Chapter 1
The uniform squeaked every time I moved.
Latex did that.
I wiped down the counter at Sweet Peaches Diner, the smell of fried chicken grease and fake vanilla syrup clinging to the air like a second skin. I could still feel the heat from that alleyway on my back, even though the blood had been scrubbed off the pavement and no one spoke about it.
Because this was the kind of town that didn't ask questions.
The bell over the front door jingled.
I didn't look up.
Didn't need to.
The air shifted. Got heavier. Colder.
Like someone had walked in carrying a storm.
"Booth seven," Carla, the head waitress, muttered to me. "Group of rich brats again. That Vercetti girl and her cult."
I kept wiping the same spot.
My hand only stopped when I heard the metallic clack of something hitting the table.
I glanced over.
Valentina Vercetti.
In a velvet crop top and combat boots like she walked straight out of a mafia fashion magazine. Black shades. Red lipstick. Silver rings.
And a gun.
Just... on the table.
Like it was a fucking accessory.
"I only want her to serve me," she told Carla, not even looking her way. "If anyone else does, they die."
Laughter from her friends. Nervous chuckles from nearby booths.
Carla stared at the weapon, muttered something about "fucking psychos," and shoved the order into my hand before speed-walking away like her paycheck depended on it.
Which it did.
I sighed.
Grabbed the tray.
Made the food.
And walked it over to booth seven.
I set the plate down in front of her without a word.
Her friends went quiet.
She did too.
I turned to leave—
"Wait," she blurted.
I stopped.
She cleared her throat. Her hands were fidgeting. The gun was still on the table. But she looked like she was the one under threat.
"I—uh—you—you're—you're working? I mean, like—you work here? Is that legal? I mean, not that it's illegal—well, actually—it might be? You in latex—um—sorry—what is happening—are you real—are you AI?"
Her friends looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
She was spiraling.
I didn't even look her in the eye. Just stared at the tray in my hands and nodded slowly.
"I... work here," I said softly.
My voice sounded so small. Like I was afraid it'd crack if I used it too loud.
"I... um. Hope you enjoy your food."
She made a weird noise—something between a cough and a squeak—and covered her face with both hands.
"Sh-she hopes I enjoy my food," she mumbled into her palms. "I hope I enjoy breathing after this. What is this. What the fuck. What is this. What is she. What is life."
Her friends blinked.
One whispered, "Dude, are you okay?"
"She's—she's beautiful," Valentina whispered back, still covering her face.
I turned and walked away before she could see me flinch.
Before she could see the cracks in my expression.
Because this was supposed to be my escape.
Not... this.
Not her.
Not the same girl who shoved me into lockers now acting like she forgot how talking works.
I grabbed the coffeepot and went to refill another table.
But I could still feel her eyes burning into my back.
Still staring.
Still speechless.
Still broken.
Just like me.
"Emily," the diner owner hissed, peeking from the kitchen like he'd seen a ghost. "Can you bring this over? On the house. Please."
He slid a tiny plate onto the tray—strawberry shortcake, whipped cream shaped like a rose, a cherry on top.
"Why?" I asked quietly.
He didn't meet my eyes. "Because we don't wanna end up on fire. Or dead."
Ah.
Right.
Valentina Vercetti.
I took the plate. Balanced it on the tray. Walked over slowly.
She was still at the booth, one leg crossed over the other, chin in hand, but the second she saw me coming, her back straightened like she got electrocuted.
"H-hey," she said, like it was casual. Like she hadn't been glitching into the Matrix five minutes ago. "Um—you—you came back."
"This is on the house," I said softly, setting the plate down in front of her. "Owner's treat."
She blinked.
"You—you didn't make this?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No. Kitchen staff did."
Her shoulders dropped like she was disappointed.
She picked up a spoon, then paused. Her brows pulled together.
"...Why are you like this?" she asked suddenly.
I tilted my head slightly. "Like what?"
"I mean—why are you still so..." She waved her hands like she was trying to describe air. "So... calm. And hot. And—serious. You're still poor but you carry yourself like you're... royalty. Or something. I don't get it. Why do you exist?"
She was full spiraling again. Voice all over the place. Words running into each other like she forgot how to human.
I just looked at her.
Expression neutral.
Voice steady.
Flat.
"'No one's ever gonna want you.'"
Her eyes widened.
That line hit like a truck.
I gave a small nod.
"You said that to me this morning. Remember?"
Her face turned pale.
I kept going, voice still soft, still professional. My hands didn't even shake.
"I work here to clear my debt. I serve food. I clean tables. I wear this uniform because it pays the bills. Because this is how I survive."
She opened her mouth—nothing came out.
"I don't need anyone to want me, Miss Vercetti," I said, tone colder now. "I just need to make it to tomorrow."
I turned.
And walked.
Before she could react.
Before she could make it worse.
I paused at the counter, glanced over my shoulder just once.
She hadn't moved.
Still staring at the dessert.
Like she suddenly didn't have the appetite.
"Thank you for visiting, Miss Vercetti," I said gently.
And then I walked away.
Late night. After shift.
The street was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder.
I walked the last few blocks to the place I called home.
If you could call it that.
It wasn't much. A rusted gate. A crooked mailbox. Peeling paint on the door.
But it had a bed. A table. A lock.
For someone like me, that was luxury.
I was halfway to the steps when I saw him.
Mr. Dreyson.
My landlord.
A walking middle finger in human form.
He was standing by the front porch like he'd been waiting all night to ruin mine.
"Stonebrook," he snapped. "You know what I'm here for."
I adjusted the strap of my bag.
"I just need a little more time," I said quietly. "I'm balancing school and work. I'm doing everything I can."
"You haven't paid in two months," he snapped. "You're sixteen. You think I give a shit about your struggle? This ain't a damn charity. I got people lined up who'd sell their kidneys to live here."
I nodded once. Calm.
Because fighting back made it worse.
"I'll get it," I said. "Soon."
"You said that last week. And the week before that. You got until Sunday. After that, you're out. I don't care if you sleep in a dumpster."
He turned and stormed off, muttering something about "goddamn orphans" under his breath.
I stood there a second longer.
Frozen.
Until I felt it again.
That feeling.
Eyes.
I turned my head slightly—
And there she was.
Across the street. Leaning against the side of a black car, arms folded. Hood pulled low, but I knew it was her.
Valentina.
Watching.
I didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Just... unlocked the door.
Stepped inside.
And shut her out.
The light inside my room flickered. I dropped my bag on the floor. Peeled off the latex uniform. Pulled on an old hoodie. Sat down at the rickety desk I bought from a pawn shop.
Opened my textbooks.
Started studying.
Because it didn't matter what Valentina Vercetti saw.
It didn't matter if she laughed. Or if she followed. Or if she knew.
None of that mattered.
Because I had tests tomorrow.
Because I had rent due Sunday.
Because I had to survive.
And because that's all life is when you're me.
Make it to tomorrow.
Just... make it to tomorrow.
Next Morning. Northvale High.
I didn't sleep.
My eyes burned, my limbs ached, but the uniform was clean, my bag was packed, and my textbooks were in order. So I walked.
Same path. Same silence.
Northvale High loomed ahead like a factory for humiliation.
And I walked in like I always did—head down, voice quiet, heart locked away.
The second I stepped into the hallway, I heard it.
Laughter.
Whispers turning into taunts.
"She's still here?"
"She gonna beg for donations next?"
"Can someone start a GoFundMe for Rentgirl?"
"Two months overdue and she still got the nerve to show up."
My stomach twisted.
Word had spread.
I didn't know how. Maybe someone overheard the landlord. Maybe someone followed me. Maybe someone just... guessed. In this school, cruelty was a hobby.
Someone shoulder-checked me into the lockers.
I didn't even look up.
"Oh no, we might break her," a guy mocked. "She needs to make it to Sunday or it's cardboard box time."
More laughter.
A girl near the bathroom tossed a crumpled dollar at my feet. "Here," she smirked. "From my charity heart to your broke-ass soul."
I stared at the floor.
Then stepped over the dollar and kept walking.
That's when I saw her.
Valentina Vercetti.
Leaning against a wall like she ruled it. One leg crossed over the other. Leather jacket. Boots. Cigarette between her lips, smoke curling in the morning light like she was the villain in every movie that ends in heartbreak.
She was watching the chaos unfold.
And smiling.
Like I was a joke playing out just for her entertainment.
Her eyes met mine.
No softness.
No confusion like last night.
No blushes or stuttering or fumbling spoons.
Just smoke. And disgust.
She took a long drag, exhaled slow, and tilted her head.
Like she was enjoying every second.
Like I deserved it.
Because I was poor.
Because I was abandoned.
Because I was still here.
Still trying.
Still walking.
Even when the world wanted me gone.
After school. The hallway. Everything burns.
Everyone was gone.
Or pretending not to see.
I knelt by my locker, picking up the notes I'd dropped—the same ones I'd spent weeks building. Hours of study. Pages and pages of handwritten breakdowns, color-coded tabs, formulas I memorized by heart.
I was almost done.
Then I heard footsteps.
Heavy. Loud. Intentional.
Another group.
Four of them.
Not the regular bullies this time.
Valentina's men. The ones that moved in silence and did her dirty work when she didn't feel like getting her hands messy.
They were grinning.
I knew that look.
One of them grabbed my notebook from my hand, flipping it open.
Another snatched the binder.
"Look at this," one of them mocked. "She actually studies. Like that'll change the fact that she's trash."
"Damn. How you still breathing, orphan?"
"Maybe we should burn the last thing she has."
I stood up slowly.
One of them pulled out a bottle. Oil.
My throat tightened.
"Don't," I said, soft.
But they were already pouring it over the papers.
Another one struck a match.
The fire spread fast. Orange. Hungry.
My hard work curled into ash.
They laughed like it was funny. Like I was a joke that never stopped being hilarious.
"Guess it's just like your life, huh?" one said. "Used. Abandoned. Worthless."
Something inside me snapped.
I looked at the fire.
Then at them.
And I took off my hoodie.
Wrapped it around my waist.
My arms were bare now. And they noticed.
Because underneath that hoodie wasn't a fragile orphan.
It was muscle. Power. Fury.
I grabbed a nearby chair and threw it aside, the crash echoing down the empty hallway like a warning siren.
Then I whistled.
And waved my fingers at them.
"Come on," I said. Voice cold. Low. Dangerous.
"Let's see what happens when the orphan fights back."
One of them laughed and cracked his knuckles.
The boldest of the bunch swaggered toward me, licking his lips.
"You sure you wanna—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because he was airborne.
One second standing.
Next second, flying across the hallway like a fucking ragdoll.
He hit the lockers so hard the dent screamed.
The others charged.
Mistake.
The hallway lit up with fists and rage.
One came from the left—I twisted his arm behind his back and snapped it clean.
Another tried to tackle me from behind—I flipped him over my shoulder, slammed him flat onto the tile, his scream echoing off the walls.
Boot to the ribs.
Elbow to the jaw.
Fist to the throat.
One by one—gone.
By the end of it, all four were on the ground, writhing. Broken. Crying.
190 out of 206 bones—destroyed.
I grabbed the last one—the ringleader—by his collar, dragging him up just enough to see my eyes.
He whimpered. The blood on his face was shaking.
I leaned in, gritting my teeth.
"If you ever mess with me again..." I hissed.
"...next time, your bones won't break."
I yanked him closer.
"They'll bury you. And your fucking heart won't beat again."
I let go.
He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
I stood up.
Turned my back.
Walked down the hallway—bare arms, smoke behind me, silence around me.
And not a single person dared breathe.
On my way home...
The hallway still smelled like blood and fear.
But I didn't care.
I walked out of the school through the back, hands still stained, hair loose, hoodie slung over my shoulder like a war flag.
The sun was starting to set. My legs hurt. My mind was silent.
But I made it through another day.
I was halfway down the street when I saw the cars.
Black. Unmarked. Expensive.
They pulled up like a funeral procession.
The back doors opened.
Men in suits. Mafia suits.
Vercetti men.
One stepped forward. I recognized him—Rafael. Marco's right hand.
He didn't smile.
"Marco sends his regards," he said flatly.
And behind them?
Police cruisers.
Two of them.
They weren't here to protect me.
They were already talking to each other like the report was pre-written.
I didn't speak.
Didn't ask questions.
The Vercetti man tossed a photo to the ground.
Me.
In my maid uniform.
Serving Valentina.
Behind it—another photo.
Me.
In the alley last night.
Next to the dead man.
Then one of the cops stepped forward.
"You're under arrest for the assault of four minors, destruction of property, and obstruction of protected personnel."
"Protected personnel?" I asked softly.
"Marco Vercetti's assigned guardians for his daughter," the officer said. "You attacked them."
I stared at him.
"They attacked me," I said calmly.
No one listened.
I felt the cold metal of handcuffs snap against my wrists.
Tighter than necessary.
Rafael leaned down.
"Next time, orphan girl," he whispered, "stay in your fucking lane."
The cops dragged me toward the cruiser.
I didn't scream.
I didn't cry.
I didn't even blink.
Because of course this would happen.
Of course the powerful stay clean while the poor get buried.
Of course I get punished for defending myself.
I sat in the back seat of the car, eyes on the rearview mirror.
Valentina's reflection didn't appear.
Just the fading skyline.
And sirens.
But I wasn't scared.
Not anymore.
Because they think jail will break me.
They think metal bars mean silence.
But they don't know who I am.
They don't know what I've built.
And they sure as hell don't know what's coming.