LOGINJessieMy boot catches the door's bottom edge. The handle won't turn. I rattle it twice, harder the second time.Charred wood and tobacco leaf cling to the metal. Faint and stale. Same residue from the folded note.Locked from inside. Marlon never does that.I grip harder. Fingers ache around steel, tendons pulling tight. The tingling won't stop when I release. I shake my hand out.My shoulder hits the door. It gives two inches. Enough to see the fluorescent strip beyond. Enough to hear the wrong note in the buzz.Nine hours since the rink. Three hours since the Duluth crew cleared out. They had time."Door's supposed to be locked, Jessie."Jonah's voice carries through the crack. He isn't turning around. His palms hang open at his sides, fingers spread."Since when does Marlon lock from inside?"He doesn't answer. That silence holds everything.I push through the gap. My boot slips on rubber mat. I steady myself beneath the fluorescent buzz.Martins stands with his back to me. One ha
POV: JessieMy thumb hits call. Disconnected. The dead tone loops a fourth time.The screen reads 5:47 a.m. The text sits there, unchanged. Your pack isn't extinct. They're waiting. Six words I've been staring at since midnight.Tinsley breathes steady above me. The cocoa on my nightstand grew a skin hours ago.I hit call again. Disconnected. The tone doesn't shift. It won't.Who sends a text right after a chase and kills the number before I can trace it. I press the phone face-down under my pillow. Pick it back up. Read the words again.They haven't changed.My anger grinds slow and tired, fear having spent itself hours ago.***POV: MartinsThe voicemail hits at 6:02. I'm still in yesterday's clothes, elbows on the desk in the back office, molars aching behind the silver mouthguard.Grant Lively's voice. Rushed. Breaking at the edges."Heller. Ramos's crew pulled out of the visitor lot at four. All of them. They left something in the bench storage. I didn't touch it."A breath. A sw
Jessie's POV A boot scrapes salted concrete behind me, half a beat after my own.My fingers tighten on the textbook spine, edge biting my palm. I keep walking.The rhythm is wrong. Too measured. Someone pacing themselves to match my stride.I slow and pretend to check my phone. The footsteps slow a half-second late.I speed up. They speed up.I halt and turn.A figure in a dark maintenance jacket stands twenty feet back, hood up, face swallowed by shadow. His gait is trained, deliberate, nothing casual about the set of his shoulders.His head angles left, the same small check he made when I first turned.Then he speaks one word, low, carried on the evening air."Marlowe."My shoulders lock. Vision tunnels to the lamppost edge, light stretching sideways until I blink it back to one.Nobody uses that name here. I buried it in transfer paperwork. Six hours since Hargrove's office, six hours since I read Solberg's name and walked out without answers.He steps backward into the shadow bet
JessieThe scanner beeps against my wrist and I flinch before Hargrove touches me.She pulls the device back, adjusts the angle, tries again. My whole arm goes rigid on the vinyl table."Relax," she says, soft and practiced.Eight hours since the training room floor. Eight hours since I watched my own skin betray me. The fluorescent buzz hasn't changed, and neither have I.My boots are still laced from last night. Forearms ache deep in the muscle, soreness settling after holding too much weight too long. A patch of irritation sits near my left wrist, hidden under my sleeve.Blood sits thick on my tongue where I bit my cheek in the dark hours. Four crescent indents mark my palms from gripping the equipment rack while my body did something I couldn't stop.Hargrove's text arrived at 6:42. Three words. Come in now.I want to be in the storage bay sorting tape rolls for Marlon. Instead I'm here under a light that exposes every breath.Hargrove sets the scanner down. Her lab coat buttons t
JessieMy fingernails throb with every step. The ache swells underneath, pressing against bone. I shove both hands deep into my jacket pockets.Crescents form where nails bite through fabric into my palms.I don't look back. Looking back means seeing him. Seeing what happened on that porch. I can't carry that yet.Each breath reaches me too loudly. The paths stretch empty around me. No footsteps but mine. No voices.Two blocks out, the heat starts.Deep under muscle, under bone, my forearms warm from the inside. I stop beneath a streetlamp and pull one hand free. The nail beds look swollen, darker than they should be.I flex my fingers. The tendons rise beneath the skin, sharper than before. I know every bitten nail on that hand. I don't know the shape underneath anymore."It's panic. That's all." My voice sounds scraped, thin. "My body is panicking. Breathe. Count backward from ten."Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. I lose the thread. I restart, forcing each number through my teeth. By
Jessie's POV Chase Huxley's fingers clamp around my wrist, his thumb grinding straight into the tendon."Come on, Marlowe. One dance. That's all."I yank my arm. His grip tightens. "You're not asking. You're grabbing."The bass from inside the frat house punches through the concrete wall behind my shoulder, each beat reaching my spine before I can block it. Cheap body spray crowds my nose, chemical-sweet and synthetic, layered over spilled beer gone sour on his collar. Mint gum underneath, losing.His breath fills the space between us, thick and stale, and I turn my face toward the wall."I've been trying to leave," I say, forcing the next breath through my nose.Tinsley disappeared inside after her first drink. Brooke is somewhere near the kitchen. Right now there's nobody out here but me and Chase and the busted porch light swallowing us in shadow. The wood frame digs into my shoulder blade. I have nowhere to go sideways. The step behind me drops six inches. If I move wrong, I fal







