The Mysterious Rich Guy Summons
Technically, I was supposed to be in class.
But did I want to be in class? Not in the slightest.
So instead of pretending to give a damn about mitochondria or whatever, I was on the roof, sitting against the brick wall, hoodie over my face, and headphones blasting white noise to drown out the sound of existence.
Life tip: if you act like you belong somewhere, nobody questions it. Even if “somewhere” is a definitely-not-student-accessible rooftop.
The final bell rang. School was over. Finally.
I sat up and took the ladder down into the hallway. It groaned like it had a personal vendetta against me. Which, honestly, valid.
The top floor was dead quiet. My shoes squeaked once. I winced. Nearly made it out undetected—freedom within reach.
But of course the universe said: “Let’s ruin this guy’s day.”
SLAM.
A door to my left burst open and out came a girl.
We crashed to the floor. Hard. Papers everywhere. A folder hit me in the face. I was officially a human paperweight.
“Oh shit—oh my god—I am SO sorry,” said the girl currently sprawled across me.
I blinked up at her. Blonde hair. Pink streak. Combat boots. Flannel. Looked like she moonlighted as the lead singer of a punk band that only played in graveyards.
Great.
She scrambled off me like I was radioactive. I didn’t say anything. Just shoved the folder back into her arms, stood up, and dusted off my hoodie with all the energy of a man who deeply regretted ever existing today.
“Yeah,” I muttered, already walking. “Watch where you’re going, will you?”
Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t need one. I had escape to accomplish.
Outside, the air smelled like wet concrete and teenage disappointment. Summer was still pretending it wasn’t over. I pulled my hood back up and took the long way home, cutting through the park, the shortcut behind the gas station, and finally the cracked sidewalk to my apartment building—the one that always looked like it was one bad day from crumbling.
Inside: the usual.
Flickering light bulb. Peeling paint. And a note slapped onto the fridge, held up by a magnet shaped like a frog wearing sunglasses.
Went to a job interview. Be back later. Mail’s on the table. Go through it, please. —Dad
Sure, because I scream “personal assistant.”
I flopped into a chair, kicked my feet up on another one, and grabbed the stack of mail like it had personally offended me. Bills. Coupons. One envelope trying really hard to look mysterious. Black seal. Fancy paper. Gold ink.
Because that’s not suspicious at all.
I opened it.
“Come to the estate at Crescent Hill Drive. One hour from now. You’ve been chosen. This is not a joke.”
Oh no. Not the mysterious rich guy summons trope. What’s next? A secret society and an ancient prophecy?
I should’ve thrown it out.
Instead, I grabbed my hoodie and left.
Because, yeah. I didn’t have anything better to do.
~~~
Crescent Hill was the kind of place where the houses had names instead of numbers. The estate looked like the setting for a murder mystery where everyone pretends to be shocked when the heir dies.
And standing in front of the huge black gate, squinting like he forgot how to read, was Dylan Carter.
Of course it was Dylan.
He looked like he’d just wandered off a sports drink commercial. Jacket half-zipped. That stupid confident slouch.
He looked up. “You get a letter too?”
I nodded once. That was the entire conversation.
Silence resumed. Glorious.
Then another figure showed up— Noah Cruz, walking at full speed like being late would trigger a nuclear bomb. Pen in his hand, calculator in his pocket, anxiety in his soul.
“You two have any idea what this is about?” he asked.
I shook my head. Dylan shrugged. “Nope. Not a clue.”
Then footsteps.
Behind me.
I didn’t turn.
“Let me guess,” I said, deadpan. “You got a letter from the rich guy as well?"
“Yeah,” said a voice I definitely recognized. “But my aunt works for the guy, so… less creepy.”
I turned. And yup—there she was. The human hurricane who took me out an hour ago. Her eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost. Or maybe just remembered how hard she elbowed me in the ribs.
“You’re the—oh god, you’re you?”
“Unfortunately,” I said flatly.
“And you’re the girl everyone at school calls a witch,” Which, I in particular, didn’t really understand. Just because she has a different style then every other girl at our poor excuse for a school, doesn’t mean she’s a witch. Or maybe she is, who knows. Certainly not me.
“My name is Abigail, you guys can call me Abby!” She said, ignoring me.
Dylan turned around. “Dude. How’d you hear her coming?”
I shrugged. “She stomps,”
She blinked. “Okay, rude,”
“Accurate,” I said.
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Probably smart.
I shoved my hands in my hoodie pocket and looked up at the mansion behind the gates.
This day just kept getting weirder.
Dylan, apparently allergic to silence, stepped up to the gate and gave it a once-over like it was a personal challenge.
“I think I could climb this,” he said, gripping one of the iron bars.
Noah made a noise like he was about to throw up. “You can’t just climb a stranger’s gate. This is trespassing. Illegal trespassing. Also, you’ll die. That’s at least ten feet—”
“I’ve jumped off the gym roof before. I’ll be fine.”
“Didn’t you sprain your ankle doing that?”
Dylan was already halfway up the gate.
Noah flailed. “That doesn’t prove anything! You don’t even know if there are security cameras! Or electric wiring!”
“Guess I’ll find out!” He called
I stood there, watching them argue like it was bad reality TV. Abby stepped closer to me, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amused and deeply concerned.
“You know them?” she asked.
I sighed. “Vaguely. Dylan’s popular. Noah’s… not. So they have obviously never talked,"
Noah was now trying to physically pull Dylan off the gate, shouting something about felony charges and internal bleeding.
I closed my eyes for a second. “Will you two shut up?”
They both froze mid-yell.
Dylan dropped to the ground with a dramatic thud and looked at me. “What are you gonna do, unlock it?”
I didn’t answer. Just looked at the gate.
It creaked.
Loudly.
Then it opened.
Dylan blinked, tilting his head to the side. “…Huh.”
Noah looked between me and the gate like he’d just witnessed sorcery. “Okay, did anyone else see that? Is that normal? That’s not normal,”
“I don’t think anything about this is normal,” Abby muttered.
Dylan, naturally, decided to just walk through like he’d opened it with sheer confidence. “Well, whatever. We’re in. Let’s see what the big spooky mansion has to offer,”
“Probably tetanus,” I muttered.
