Secrets

~Ivy Harper~

College always felt like a performance I never auditioned for.

The parties, the cheap liquor, the pretending. Everyone chased freedom while I chased silence. Maybe that’s why the Division likes using me for these assignments — I disappear well.

And when the Head of the Division of Archives is also your father, refusal isn’t an option. Saying no just earns another week of “discipline training,” and he’s far too creative for that.

“You know, I think this one’s more your style, Carson,” I murmur into the comm in my ear.

Tyler Carson. Partner. Sharpshooter. Pain in my ass.

We’ve been a pair since we were kids — since the night the Veil took his parents and left him half feral and entirely loyal.

“Well, we both know a college boy would rather talk to you than me,” he says, voice low and teasing through the static.

I smile faintly. “Your ego’s showing again.”

The late-afternoon sun spills gold across the campus lawn. I move with the crowd — notebook in one hand, coffee-stained backpack slung over my shoulder — scanning faces, gestures, shadows.

Division intel says a recruiter for the Veil is embedded here. Mid-level manipulator. Human façade.

And I’m the bait.

I duck into a café humming with noise — burnt espresso, laughter, nervous energy. “A medium caramel macchiato,” I tell the barista, who looks one meltdown away from quitting. While I wait, I thumb my phone screen, pretending to scroll like the rest of them.

“Order for Evelyn!”

The alias still feels strange in my mouth when I thank her and take my cup. I pick a seat near the window — half in sunlight, half in reflection. The comm stays silent; Tyler knows this part is mine.

The file was clear: no field training, no obvious network, but one name repeated everywhere like a watermark.

Darryl Becker. Senior. Political science. Campus royalty. Faculty favorite.

Too clean. Too adored.

And far too visible for a recruiter — which made him interesting.

He enters on cue — as if the day itself was timed around him. Students wave. Professors nod. The barista already writes his name with a tiny heart over the y. Of course she does.

I’ve seen him before — in the dossier photos, in the periphery of charity events. The smile, the posture, the maddening ease of someone who never needs to prove himself. I’d written him off. For now.

But the way he moves catches me. Nothing wasted. Relaxed but deliberate — like someone used to observing without being observed. His gaze sweeps the room.

Not looking. Assessing.

Then his eyes find mine.

For half a heartbeat, it’s like static — a quiet pulse that settles beneath my skin. Recognition flickers there, or maybe curiosity, but either way it lasts too long. I force myself to look away first, pretend to scroll, sip coffee that’s gone lukewarm.

A voice cuts through the air beside me — smooth, amused, and far too close.

“Haven’t seen you around before.”

I look up. He’s beside my table, fingers curled around a paper cup, posture easy.

Too easy.

“And yet, here I am,” I say, keeping my tone flat, my pulse steady. Eyes around us shift, taking him in. He’s the kind of man people notice — even when they shouldn’t.

He tilts his head. “Then the campus must be doing something right.”

It’s a harmless line. But there’s weight behind it — the kind of weight that makes your body forget it’s supposed to breathe. I study him for a beat longer than is smart, cataloging details: the faint scar near his jaw, the steadiness of his gaze, the way he doesn’t fidget like the others.

Too poised.

Too aware.

Danger wearing a smile.

“See ya around.”

When he finally turns and leaves, the noise of the café swallows him, but the air feels different — charged, like a room just after lightning.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just the golden boy doing what golden boys do.

And golden boys never notice quiet girls.

At least, that’s what I used to believe.

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Welcome to Secrets. 🖤

— AuraPanda ✨