Chapter 1
Olivia
I woke up to the sound of my own groaning, which was not exactly how I imagined adulthood would begin. Eighteen years old, and my first great achievement? A skull-splitting hangover and the faint taste of regret clinging to my tongue.
The second thing I noticed was the glowing tattoo on my arm.Not a cute, delicate flower. Not some badass dragon curling around my wrist.Nope. A pulsing, golden mark that looked suspiciously like it had been branded there by an overenthusiastic rave DJ.
“Fantastic,” I muttered, squinting at the light leaking through my curtains. “Either I’m dying, or body art is contagious now.”
I shoved myself upright, stumbled into my tiny bathroom, and held my arm up to the mirror. The tattoo shimmered faintly, like embers under my skin, stretching from my inner wrist to halfway up my forearm.
Yep. Still there.Nope. Still not normal.
I splashed water on my face and tried to convince myself this was a dream. Except dreams didn’t usually come with pounding hangovers, or the smell of burnt coffee wafting down the hall.
Which brings me to disaster number two.
I shuffled into the kitchen to find the coffee machine sputtering like it had a personal vendetta. The pot rattled, steam hissed, and before I could even reach for the power button-
BOOM.
Brown liquid sprayed the counter, the floor, and my favorite hoodie. I froze mid-step, dripping in caffeine like some tragic modern art piece.
My stepdad, Rick, barely looked up from the newspaper. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Your coffee maker just tried to assassinate me.” I gestured wildly at the mess, my arm still faintly glowing.
Rick glanced up, eyes narrowing at my sleeve. “What’s that on your arm?”
Panic. Pure panic. I yanked the hoodie down. “Nothing. Fashion. Teen thing.”
He gave me that look - the one where he wasn’t entirely buying it but also didn’t care enough to fight. Typical Rick. He was a decent stepdad, emphasis on step. Ever since Mom died three years ago, he’d been more…roommate-with-grocery-privileges than actual parent.
“Anyway,” he said, folding his paper. “I saw your email from the art school. They’re still offering you that scholarship, right?”
I blinked. Right. The one thing in my life that was supposed to make sense. Art school. My paintings. The plan.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “There’s a showcase at school this week, too. They’re, uh, excited.”
He grunted. “Good. Maybe you’ll be the one that makes it out of this town without flipping burgers.”
Wow. Father of the Year.
I poured myself some cereal instead, muttering under my breath about broken appliances and absentee parents. At least school tomorrow would be normal. Senior year, final semester, then art school, freedom.
My tattoo pulsed against my skin like it was laughing at me.
Normal? Not even close.
I fumbled for my phone on the counter, hoping it hadn’t been buried under the coffee spray. Of course, the screen was smeared with a little of everything - cereal, coffee, probably regret - and the first thing I saw was a string of texts from Cassie, my best friend and unofficial life auditor.
Cassie: Olivia??? Where are you? You disappeared last night.Cassie: We were all worried!Cassie: Also… you left your bag at my place. AGAIN.
I groaned, texted back with one hand while trying not to stab myself with the knife I was using to scrape cereal off the counter.
Me: I woke up alive. Mostly. Not in jail. You’re welcome.
Cassie: That’s a relief… barely.
Me: Also… minor thing. Coffee machine exploded. Sorry.
Cassie: …You what??
Me: It’s fine. Totally fine. Don’t worry. Nothing happened. Except maybe a small fire hazard and mild electric shock.
Cassie: OMG. Did you at least wear pants?
I paused. Important question.
Me: Um… yes. Mostly.
Cassie sent three laughing emojis and one horrified emoji. I texted quickly, thinking maybe she was a little worried about me beyond the hangover and destroyed coffee.
Me: Hey… are you mad I left last night without saying goodbye?
There was a pause. The little typing bubble wiggled.
Cassie: …a little. But also… not really. You owed me this adventure. Kinda. But next time maybe text me before vanishing like a magical ghost.
Me: Deal. But I can’t promise the “magical ghost” part won’t happen again.
Cassie responded instantly. Cassie: …Wait. Magical? Olivia… why does your arm look like a glowing snake?
My stomach dropped. I stared at the tattoo again, now fully aware that my hangover wasn’t my biggest problem.
Me: …Long story.
Cassie: STORY NOW.
I groaned again and sank onto the counter stool, head in hands. “Great. Stepdad thinks I’m fine, I almost died by coffee, and my best friend wants to interrogate me about my glowing arm.”
Cassie sent a single message that made me laugh despite the growing panic.
Cassie: “Only you could wake up looking like a glowing disaster and still somehow be the most entertaining person alive. Call me before the neighbors call the fire department.”
Cassie: You’re ridiculous. But also… call me when you figure out if you’re turning into a superhero or a disaster magnet.
“Disaster magnet,” I muttered, rubbing my arm. Yep. That was me.
Me: You’ll be first to know.
And somehow… I had a feeling this was only the beginning.
