t see them earlier.
Nails dig into my arm. I look down at the offending hand. “I haven’t seen you in days.” Serena’s voice tries to sound playful. It doesn’t.
She reaches for my hair, but before making contact, I catch her wrist. Her pulse jumps under my fingers. Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. She’s getting turned on by this. The thought is revolting.
“Don’t.”
“This game has been going on long enough,” she snaps, crowding closer as if proximity can manufacture significance. “I know you want me again.”
Classic misread. The human version of thinking sex equals love. In this case, not even that. I turn just enough so she can see my face. Flat. Unmoved. Like she’s a mild inconvenience, I’m deciding whether to address.
I push her hand away. “Last time. I don’t like desperate, and you reek of it.”
Her brows knit, genuinely confused, because her worldview does not include being dismissed. “But we had something, and I haven’t heard from you.”
“That’s because it’s done,” I tell her. “You’re not needed.”
She stares for a beat like her brain is buffering. “Not needed?” Then her mouth twists. “Fuck you, Oliver,” she spits out. “You’ll regret this.” She storms off like a child denied candy.
It’s almost impressive how consistent people are when they’re humiliated. My attention slides back to Amelia. She’s taking shots like they’re water. Anger lowers inhibition. Alcohol lowers judgment. Combine them, and the mouth starts behaving like a leaky faucet.
I approach. Making quick eye contact with Vienna before her eyes bug out. I tip my head at her before turning to my next target.
“What do you want?” Amelia slurs, eyes narrowing as she tries to focus.
“You and Leo are fighting.”
She scoffs. “Yeah. About Jade. Of course.” Her bitterness is immediate. “If she didn’t have so much ammo on me,” Amelia continues, words gathering speed, “I’d have told her to fuck off a long time ago.”
I expected some pushback, heated words, maybe a slap. Instead, she doesn't care that I just threatened her days ago and nearly choked her.
“I thought you and Jade were close,” I say.
Amelia laughs, downing another shot. I don’t find this funny. “Close? Jade’s a puppet master. Pulling everyone’s strings.” Her gaze slides to me, glassy for a second, then sharpens as she tries to pin me down. “Except you.”
I don’t react.
“You’re the real one pulling strings. Aren’t you?”
She sways, words tumbling ahead of her ability to censor. “You know what’s weird? Before Lyra came back, Jade was almost normal. But now…” Her mouth twists. “Now it’s like she’s different. Dangerous. It was like that before too.”
That part I already know. Jade shifts around Lyra like a predator around prey. I had Archer look into all of them, and aside from the fact that Jade and Lyra attended the same high school and were on the same volleyball team, nothing stood out.
“What kind of ammo?” I ask because that’s the part I came for.
Amelia’s lips twitch. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth like she can shove the truth back down her throat. “From that night…”
She stumbles, eyes wide, then abruptly pivots. “I need the bathroom.” And then she’s moving through the crowd.
I don’t follow. Instead, I watch Leo get wasted, regardless of the scrimmage the rugby team has in the morning. Watch as Jade goes over, grabs his arm, and guides him up the stairs.
From the corridor, I watch her slip into the bedroom with a barely functioning Leo and lock the door.
Ten minutes later, the lock gives beneath my hand.
The door opens just enough to show me the scene inside.
Leo sprawled across the bed, half-dressed, head lolling.
Jade is on top of him, like she can fuck him back to consciousness.
Her movements are quick, not sensual, not intimate, just frantic.
“Well, isn’t this reminiscent?” she moans. “Fucking someone who is barely conscious.”
I lift my phone and record a few seconds. Blackmail is more effective when the subject incriminates themselves without realizing they’re signing the document.
Then Leo murmurs, voice thick and ruined by alcohol, “Fuck… Amelia.”
I almost laugh.
Jade jerks back like she’s been burned. “What the fuck, Leo?”
Her face folds, rage and humiliation colliding so fast it’s almost beautiful. She looks like someone who just realized she’s not the one holding the leash. I’ve seen enough. I close the door quietly and let her fury do the rest.