Chapter 1
The wrong moment can wait years for you to arrive.
I learned this truth early and carry it with me everywhere. It's why I don't believe in coincidences, why I take the long way home even when my knees ache, why I never leave a hospital room without looking back.
Sunday night found me walking home from the café as usual, tips folded in my pocket and rain seeping through my hood. I normally cut across the west quad, past the chapel and faculty townhouses, but orange barricades blocked my path. A rain-soaked sign announced "maintenance work in progress."
I swore under my breath. The only alternative was the shortcut.
I hated that path.
It stretched between the sports fields and the old equipment shed, narrow and poorly lit, with chain-link fencing on one side and overgrown brush on the other. Cracked asphalt caught shallow puddles that reflected the sodium lights like shattered glass. The air always carried the scent of rust, wet earth, and mold from the hidden drainage ditch.
Sound played tricks there. Footsteps could belong to you or someone else, and you wouldn't know until too late.
I quickened my pace, pulling my jacket tighter. The cold wasn't the only thing making me shiver. My heart hammered against my ribs, drowning out the silence around me.
Halfway through, something moved near the equipment shed.
At first, I told myself it was a stray cat or raccoon. But the silence shifted, growing heavy and taut, and my body understood what my mind refused to accept: something was wrong.
I nearly turned back. I should have.
A sound cut through the night. Sharp, low, not quite a shout but close. It was anger made audible.
I pressed against the cold fence, rain blurring my vision. Through the haze, I saw them. Three figures had cornered a man in a suit, backing him toward the shed. His hands were raised, face pale with desperation, but the blows came anyway. Fast. Precise. Practiced.
Recognition hit me like ice water. Everyone at Blackwell knew them. They weren't just students; that word implied rules, rosters, belonging. They didn't belong to the university. The university belonged to them.
Most people avoided them. Some girls didn't, drawn like moths to dangerous flame. Because despite everything, they were beautiful. Not safe beautiful. The kind wired with heat and sharp edges, the kind you only see where you shouldn't be looking.
Kai delivered the punishment. Brown hair clung damp to his forehead, green eyes caught light like broken glass, tattoos snaked up his forearms and neck. Tallest of the group, built like someone who spoke violence as a second language. Campus whispers named him the most dangerous of the five. Watching him now, I believed every word.
To his left stood Cassian, unshakeable in his stillness, arms folded, black hair slicked back by rain. His brown eyes never left their target, steady and calculating.
Nikos flanked the other side, all effortless poise despite the weather. Blonde hair hung loose past his shoulders, hazel eyes nearly golden under the streetlights. He shifted like a coiled spring, ready to intervene if Kai faltered. Not that Kai ever did. His strength looked almost careless, which made it more terrifying.
They were usually six , but only three had come tonight. Perhaps that was mercy. Even three made the darkness feel suffocating.
Another punch landed with a wet, brutal sound. The man's knees buckled, collapsing into a puddle as blood mixed with rainwater on the asphalt.
The violence shocked me with its speed, its finality. I should have run. My body even twitched toward escape. But something morbid and magnetic rooted my feet in place, drew me forward for a better view.
Before I realized what I was doing, I had crept closer.
None of them noticed me, hidden behind chain-link and wet brush. But I could see their tattoos gleaming against rain-slicked skin, hear everything: the impact of bone on bone, grunts of effort, the wet thud of knuckles meeting jaw, the metallic click of Cassian checking his watch.
A sick thrill twisted through me, part horror, part fascination. I wasn't supposed to witness this. But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't decide whether to close my eyes or stare.
Then Kai stepped back, shaking out his hand, and turned just enough for his gaze to slice across the fence. For one paralyzed second, I thought he saw me.
I think he did.
The moment stretched. Rain thickened. No one spoke.
Then it ended, abrupt enough to leave ringing emptiness. Kai's boots splashed through puddles. Cassian pocketed something. Nikos wiped blood from his knuckles with practiced indifference before helping drag the suited man away.
They dissolved into shadows as smoothly as they'd emerged, leaving me frozen with adrenaline burning through every vein.
I was a witness now.
I ran the moment their footsteps faded, heart hammering loud enough to wake the campus. Cold rain mixed with sweat as I tore across the quad toward my dormitory, shadows stretching like grasping fingers.
Inside, I locked the door and leaned against it, chest heaving. Sleep would be impossible. I retrieved my medication and swallowed the pills with shaking hands, then checked my phone. No missed calls. No messages from my parents.
Their absence no longer surprised me. Since childhood, I'd learned not to expect warmth from them. They weren't cruel, just distant. Their love felt transactional, cold, always conditional on their needs rather than mine. I'd stopped waiting for hugs or kind words years ago.
This meant I handled everything alone. I'd been forced to become self-sufficient early, especially regarding my health. Long QT Syndrome affects my heart rhythm, potentially causing fainting or irregular beats. I don't discuss it because people immediately treat me like I'm fragile, and nothing infuriates me more than pity.
I'm not fragile. I'm not broken. I simply have to be smarter about how I live. I take medication on schedule, avoid unnecessary stress, and listen to my body's signals.
Still, some part of me hoped my parents might call occasionally. Not to fix anything or play hero, but just to show they cared enough to check in. Most nights, that hope felt pointless.
Tonight, it felt different. I wanted to know someone would answer if I called, someone who'd listen without trying to solve me. Just be there.
I remained grateful, I supposed. They paid my tuition, and without them I'd never have walked Blackwell's pristine, ancient grounds.
So I did what I always did: swallowed everything. My fear, confusion, the violent pulse of what I'd witnessed. I tried to sleep, but my mind wouldn't settle. Images flickered behind closed eyelids: green eyes cutting through rain, fists flashing in lamplight. When sleep finally came, it arrived restless and shallow, my heart buzzing against the mattress until dawn.
Morning brought no relief. I woke with my sheets twisted around me like restraints, the metallic taste of anxiety coating my tongue.
I dragged myself to the shower, letting hot water pound against my shoulders until the bathroom filled with steam. The mirror stayed fogged when I stepped out, which was fine. I didn't want to see my reflection anyway. The circles under my eyes would betray everything I was trying to forget.
When I opened my door to head to breakfast, I nearly stepped on it.
A small black USB drive lay on the threshold, innocuous as a dropped coin. Someone had slid it under my door while I slept, silent as a whisper. My heart stuttered against my ribs as I crouched down, fingers hovering over the device without touching it.
No note. No explanation. Just smooth black plastic that could contain anything.
I glanced down the hallway. Empty. The other doors remained closed, my neighbors still lost in Monday morning routines. Whoever had delivered this had done so without waking anyone, without leaving a trace.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. The drive was warm, as if someone had been holding it moments before. No markings, no brand name, nothing to indicate its origin. Just a simple USB drive that felt heavier than it should in my palm.
I retreated into my room and locked the door behind me.
The drive sat on my desk like a loaded weapon while I stared at it from across the room. Every rational part of my brain screamed warnings. Don't plug it in. Throw it away. Pretend you never found it.
But curiosity burned stronger than caution.
I opened my laptop with shaking fingers and inserted the drive. A single folder appeared on screen, labeled with yesterday's date. Inside, a video file waited.
The timestamp read 11:47 PM Sunday night.
My breath caught. That was exactly when I'd witnessed the beating.
I clicked play.
Grainy security footage filled the screen, shot from a camera I hadn't noticed Sunday night. The angle captured everything: the equipment shed, the chain-link fence, the shallow puddles reflecting sodium light. And there, pressed against the fence in the bottom corner, was a figure in a dark jacket.
Me.
The video showed it all. Kai delivering brutal punishment while Cassian and Nikos watched. The man in the suit collapsing. Blood mixing with rainwater. And in perfect clarity, my face as I crept closer, drawn by morbid fascination.
But then the video cut.
The next frame wasn’t mine. Couldn’t be.
There I was—clear, centered—as if I’d stepped right out from my hiding place. I walked straight toward one of the aggressors, glancing over my shoulder. My hand slipped into my jacket pocket; when it came back out, I was holding… something. A small, unmarked envelope.
In the footage, I passed it to Cassian like it meant nothing. He took it, slid it into his own coat, and then the hit came—Kai’s fist, fast and brutal, sending him crumpling.
Except that didn’t happen. I never moved. I never gave anything to Cassian.
The timing, the angles—they’d twisted the truth into something that fit whatever story they wanted. And in their story, I wasn’t a witness. I was an accomplice.
My pulse roared in my ears. To anyone who’d see this—the police, the administration, whoever—the message would be simple: I’d delivered something to them, and minutes later, he’d been attacked.
Guilt, gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.
I clicked pause, the video frozen on my rain-streaked face, caught midturn. There was no fear in that version of me—just focus, intent. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real. It _looked_ real.
I was being framed.
A cold knot twisted in my stomach. Who had done this? Why? And how had they known I was there?
My breath caught again as I noticed something at the edge of my vision—a small piece of paper, folded and crumpled, lying just beneath my desk. It hadn’t been there when I sat down.
I bent to pick it up, my fingers trembling as I unfolded the note.
Come alone. Same place. 11 PM. Or face the consequences.
They knew. They had known all along.
I ripped the USB drive from my laptop and threw it across the room. It clattered against the wall and fell behind my bookshelf, but the damage was done. The evidence existed. Somewhere out there, they had fake footage of me " helping them ".
My medication couldn't calm the irregular rhythm hammering in my chest. This wasn't just anxiety anymore. This was pure, animal terror.
I had two choices: show up tonight and face whatever they wanted, or run and hope they'd lose interest.
I’d seen what they did with their fists. I didn’t want to find out what they could do with my life.
The only thing I was sure of is that I was fucking cooked.
To be continued...
