OUR LITTLE SECRET

Velgrave Academy loomed like a dark secret on the edge of the city — all sharp spires and obsidian glass that caught the morning sun like fire.

Ophelia Wolfe didn’t flinch at the sight of it. She didn’t flinch at much, really.

Not anymore.

Her black boots clicked against the marble steps as she walked past the metal detectors that weren’t built for her kind. Normal schools worried about guns and knives. Velgrave worried about bloodlines. And power.

Especially her kind of power.

Ophelia Wolfe, born to a legacy of Bloodborns gifted with memory manipulation, had been labeled dangerous before she could walk. She could rewrite moments, erase trauma, implant ideas so delicately you’d think they were your own.

And she hated using it.

But Velgrave was not a place that let you live soft. You either sharpened yourself or bled for someone else’s ego.

“Back again, Wolfe?” The voice sliced through the air behind her — smug, taunting.

Carl Maddox.

She didn’t need to turn around. She already knew it was him. That arrogant, blue-eyed menace had a way of poisoning the air before he even spoke. His power was disruption — the ability to neutralize the gifts of others. One touch, one glare, and your legacy meant nothing.

She turned anyway, slowly. “Still following me like a lost puppy, Maddox?”

He smirked, stepping forward with that infuriating swagger. “Just wondering how long you’ll last this year without screwing with someone’s memories.”

“Just wondering how long you’ll last before someone knocks your teeth out,” she snapped back, her eyes glowing faintly — not enough to trigger the hall’s surveillance, but enough to make him pause.

His smile faltered for a second. A split second.

Then he leaned in, close enough for her to smell his cologne — sharp, expensive, unnecessary. “Careful, Wolfe. Someone might mistake that fire for something else.”

She leaned in, lips barely an inch from his ear. “And someone might mistake your cockiness for actual talent.”

They pulled away at the same time, tension crackling between them like static. Around them, students stopped to watch — whispers already starting to spread.

She didn’t care.

Let them talk.

Ophelia strode down the hallway, ignoring the way her fingertips itched to rewrite the last three seconds — to wipe his smugness from her mind. But no. That would be weak. That would mean he got to her.

And no one got to her.

Not anymore.

Ophelia hadn’t made it five feet into the east wing before she felt it — that familiar static hum, like a warning buzzing just beneath her skin.

Carl Maddox was behind her again.

She turned around sharply, lips pressed into a line. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

He was leaning against a locker, arms crossed, the same damn smirk dancing on his lips. “Nowhere nearly as interesting as this.”

She narrowed her eyes, not bothering to hide her disgust. “What do you want, Maddox?”

His gaze flicked down, then back up, unapologetically slow. “I want to know what a girl like you is so afraid of.”

She laughed — short, humorless. “Afraid? Please. If anything, you should be the one afraid of me.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, with no bravado. “That’s the problem.”

Ophelia’s jaw tensed.

It wasn’t that she hated Carl — it was worse than that. He got under her skin. He made her aware of herself in a way she resented. Most people either feared her or respected her. Carl challenged her.

And she didn’t like challenges that couldn’t be erased.

“You know what?” she said, stepping forward until there was no space left between them. “Keep pushing. One day, I won’t hold back.”

His voice dropped. “One day, I won’t either.”

A pause.

Then she brushed past him, shoulder knocking his as she walked away. She didn’t look back, even as his voice chased her down the hallway.

“See you in Combat Class, Wolfe.”

Combat Class at Velgrave was more than just sparring — it was controlled chaos. Every week, students were matched against each other to test their powers and limits.

This week, the names flashed across the screen: Wolfe vs. Maddox.

Of course.

Ophelia stepped onto the mat, tying her hair up with sharp, practiced movements. She wore a fitted black tank and combat pants — nothing flashy, just efficient. Deadly.

Carl entered the ring with a lazy grin and cracked knuckles.

“Try not to fall for me mid-fight,” he teased.

“I’d rather die.”

The whistle blew.

He lunged first, a blur of speed. She dodged, using memory foresight — replaying his fighting style from previous matches and predicting his steps. Her knee connected with his ribs, but he twisted, caught her wrist—

And then it was gone.

Her power blinked out like a candle. His fingertips brushed her skin and that was all it took. Disruption.

For two full seconds, she was just Ophelia. No power. No edge. Just muscle and instinct.

But two seconds was enough.

She headbutted him.

He staggered, laughing even as blood trickled from his nose. “Damn, Wolfe.”

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

“I think you like it.”

She kicked his leg out from under him, straddled him on the mat, hand hovering over his forehead — ready to rewrite his memory of the last ten minutes.

“Say it again,” she dared.

His chest rose and fell beneath her, breath ragged. “I think… you like me.”

A dangerous silence stretched between them.

Then the whistle blew again. Match over.

Ophelia stood, brushing off her pants. She didn’t offer him a hand.

But Carl stayed on the floor, grinning like he’d just won something far more valuable than a fight.