Zoey’s POV

  I sink into Hunter’s ridiculously plush office chair at the casino, the familiar black mask covering the lower half of my face now feels stifling. Even with the summer heat, I keep my hoodie up, pulling it low to hide the disaster zone that is my hair—a tangled, half-black, half-pastel green mess. I let out a sigh that could probably deflate a small country. The office is a hurricane of paper, a bookshelf-turned-landslide of books and documents. A fine shit of chaos. Except for one anomaly: the desk drawers, which remain stubbornly locked, no matter how many times I try to open it with hairpins.

  "Anything useful?" Matilda’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and cool as a surgeon’s scalpel (she’s actually a surgeon, no pun intended). She's scanning documents on the floor, her expression as usual, a masterclass in apathy. Matilda. My pseudo-sister-in-law, Benjamin's longtime girlfriend, and soon-to-be Mrs. Hunter. Everyone calls her that, even after Hunter's sensational disappearance. You'd think the absence of her fiancé, the head of one of a major criminal organization in the city, would make that resting bitch face have a flicker of emotion. Apparently, nope.

  "Nothing," I mumble, luxuriating in the chair's swivel, enjoying almost the comfort and sense of superiority Benjamin used to feel. "His phone and iPad pulled a Houdini, too. I asked his men downstairs and they know nothing as well."

  The last time I saw Hunter—Benjamin, as we always call him—was two days ago, in our microbiology lab, deep in The Dead City— a wasteland of crumbling ruins, once a bustling urban core, now mostly claimed by Hunter’s men and the occasional weirdos who sneak in. Besides a few streetlights flickering here and there, our lab is literally the only building lit up for miles. He’d summoned me there not to lecture me about bacterial cultures, but to unleash a wave of fury, because, well, I’d shot a cop. No, I didn’t kill him, I just shot him in the leg as a warning sign. And it was because the guy was practically breathing down our necks near the slum hideout. Honestly, it was an act of public service. Keeping the peace—Our peace, anyway. But that asshole only knows how to yell like a Karen.

  "Zoey, are you out of it?" His roar had probably shaken the beakers. "The area's crawling with cops! And your face—well, your head—is all over the news! You're officially a public enemy!"

  He wasn’t wrong about the news bit. My head, yes. My face, no. That’s why I always wear my sleek black mask—to keep my identity (and the gnarly scar on my left cheek) under wraps. Benjamin, bless his slightly unhinged goth soul, had gifted me with a half-black, half-pastel green hair dye job for my sixteenth. He usually kept my braids tight, three from the scalp into a low bun, because I’ve never figured out how to do it myself. But on the infamous cop-shooting day, he’d been patient—gave me five tight braids. I thought it was aesthetic. Now, it's become free advertising for the police, and my hair now, low-key embarrassing but, it’s a whole different kind of messy without him.

  And then there was the snake. The cop had noticed the tattoo coiling around my neck, its head and tail dangling like a macabre necklace toward my chest. He hadn’t caught the beauty of the full design, of course, but he’d caught enough. He knew the snake: Hunter’s mob. And in this city, everyone understood the meaning behind the tattoo placement. My neck-snake shouts 'direct line to the boss', which is accurate, considering we share (or used to share) a house. Hunter has the same one, as does Matilda. We are a branded family.

  "Come on, Benjamin," I scoffed, rolling my eyes so hard I almost strained something. "It’s not a big deal! We’ll just dye my hair pink or something. And the tattoo? We have a lot of makeup at home. You’ve seriously lost your mind since you turned thirty."

  He exhaled a long, suffering sigh, a sound that usually preceded a lecture. For a fleeting second, his voice dropped, almost normal. "I'm done with your reckless ass, Zoey. Every single day, a new fight with some rival gang, and now the fucking police! You never listen. You never admit you're wrong. I’m so sick of the shitty brat you’ve become."

  I gave an innocent shrug. "Because I’m not wrong, shit head. Right, Professor Hans?" I appealed to the ancient, perpetually flustered professor, who stood huddled in a corner, silently mouthing ‘not again'. The old man had seen a lot of drama between me and Benjamin recently.

  Hunter's voice climbed again, back to full roar. "Oh, so now you don't apologize when you make mistakes, and you just do whatever the fuck you want! You act without thinking, and look at the mess you've made: you’re now wanted by the police!"

  "Apologize?" The thought was hilarious. Sure, shooting a cop was probably not top-tier using my brain, but it just... happened. "Why would I apologize to you? Go fuck yourself, bro!"

  He drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a slow, controlled release that made me nervous. He almost made me think that he was about to drop yet another boring lecture. "Zoey, don't come back home. Find somewhere else to sleep."

  It took a solid second for my brain to process. "You're kicking me out? From my house?"

  I swear to God, this man has turned into a broken record, going on for months about how I don’t use my brain, engaging in pointless fights, and my brattiness (if that’s even a word).

  "You know what, Benjamin?" I snapped back. I couldn’t keep my temper any longer. "I'm sick of you and your bullshit. I'm going to Bryan's."

  Bryan. Hunter’s ride-or-die, his best friend, his right-hand man. The only one who can actually kick some sense into him, and the only one who sticks around when Hunter loses his fucking mind. If you picture our operation like a pyramid, Mr. Raymond Malcom’s at the top—the big boss, pulling all the strings. Hunter’s right below him, sitting pretty on the second tier. But since he vanished, Malcom’s been weirdly quiet. And that guy doesn’t do quiet. Not unless he’s planning something. Anyways, then comes Bryan, holding down the third tier. And below that? Us. The ones doing all the work.

  "Go! And don't you dare set foot back here!" That was the last thing Benjamin ever said to me.

  I never got the chance to crash at Bryan's. The moment I stepped out of that lab, everything went black, which was wild because I’d never fainted before, not once in my life. When I came to, I was back in my own room, but Hunter was gone. Bryan told me later he’d found me out cold on the pavement and dragged me to safety. At first, I figured Hunter was just messing around. But then, I hit Hunter’s parlor—his sacred little kingdom of tattoos and hair gel, where he spent hours turning people into walking masterpieces… or disasters, depending on the day. It was locked up tight, lights off, probably haunted. Then, I went back to our lab, and it was completely trashed. Like, a five-story war zone. Glass crunched under my sneakers as I toured the place. Research papers were shredded. Flasks smashed. Chemicals pooled everywhere. They say Professor Hans is in a coma at the hospital, attacked. The poor man was caught in the cross fire. I stumbled across Hunter’s notebook wedged under some debris on the third floor. Inside, there’s a page with my name scrawled on it. For the first time ever, Hunter’s usually neat handwriting was a wild mess, practically unreadable. I grabbed the notebook and stashed it for later.

  I've tried to make sense of it a million times. The words are wobbly, all crossed out, an incomprehensible scribble. Matilda and Bryan gave it a shot too. But after all that head-scratching, we only managed to pull out a few hints. Now, it lives in my pocket, always there. Maybe if I stare at it enough, something else will pop out.

  “Zoey, I’m…not… about… family… I was equally… truth… you know you are… your… I… Pearl… I have always loved… brother… Sorry.”

  Matilda sits down on the chair across from the desk, her expression perfectly unruffled. "Did Bryan tell you he's transferring you to Saint Phillips? He wants you to take a break from the city, you know, from all the chaos."

  I shove myself up from the chair, the familiar creak of the cushion echoing in the suddenly heavy air. "Saint Phillips belongs to Cyrus Leonardo. And we work for Raymond Malcom. He’s sending me there to spread another disease and shut it down, just like we did with Leonardo’s other businesses. Taking a break from the city and chaos, my ass."

  Saint Phillips High. Just the name makes images of manicured lawns and trust-fund kids pop up in my mind. It’s one of the most prestigious schools in the entire country, notorious for being exclusively for the super-rich and powerful. I’ve seen the glossy online brochures, heard the whispers about its big campus and state-of-the-art facilities. It has this untouchable reputation, truly magnificent, like something out of a movie. And yeah, I used to kinda envy those kids. Benjamin might be loaded, but even he couldn't just afford to send me there. Besides, no teacher in the world could ever hold a candle to his tutoring style. I have to admit that he is the best.

  Matilda gestures with a lazy hand towards the wall. "Well. He's in the next room hashing out the details with the other kids. You won't be flying solo."

  I can’t help but groan, dragging my hands down my face. “He’s bringing the other idiots too? Bryan, you’ve gotta be kidding me! You seriously want me to work with them again?”

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  My stomach flips. Them? That means he's going to be there too.

  I don’t even wait for a reply. I push open the door to the next room and step inside.

  The place is weirdly symmetrical, like someone tried to force a homey vibe and missed by a mile. Two long couches face each other in the center, like they’re about to have a passive-aggressive therapy session. A third couch hugs the right wall, set apart like it got grounded. A scratched-up coffee table anchors the middle. Bryan stands between the center couches, arms folded, expression unreadable, like a game show host who already knows I’m gonna lose.

  On the couch facing the door, Laura sits straight-backed and poised, all calm maturity, while Annie lounges beside her like she owns the room, one leg crossed dramatically over the other, twirling something pink between her fingers. Probably a gum wrapper. Or a grenade pin. You never know with her.

  Jaiden's on the third couch to the right, his usual corner. Elbows on knees, fingers loosely laced, it looks like he’s been waiting for something. Or someone. His head lifts the moment I walk in. And there it is again—his eyes. Dark skin and bright whites, a contrast that hits harder than it should. My chest does that stupid squeeze thing. Oh, god. Not now.

  I step inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Silence falls like a dropped curtain.

  Everyone stares.

  Bryan’s mouth quirks into a grin. "Perfect timing," he says.

  Laura offers a small, careful smile. "We’ve been waiting for you."

  Annie doesn’t even pretend to be polite, she just rolls her eyes so hard I hear it.

  And Jaiden? He blushes with a tiny smile. Blushes!

  His eyes don’t leave mine, not even for a second. And I swear, for a fleeting moment, time forgets how to move.

  I force myself forward, pretending my heart isn’t performing stunts. I drop onto the couch opposite Laura and Annie, doing my best to ignore the heavy thud of my pulse and the way Jaiden’s presence tugs at me like gravity. I glance away, anywhere but at him, and smooth my hands over my lap.

  Just act normal, girl. Breathe. Be cool. He’s just a boy. A cute boy. Who smells good. And has those brown eyes that could emotionally dismantle a person.

  I sit a little straighter, clenching my jaw.

  Cool. Totally normal.

  Bryan's already gushing. "I was just telling them about this perfect opportunity—Saint Phillips Private High School, nestled right up in the mountains!" His voice oozes with this painfully forced optimism, like he's trying to sell us a vacation package, not a school transfer. "Since there have been reports about your last two jobs, and the cops are on the lookout, it's better for you to lay low for a bit. And this school isn't just the perfect place to hide, you'll also get the best education in the U.S.!"

  Laura, Annie, and Jaiden are all nodding, wearing these hopeful, silly smiles. They're usually a lot louder, prone to whispering jokes or bitching, but right now? They're quiet. Like, eerily quiet. And for the first time ever, they actually seem… sensible. The thought of fun together, no matter how messed up the situation, hums between them.

  I don't want to be the party pooper, but I can't play along with this fantasy. "Cut the crap, Bryan. Just tell us what’s the matter already!" I say, my voice slicing clean through his bubbly sales pitch.

  The girls' smiles drop so fast you can almost hear them shatter. Laura's grey eyes go wide, "We’re… taking infected rats to this school? Again?" Her voice barely registers above a whisper, the hope draining from her face like color from a photo.

  "Are we going to kill anyone?" Annie asks in that weird, sing-songy foreign accent of hers. The question is chilling, but somehow, she makes it sound cheerful, as if she's asking what's for lunch. Then she glances at me, shrugs, and lets a smile creep across her lips. "I love killing people. It’s my hobby."

  Why is she looking at me?

  Bryan throws up his hands like this is no biggie. "This time’s easy, I promise." He's still trying to sound reassuring. "You'll get five vessels of waterborne virus. You'll just spill them into five of the water tanks inside the school. You'll get sick for about three days, everyone will get sick, don't worry, and then the news will break out that Saint Phillips isn't as perfect as everyone thinks. That's it."

  Yes, that’s it! That’s the real reason we’re being shipped off to a high school none of us could ever afford. Not for some best education bullshit or to chase the damn American dream, but to play plague doctors. Again. To spread another viru— hold on… Virus? Waterborne? That doesn’t track! My brain immediately goes to the facts. I've been living in the lab this past week with Hunter, and with Hunter as a microbiologist and Professor Hans as a virologist, I don't recall either of them working on any kind of waterborne virus. Ever.

  "I don't think we've made a waterborne virus," I object.

  Bryan stares at me for a beat, his hopeful expression finally cracking. "We did. You weren't there when Hunter made these vessels."

  I didn't go through Hunter's notebook fully. There has to be something in there, some notes about this virus. Maybe a sketch. A formula. Anything that I might have missed.

  An anonymous figure slips into the room, all in black, topped with an eerie, bronze, dog mask. They stand silently beside Bryan, holding nothing but a plain wooden box. The black top they're wearing has three-quarter sleeves and, as expected, the snake tattoo is wrapped around their exposed, right wrist before the black leather glove. This person must be an ally, someone connected directly to Bryan, an underling maybe. I know that ink, the tiny signature at the snake’s tail—They were tattooed by Hunter himself. They look familiar though… I remember seeing them somewhere… But where? In the depressing streets? Lurking in Bryan’s shadow?

  The figure sets the box down on the coffee table. A sharp, heavy musky aroma drifts towards me, making my nose twitch. Then, they hurry to stand behind Bryan, hands clasped behind their back, chest high, shoulders proud. They're quite tall, their masked head reaching just about Bryan’s shoulders, about my height, I guess.

  Laura shivers, leaning in close to me and Jaiden. "Ugh, this person looks creepy," she whispers.

  I've seen worse. Trust me. But something about this particular person makes my skin crawl. Maybe it's the shimmering bronze mask. Its long snout and details give the unsettling illusion of a dog’s head on a human body.

  "Bryan is always surrounded by creeps," Annie whispers back.

  Jaiden stifles a laugh, covering his mouth with a hand. "Don't you think he looks ridiculous?"

  I glance at the mask again. Yeah, it does look cringy and a bit silly. I look back to them and, for some reason, these guys are still quieter than usual. I know I'm overthinking it, but I'm not used to this serenity when they're around.

  Bryan opens the box, revealing five small vessels nestled inside. "Zoey, I need you to take care of these. Keep them in your closet, and when you guys decide on a time to spread the virus, maybe on the weekend or when no one is watching, spill them in the water tanks. When you arrive, Armani will send you the map of the place, he’ll guide you through this."

  Oh. That's why it's quiet. That blond asshole isn't here.

  "There is no specific time when you should spread the virus, do it whenever you want," Bryan reassures, trying to soften the blow. "Remember, you're going there for a fresh start. As for the virus, you'll just cause a pandemic and let everyone talk trash about the school. That's your goal and you guys—"

  "Bullshit." I cut him off, crossing my arms. "I'm doing well being homeschooled and tutored by Hunt—" The name catches in my throat. He's gone now. There won't be anyone to tutor me, and I can't study by myself. The thought hits like a brick.

  "This is a good opportunity that you don't want to miss," Bryan's voice softens, like he's talking to a puppy. "And now you have your friends."

  They're not my friends, Bryan. We've never been friends. We just do our jobs, spreading viruses under Hunter’s orders, and now yours.

  Something is gnawing at my chest about Bryan; a thought in the back of my mind is poking me, whispering to me that this man in front of me is up to no good.

  "Yes!" Laura blurts, her usual sunshine smile snapping back on like a mask. "We'll be together. No need to freak out."

  "But, I'm not freakin—"

  "We will get sick for some days and nothing bad will happen," Jaiden says, his gentle eyes earnest. "We got your back."

  Annie bounces in her seat. Her grin stretches too wide, as if she’s auditioning to be my sleep paralysis demon. "Yay! If we get caught, we’ll all rot in jail together! Isn’t that romantic, Zoey?"

  No, bitch, it's not.

  Laura turns to me. "I'll make sure that doesn't happen," she says, almost cringing.

  "to get caught or to rot?" Jaiden asks Laura with a giggle.

  "It looks like you guys are having fun together," Bryan interrupts with a tiny, almost knowing smile. "I will leave you for a while then we will discuss some procedures to ensure your successful transfer." He turns towards the door. The masked figure pauses just long enough to make it weird, their body barely turning, but their head angled toward me. Through the eyeholes, I catch a flash of calm blue. Not cold—confident. Like he knows something I don’t. The gaze latches onto mine, and for a second, I forget to breathe. Then he's gone, slipping out after Bryan like a shadow returning to its owner.

  Somehow, I don't feel good about this. Something inside me is screaming for me to back off. The whole thing is unsettling: Hunter’s disappearance, then being shoved into a private school miles away in the mountains. It feels less like a transfer to a better school and more like getting shoved into a deep end, with no clue how to swim. And that virus thingy? That ties a knot in my stomach. I'm sure it won't be as easy as Bryan thinks, and it definitely won't go down smoothly.

  The thought I’m trying to run away from whispers again, how many guys disappeared for being loyal to Bryan? I shake my head. Bryan is a family member; in no way it will be my turn. But, if Hunter is gone, are we a family anymore?

  Laura blobs on the couch beside me and squeezes my hand. "Looks like something’s on your mind," she says gently, as if she read my mind. "I’m sure everything will be okay. No need to think too much."

  "I know," I nod, swallowing hard. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s all in my head.

  Or maybe, not.