The steam from the bathroom drifts down the hallway like a ghost, carrying the faint scent of lavender and something acrid underneath—the party, still clinging to Kira's skin no matter how hot I run the water. I left her there with her eyes closed, her head tipped back against the porcelain, the torn dress in a heap on the floor where she'd let it fall. She didn't speak when I turned the tap. Didn't ask me to stay. Just sank into the heat like she was trying to dissolve the last few hours off her body.

My hands won't stop trembling.

Not from fear. From the cold, quiet fury that's been building in my chest since I found her—naked, marked, collar gone, scarf torn in two like someone wanted me to find it that way. Like they wanted me to know.

The kitchen light is on when I reach the doorway. Dim. One of those under-cabinet strips Elena insists on because the overhead hurts her eyes in the morning. She's standing at the counter with her back to me, sponge in hand, wiping the same circle over and over on the stained vinyl. The air is thick with spilled wine and sweat, the sour ghost of last night's panic. A bottle sits on the counter—cold, sweaty, label peeling at the edge. Nothing else touched.

She doesn't hear me. Or she pretends not to.

Her shoulders are bare. She's still in last night's clothes—a thin camisole and sleep shorts, the uniform I've imposed on this house. Her messy bun is coming loose, brown strands sticking to the back of her neck. The sponge squeaks against the counter in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

I watch her for a long moment. The way her back muscles tighten with each pass. The way she's cleaning the same spot like it might come clean if she just tries hard enough.

"Elena."

Her hand freezes mid-circle. The sponge stops squeaking. The silence that follows is sharper than any sound she could have made.

She doesn't turn. Her spine goes rigid, and I can see the breath catch in her shoulders—that little hitch that means she's bracing herself. Preparing for the worst. She's been doing that a lot lately. Preparing for me.

"What is it?" Her voice is careful. Measured. The voice she uses when she's trying to control a situation she doesn't understand yet.

I step into the kitchen. The vinyl is cold under my bare feet, sticky in places where wine spilled and wasn't fully wiped up. I can smell it on myself too—smoke and sweet drinks and the cheap perfume of girls I didn't talk to, pressed into my clothes like a second skin. I should shower. I should change. But I can't. Not until she knows.

"Kira."

That's all I say. Her name. Just her name.

Elena's hand tightens on the sponge. I watch her knuckles go white, the tendons standing out against her skin. She still doesn't turn, but something in her posture shifts—a subtle realignment, like a animal scenting blood on the wind.

"What about Kira?" The careful tone is cracking at the edges now. I can hear the fault line running through it, the tremor underneath.

I move closer. The floor is cold. The air is thick. I can hear the water still running in the bathroom down the hall, Kira's faint breathing lost somewhere in the steam.

"She was drugged," I say, low and plain. No softening. No cushion. Just the truth, laid out like a wound that needs to be cleaned. "At the party. Someone put something in her drink."

Elena's back goes absolutely still. The sponge hangs motionless in her grip, water dripping from it onto the counter in slow, deliberate drops.

"She's okay," I continue, because the silence is stretching too thin, because I need her to know that part first. "She's in the bath now. She's safe. But she was—" I stop. Swallow. The words stick in my throat like glass. "She was used. While she was unconscious."

For a long moment, nothing happens. Elena just stands there, frozen, her back to me. I can see the muscles in her shoulders trembling—small, involuntary movements, like something inside her is trying to break free of its cage.

Then she turns.

And I see it.

Every mask she's worn for me—the cold defiance, the hollow compliance, the fragile warmth she's been practicing—all of it is gone. Stripped away in a single motion, leaving something raw and bare and utterly human underneath. Her face is pale, her brown eyes wide and dark, and there's something in them I've never seen before.

Murder.

Pure, unfiltered murder.

"Who." Her voice cracks on the word, splintering like ice under pressure. "Who touched my baby?"

The sponge drops from her fingers. It hits the counter with a wet slap and rolls off, landing on the sticky floor with a sound that's almost too loud in the silence. She doesn't notice. She's already moving toward me, closing the distance between us in three quick strides, and there's nothing careful or measured about her now.

She's a mother. And someone hurt her child.

"Who did it?" Her hands come up, grabbing the front of my shirt, pulling me down to her level. Her breath is hot against my face, her eyes wet with something fiercer than submission, something older and more primal than anything I've ever forced her to feel. "Tell me who. Tell me right now."

I should be angry. She's gripping me like I'm the enemy, like I'm the one who hurt Kira. But I'm not. I can see that now, clear as anything—she's not blaming me. She's begging me. Begging me to give her a target, a name, something she can sink her teeth into.

I reach up and take her chin in my hand. Her skin is warm, flushed with rage, and she doesn't flinch away from my touch. She leans into it, her jaw pressing against my fingers like she's trying to draw strength from the contact.

"I don't know yet," I say, my voice quiet. Steady. The calm at the center of her storm. "But I'll find them. And when I do, they'll answer to both of us."

Her breath hitches. A single, broken sound that escapes her throat before she can stop it. Her eyes are still wet, still blazing, but something in them shifts—a crack in the fury, a glimpse of the fear underneath.

"Both of us," she repeats. Not a question. A promise.

I nod. "Both of us."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, her chin still cradled in my hand. I can feel her pulse hammering against my fingertips, fast and fierce. Her lips part, and for a second I think she's going to speak—going to ask the question that's already forming in the air between us.

Who?

It hangs there, unspoken, heavy as the steam still drifting down the hallway. Her mouth opens wider, her breath catching in her throat—

And then she stops.

Her eyes search mine, looking for something. I don't know what. Maybe reassurance. Maybe permission. Maybe just a reason to keep breathing.

Her grip on my shirt loosens. Her fingers uncurl slowly, one by one, until she's just standing there, her hand flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat through the fabric.

"She's in the bath," Elena says. Her voice is steadier now, but there's a tremor running through it, like a plucked string still vibrating. "You left her alone."

"She wanted to be alone."

"She's my daughter." Elena's jaw tightens. "She's been through—" She stops, swallows, starts again. "She needs—"

"She needs to soak," I say. "She needs to feel clean. And then she needs to sleep." I pause, letting the weight of the next words settle between us. "And then we find who did this."

Elena's hand curls into a fist against my chest. Not pushing me away. Anchoring herself.

"I want to see her."

"You will. After." I glance toward the hallway, toward the sound of water still running. "She's not ready to be seen yet. Not like this."

Something flickers in Elena's eyes. Pain. Understanding. The memory of her own violation, her own time spent feeling dirty and used and wrong. She knows what Kira is feeling right now, maybe better than I do.

"You should have told me sooner," she says, and there's an edge to it now—anger, directed at me for the first time since I broke the news. "I should have been there. I should have—"

"You couldn't have stopped it."

"I could have tried."

"You would have been drugged too." I keep my voice flat. Clinical. "Or worse. You think whoever did this would have hesitated to take you down too?"

Elena's mouth presses into a thin line. She knows I'm right. She hates it, but she knows.

"I want to know everything," she says. "Every detail. Every moment. What she remembers, what she doesn't. Who was there, who she talked to, who gave her a drink." Her voice is picking up speed, the words tumbling out like she's afraid she'll forget to ask if she doesn't get them all out now. "I want to know who saw her last. Who was alone with her. Who—"

"Elena."

She stops. Blinks. Like she forgot I was here for a second, forgot that I'm holding her chin, forgot that she's gripping my shirt.

"We'll find them," I say. "Together. But first, you need to breathe."

She stares at me. For a long moment, I think she's going to argue. I can see the fight building in her eyes, the refusal to slow down, to stop, to do anything other than charge headfirst into the dark and find the person who hurt her child.

Then her shoulders drop. Just a fraction. Just enough.

"I can't—" She stops. Swallows. Her voice comes out smaller than I've ever heard it. "I can't lose her. Not like that. Not to—"

"You won't." I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin, smell the faint traces of last night's sweat and fear clinging to her clothes. "She's home. She's safe. She's in the bath, washing it off. And when she comes out, she's going to be okay. Because we're going to make sure she is."

Elena's eyes search mine. Looking for the lie. Looking for the catch. She's spent so long waiting for me to hurt her that she doesn't know what to do when I'm not.

"Why do you care?" The question comes out before she can stop it, raw and honest and naked. "Why do you—" She gestures vaguely, helplessly, at the space between us. "Why do you care what happened to her?"

The question hits me harder than I expect. I open my mouth to answer—to say something about possession, about property, about how no one touches what's mine—but the words die in my throat.

Because that's not the whole truth.

And she's standing here, stripped bare of every mask, asking me for something real.

"Because she's yours," I say finally. "And you're mine. And no one—" I stop. Swallow. My voice drops lower, rougher, like the words are being dragged out of me against my will. "No one takes what's mine."

Elena's breath catches. Her eyes glisten, and for a second I think she's going to cry.

Then she does something I don't expect.

She steps forward. Into me. Her forehead presses against my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt, and she just stands there, shaking, breathing in ragged gasps against the fabric.

I don't move. I don't speak. I just stand there, letting her hold on to me, feeling her body tremble against mine.

"I'm going to find them," she whispers into my chest. "I'm going to find them, and I'm going to—"

"We." I cut her off, my hand coming up to rest on the back of her head, tangling in the loose strands of her bun. "We're going to find them. Together."

She goes quiet. Still. Her breath evens out against my chest, slow and deliberate, like she's forcing herself to calm down.

After a long moment, she pulls back. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but dry. Her jaw is set. The masks are sliding back into place, one by one, but I can still see the fire underneath—the mother's rage, banked but not extinguished, waiting for a target.

"I want to see her," she says again. Quieter this time. More controlled.

I nod. "After the bath. I'll bring her down."

Elena's eyes flick to the hallway, toward the sound of water still running. Her hands drop from my shirt, falling to her sides. She looks small suddenly, standing there in her thin camisole and sleep shorts, her hair coming loose, her face bare of everything except the truth.

"She's going to need—" Elena stops. Starts again. "She's going to need to feel safe. For a while. She's going to need—"

"She's going to need her mother."

Elena's eyes snap to mine. Something raw and grateful flickers in them, there and gone before she can hide it.

"Yes," she says softly. "She's going to need her mother."

The water stops running in the bathroom. The silence that follows is sudden and complete, broken only by the slow drip of a faucet and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

We both look toward the hallway.

"Go," I say. "Before she has to come looking for you."

Elena hesitates. Her eyes search my face one more time, looking for something I can't name.

Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the sticky vinyl, her shoulders set with a purpose I've never seen in her before.

I watch her go. The steam from the bathroom curls around her as she disappears down the hallway, swallowed by the dark.

The kitchen feels emptier without her. The sponge lies forgotten on the floor, the wine bottle still sweats on the counter, and somewhere in the house, a mother is going to hold her daughter and try to piece her back together.

And I stand in the doorway, my hands still trembling, my heart pounding at the base of my throat.

Someone hurt what's mine.

They're going to wish they hadn't.

I stand in the doorway for another beat, letting the silence settle around me like a coat I'm not sure fits anymore. The kitchen still smells like wine and fear. The sponge lies on the floor where Elena dropped it, a small monument to everything that's cracked open tonight.

But Elena isn't the one I need to see right now.

Anna is.

The thought arrives cold and clear, cutting through the fog of rage that's been clouding my judgment since I found Kira. I've been so focused on the unknown bastard who drugged her—the faceless enemy I can't touch yet—that I forgot about the enemy I already have. Locked in my guest room. Kneeling in the dark.

The one who made this possible.

My bare feet carry me down the hallway, past the bathroom door where I can hear the faint sound of water dripping, the occasional shift of Kira's body in the tub. I pause there for a moment, my hand hovering over the wood. I could go in. Check on her. Make sure she's not drowning in more than just the bathwater.

But Elena's in there with her now. I heard the soft murmur of voices when she passed through the door. Mother and daughter. Some things I don't need to insert myself into.

Not yet, anyway.

The guest room door is at the end of the hall. It looks like every other door in this house—white wood, brass handle, nothing remarkable. But I know what's behind it. I know the ring bolted into the floor, the boarded windows, the mirror that reflects nothing but fear.

I stop in front of it. Listen.

Nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the heavy silence of a room that's been dark for over a day now, holding its breath like a held secret.

I unlock the door and step inside.

The light switch is by the door, and I don't hesitate. I flick it on, flooding the room with harsh fluorescent light that seems to scream after so long in the dark.

Anna flinches like I've struck her.

She's exactly where I left her—on her knees, chained to the ring in the floor, her wrists bound behind her back. Her strawberry-blond hair is a tangled mess around her face, matted with sweat and tears. Her green eyes are squeezed shut against the sudden brightness, her whole body trembling with the effort of adapting to light she hasn't seen in what feels like forever.

She's still in her underwear. The oversized knit sweater she was wearing when she showed up at my door is gone, confiscated somewhere in the process of stripping her down to nothing but skin and shame. Her pale skin is blotchy, red in patches where she's been crying, and there are dark circles under her eyes that speak to a night of terror and exhaustion.

The ball gag is still in her mouth. I never took it out. The leather straps are creased where she's been straining against them, and there's dried spit crusted at the corners of her lips.

She looks like hell.

Good.

I close the door behind me and cross the room, my footsteps deliberately slow on the bare floor. There's a chair in the corner—one of the few pieces of furniture I left in here, a hard wooden thing that I dragged in for exactly this purpose. I pick it up, carry it to the center of the room, and set it down directly in front of her.

Then I sit.

She's still blinking, still trying to adjust to the light. Her eyes are watering, tears streaming down her cheeks that have nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with the sudden brightness stabbing into her pupils. She blinks and blinks, trying to focus on me, and I let her. I let her see me sitting here, relaxed, comfortable, watching her like she's an insect pinned to a board.

"You look like the trash you are, slave."

My voice is flat. Calm. The kind of calm that comes from a place beyond anger, beyond rage, into something colder and more deliberate.

Anna's breath quickens. I can hear it whistling through her nose, fast and panicked, the only sound she can make with the gag still stuffed between her teeth. Her eyes are wide now, adjusting enough to see me, and there's something in them I haven't seen before.

Fear. Real fear. Not the defiant anger she showed me yesterday, not the spitting rage that made her try to fight back. This is the fear of an animal that's been cornered and knows it.

She whimpers through the ball gag. A high, thin sound that would be pitiful if I had any pity left to give.

"Shut it."

The whimper cuts off immediately. Her throat works, swallowing hard, and she drops her gaze to the floor. Her shoulders are shaking, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.

I let the silence stretch. Let her wonder why I'm here, what I want, what's about to happen. The light hums overhead, fluorescent and cold, and Anna's breath comes in short, shallow gasps through her nose.

Then I speak.

"My good girl was abused last night."

Her head snaps up. Green eyes meet mine, wide and confused. She doesn't know who I'm talking about. She doesn't know anything about Kira, about the party, about the way I found my submissive naked and violated in a stranger's bed.

I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees, my voice dropping to something almost conversational.

"Kira. You don't know her, do you? You've never met her. She's the student council president—or she was, before she gave it all up to be mine. Blonde hair. Ice-blue eyes. Beautiful, obedient, perfect."

Anna's brow furrows. She's trying to understand, trying to piece together why I'm telling her this, what it has to do with her.

I let her wonder for a moment longer.

"There was a party last night. A big one. The quarterback's place. Everyone who's anyone was there." I pause, letting the weight of the words settle. "You missed it. The only party that mattered."

Something flickers in her eyes. Confusion, still. But underneath it, a dawning horror—the slow realization that this isn't a random visit, that I'm here for a reason, that she's somehow connected to whatever's about to come out of my mouth.

"I should have been there," I say, and my voice is harder now, colder. "I should have been there to protect her. To watch her. To make sure no one touched what's mine."

I stand up. The chair scrapes against the floor, a harsh sound that makes Anna flinch.

"But I wasn't there. Because I was here." I gesture at the room, at her, at the chains and the gag and the whole sordid tableau. "Dealing with you."

Her eyes go wide. She shakes her head frantically, the gag muffling what sounds like a protest, a denial. She didn't ask for this. She didn't ask to be kidnapped, to be chained, to be locked in this room.

But that doesn't matter.

"You did this," I say, and my voice is quiet now, so quiet it's almost a whisper. "You came to my house with your threats and your pictures. You forced my hand. You made me lock you up, made me chain you to this floor, made me miss that party."

I step closer. She shrinks back, but there's nowhere to go. The chain is too short, the ring too secure. She can only kneel there, trembling, as I tower over her.

"If it weren't for you, I would have been there. I would have been watching her. I would have seen whoever drugged her drink. I would have stopped them before they ever touched her."

Her eyes are streaming tears now. She's shaking her head, trying to deny it, trying to tell me she didn't know, she couldn't have known, this isn't her fault.

I don't care.

I spit.

The saliva hits her cheek and slides down her face, mixing with her tears. She flinches like I've slapped her, a choked sob escaping through the gag.

"That's what you are to me," I say, my voice flat again. "That's how low you are. You're the reason my girl got hurt. You're the reason I wasn't there to protect her."

Her shoulders shake with silent sobs. She doesn't try to wipe the spit away—she can't, her hands are bound—so it just sits there on her cheek, glistening under the harsh fluorescent light.

I sit back down in the chair. Not close enough to touch her, but close enough that she can see me. Close enough that she has to look at me, has to see the cold fury in my eyes.

"You're going to kneel here and think about that," I say. "You're going to kneel here in the dark and think about what you did. What you caused. You're going to think about Kira, about what happened to her, and you're going to know that it's your fault."

She's still crying. Still shaking. Her whole body is wracked with sobs, muffled and broken through the gag.

I look down at her knees.

They're red. Raw. The skin is rubbed raw from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, the pressure of her own weight grinding her into the ground. There are dark bruises forming at the edges, purple and blue spreading across her pale skin.

Good.

"I hope it hurts," I say, and there's no warmth in my voice. No pity. No mercy. "I hope your knees ache. I hope every second of this is agony. Because you deserve it."

I lean forward, my voice dropping to a whisper.

"You're to blame for what happened to Kira. And you're going to pay for it."

She makes a sound—a muffled, desperate sound that might be a plea, might be a protest, might be nothing at all. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face blotchy with tears, the spit still drying on her cheek.

I stand up.

The chair scrapes back. I pick it up, carry it back to the corner, set it down exactly where it was before. Then I walk to the door.

Anna's breathing quickens. She knows what's coming. She's been in the dark for a day now, alone with her thoughts, and the thought of going back to that—of being swallowed by the blackness again—terrifies her more than anything I could do to her in the light.

She whimpers. A desperate, pleading sound.

I pause at the door. Look back at her.

She's watching me with those green eyes, wet and wide, begging without words. Begging me not to leave her in the dark. Begging me to stay, to keep the light on, to give her anything but the suffocating blackness and her own thoughts.

I hold her gaze for a long moment.

Then I flick the light off.

The darkness swallows her instantly. I hear her gasp, hear the chain rattle as she jerks against it, hear the muffled sob that escapes through the gag.

I step out of the room and close the door behind me.

The lock clicks into place.

I stand in the hallway for a moment, listening to the sounds of her crying through the door. It's a broken sound, a hopeless sound, the sound of someone who's realizing that there's no way out, no rescue, no end to this.

Good.

Let her sit with that. Let her kneel in the dark and think about what she's done. Let her marinate in the guilt and the fear and the knowledge that she's the reason Kira was hurt.

I walk back down the hallway. The bathroom door is open now, steam curling out into the cooler air of the house. I can hear voices—Elena's low murmur, Kira's softer response. They're talking. Good. That's good.

I don't go in. I don't interrupt. I just stand in the hallway, listening to the sound of a mother comforting her daughter, and I let the rage settle into something colder. Something more patient.

Someone hurt what's mine.

They think they got away with it. They think they can drug my girl, use her body, leave her broken and violated, and there won't be consequences.

They're wrong.

I walk to the kitchen, grab my phone from the counter. I have files. I have resources. I have a network of secrets that stretches further than anyone on this campus realizes.

And I have a name.

Jake Calloway.

The quarterback. The one who threw the party. The one who was watching Kira, who whispered to her in the cafeteria, who expected something from her on Saturday.

The one who found her drunk and vulnerable and decided to take what he wanted.

I don't have proof yet. Not the kind that would hold up in court. But I don't need proof. I need certainty. And I'm going to get it.

I open my phone, scroll through my contacts, and stop on a name I haven't called in weeks.

Maya.

My former roommate. The psychology major who sees too much, knows too much, suspects even more. She's been watching me, waiting for me to slip up, waiting for evidence of what I've done.

But she also knows everyone. She hears everything. And if anyone knows what happened at that party—who was there, who was watching, who had the opportunity—it's her.

I hesitate. Calling Maya is a risk. She's suspicious of me already. She might use this against me, might try to leverage what she knows about Elena's disappearance.

But I need information. And Maya is the best source I have.

I hit call.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Then her voice comes through, sleepy and sharp at the same time.

"Justin? Do you know what time it is?"

"I need to ask you something." My voice is flat. Controlled. "About the party last night. At Jake Calloway's place."

There's a pause. I can hear her shifting, sitting up in bed.

"What about it?"

"Kira was drugged." The words come out hard, unforgiving. "Someone put something in her drink. She doesn't remember anything."

Another pause. Longer this time. When Maya speaks again, her voice is different—softer, more careful.

"Is she okay?"

"She's home. She's safe." I don't elaborate. "But I need to know who did it. And I need to know now."

Maya is quiet for a moment. I can almost hear her thinking, piecing together the implications, deciding how much to tell me.

"I wasn't there," she says finally. "I don't go to those things. But I heard things."

"What things?"

"Jake was talking. Before the party. Saying he was going to get what he wanted from Kira. That she'd been playing hard to get, but he knew how to loosen her up."

My grip tightens on the phone. The rage surges up, hot and sharp, but I force it down. Force my voice to stay level.

"Who else was there? Who was watching her?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there." She pauses. "But I can ask around. Quietly. People talk to me."

I close my eyes. The kitchen is dark around me, the only light coming from the hallway. Somewhere in the house, a mother is holding her daughter, trying to piece her back together.

And I'm standing here, holding a phone, chasing a ghost.

"Do it," I say. "Find out what you can. I'll make it worth your while."

"I don't want anything from you, Justin." Her voice is sharp. "I'm doing this for Kira. She doesn't deserve what happened to her."

The implication hangs in the air. She doesn't deserve what happened to her. Not like the other things you've done. Not like Elena.

I let it slide. I need her too much to argue.

"Thank you," I say, and the words feel strange in my mouth. Foreign. I'm not used to thanking people.

"Don't thank me yet," Maya says.

She hangs up.

I stand in the kitchen, the phone cold in my hand, the silence pressing in around me. Somewhere down the hall, I can hear the soft murmur of voices—Elena and Kira, still talking.

And in the guest room, Anna is kneeling in the dark, alone with her thoughts and her guilt and the knowledge that she's to blame.

I should feel satisfied. I should feel like I've done something, made progress, moved closer to the truth.

But all I feel is the cold, patient rage burning in my chest like a coal that won't go out.

Someone hurt what's mine.

And they're going to wish they hadn't.

I set the phone down on the counter and stare at it like it might bite me. Maya's words are still rattling around in my skull, pieces clicking into place with a sound I don't like. She said she'd ask around. She said she'd find out what she could. That was hours ago now, and I've been pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, waiting for the thing I know is coming.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Elena took Kira upstairs hours ago, and I haven't heard either of them since. Priya left for her morning class before the sun was fully up, pressing a kiss to my jaw and murmuring something about being back by noon. I didn't tell her about the call. I didn't tell her about any of it. She has enough weight on her shoulders without me adding Maya Sinclair to the pile.

I pour myself a glass of water I don't drink. The ice cubes melt. I watch them shrink and think about Jake Calloway's grin, about the way he looked at Kira in the cafeteria, about what Maya said he was telling people before the party.

*He knew how to loosen her up.*

My hand tightens around the glass until I'm afraid it'll shatter. I force myself to breathe. Force myself to wait.

The phone rings.

I snatch it up before the second pulse of sound. "Yeah."

"Justin." Maya's voice is different than it was earlier. Tighter. More careful. The way someone sounds when they've learned something they didn't want to know. "We need to talk. In person."

I don't ask why. I don't ask what she heard. Something in her tone tells me I don't want to hear it over the phone, where walls have ears and the silence between words can be filled with all the wrong things.

"Come to the house," I say. "The one on Maple Street. I'll text you the address."

A pause. "Whose house is it?"

Mine, I almost say. But that's a lie, and Maya would catch it. She catches everything.

"A friend's," I say instead. "Kira's staying here. It's easier."

Another pause. I can hear her thinking, weighing the risk, deciding whether to trust me. The irony isn't lost on me — Maya Sinclair, who's been watching me like a hawk for weeks, now considering whether to walk into my territory alone.

"Fine," she says finally. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She hangs up. I stand in the kitchen with the dead phone in my hand and the cold water sweating on the counter, and I think about what I'm going to say. What I'm going to hide. What I'm going to let her see.

Maya thinks I'm a friend of Kira's. She thinks I'm just some guy who used to live in the dorms, who happens to care about what happened to the former student council president. She doesn't know about Elena. She doesn't know about Priya. She doesn't know about the guest room down the hall where Anna is chained to a ring in the floor, and she definitely doesn't know about the fourteen files of secrets I keep locked in a drawer upstairs.

She thinks she's coming to help a friend.

She's coming to walk into the middle of something she can't possibly understand.

I take a breath. Then I go upstairs to change my shirt, because the one I'm wearing smells like last night's sweat and Kira's tears, and I need to look like someone she can trust.

---

Maya arrives exactly nineteen minutes later. I watch her from the window, the way she walks up the path with her shoulders squared and her eyes moving, cataloguing everything — the neighborhood, the house, the curtains, the car in the driveway. She's dressed down, jeans and a hoodie, but she still looks like someone who notices too much.

I open the door before she knocks.

"Thanks for coming." I step back to let her in. "I appreciate it."

She gives me a look — that sharp, assessing look she's been giving me since the first day we met — and steps inside. "Nice place. Yours?"

"Friend's." I close the door behind her. "They're letting me stay here while I sort some things out."

Maya nods slowly, like she's filing that away for later. She follows me into the kitchen, her eyes skipping over the counter, the cabinets, the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I watch her notice the closed door at the end of the hall — the guest room — and I see the question flicker across her face before she suppresses it.

I don't give her anything to hold onto.

"Coffee?" I ask.

"Sure."

I move to the machine, keeping my back to her, letting the silence stretch. I can feel her watching me, waiting for me to say something. I don't. I let her wait.

"So," she says finally, "you said you wanted to talk about Kira."

I pour the coffee, turn, and slide a mug across the counter toward her. "You said you heard things."

"I did." She wraps her hands around the mug, not drinking. "But I want to know what you're planning to do with it first."

I lean against the counter, arms crossed. "What makes you think I'm planning anything?"

Maya's mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. "Because I know you, Justin. Maybe better than you'd like. You don't ask questions unless you're planning to do something with the answers."

I don't deny it. There's no point. She's right, and we both know it.

"I want to know who hurt her," I say. "That's all."

"That's not all." Maya's voice is flat. "But I'll take it for now." She takes a sip of her coffee, then sets the mug down. "You were right about the rumors. They're everywhere. I heard it in the dining hall this morning, in the student center, in the hallway outside my psych lecture. People are talking about Kira Vance like she's—"

She stops. Her jaw tightens.

"Like she's what?" I ask, though I already know.

Maya meets my eyes. "Like she's a slut. Like she's the girl who finally showed her true colors. The former president of the student council, the girl everyone wanted, the one who acted like she was too good for everyone — apparently, she's not."

The words land like stones in my chest. I keep my face still, keep my voice level. "What exactly are they saying?"

"That every member of the football team fucked her at the party." Maya's voice is careful now, measured. "That she was passed around like a party favor. That she enjoyed every second of it." She pauses. "And that there's proof."

My hands are fists at my sides. I force them open. "Proof."

"Videos." Maya's voice drops. "Photos. Someone recorded it. All of it."

The kitchen goes very quiet. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the coffee machine, the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

"Multiple people," Maya continues, watching me carefully. "They were passing them around last night. By the time I heard about it this morning, they were everywhere. Group chats. Social media. I don't know if they're still up, but..." She trails off.

"How many videos?"

"I don't know. I didn't watch them." Her voice is sharp. "I'm not going to watch them. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

Maya holds my gaze. "Because I know what it's like to have people talk about you. To have your reputation decided by people who don't know you, who don't care about the truth." She pauses. "And because I don't think Kira deserves this. Whatever she did or didn't do, she didn't ask for this."

The words hang in the air between us. I can feel the weight of them, the implication that I might be the kind of person who'd use this against her. I don't know if Maya believes that or if she's just testing me. Either way, I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Do you know who recorded them?" I ask.

Maya shakes her head. "No. And I don't think anyone's going to tell you. Whoever did this is smart enough to stay in the shadows." She pauses. "But I heard something else. Something that might matter more."

I wait.

"Jake Calloway was bragging this morning. In the locker room, apparently. Said he finally got what he'd been after. Said she wasn't so untouchable after all." Maya's voice is flat, but her eyes are sharp. "I don't know if he meant he was the one who drugged her, or if he just means he got to fuck her like everyone else. But if I were you, I'd start there."

The name lands in my chest like a punch. Jake Calloway. The quarterback with the easy grin and the wandering hands. The one who whispered in Kira's ear at the cafeteria, who looked at her like she was a prize he was owed.

The one who threw the party where someone put something in her drink and passed her around like a bottle of cheap wine.

"Thank you," I say. The words feel strange in my mouth, like they always do. "I mean it."

Maya studies me for a long moment. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

I almost laugh. Almost. "Define stupid."

"Anything that ends with you in handcuffs."

"No," I say. "Nothing like that."

It's not a lie. Handcuffs would be too easy. Too clean. What I have in mind for Jake Calloway is going to be much, much worse.

Maya doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. She finishes her coffee, sets the mug in the sink, and turns to face me one last time.

"Kira's lucky to have you looking out for her," she says. "I hope you know that."

I don't answer. I can't. Because the truth is, Kira isn't lucky to have me looking out for her. She's caught in something she doesn't fully understand, something she can't escape, and I'm the one who put her there.

But Maya doesn't know that. Maya thinks I'm a friend. Maya thinks I'm a hero.

Let her think that. It's easier than the truth.

She leaves. I stand in the kitchen and watch her walk down the path, get in her car, and drive away. The silence settles back in around me, thick and heavy.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Careful.

I turn. Kira is standing in the doorway, her hair tangled, her eyes red-rimmed, wearing one of my shirts that hangs past her thighs. She looks small. Broken. Nothing like the sharp, polished girl who used to command every room she walked into.

"Who was that?" she asks. Her voice is hoarse.

"No one," I say. "Just someone who heard some things. I'm handling it."

Kira nods slowly. She doesn't ask what things. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she's already heard the rumors, seen the videos, pieced together what happened to her in that house while she was unconscious and helpless.

Or maybe she's just too tired to ask.

"I couldn't sleep," she says. "Every time I close my eyes, I see—" She stops. Shakes her head. "I can't. I can't talk about it."

"Then don't." I cross the kitchen and stop in front of her. I don't touch her. Not yet. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."

Kira looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes that I don't like. Something fragile. Something that's hanging by a thread.

"They're going to find out," she whispers. "Everyone's going to know what happened to me. What I let them do."

"You didn't let them do anything." My voice is hard. "You were drugged. You didn't choose any of it."

"That doesn't matter." Her voice cracks. "They're still going to look at me differently. They're still going to think I'm—"

"Stop." I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, see the way her breath catches. "You don't get to do this to yourself. You don't get to take what they did and turn it into something you did. You hear me?"

Kira's eyes are wet. She blinks, and a tear slides down her cheek. "I hear you."

"Good." I reach out and brush the tear away with my thumb. "Now go back upstairs. Rest. Let me handle this."

She hesitates. For a moment, I think she's going to argue, going to push back, going to demand to know what I'm planning.

But she doesn't.

She just nods, turns, and walks back up the stairs. I watch her go, watch the way her shoulders slump, watch the way she disappears into the dark of the hallway.

Then I pull out my phone and scroll to the name I've been waiting to call.

Jake Calloway.

I don't call him. Not yet. But I save his number, and I think about everything Maya told me, and I let the rage build in my chest until it's a white-hot coal that won't go out.

Someone hurt what's mine.

And they're going to wish they hadn't.

But first, I need to find out exactly who "they" are. And I need to make sure that when I'm done with them, no one will ever look at Kira Vance like she's anything less than untouchable again.

I pull up the social apps one by one, starting with the ones I know the athletes live on. Jake Calloway's face is everywhere—throwing spirals, flexing in the locker room, surrounded by girls who look at him like he hung the moon. His profile is public, because of course it is. Guys like him don't think they have anything to hide.

But I'm not looking for his highlight reels. I'm looking for the aftermath. The whispers. The videos someone might have taken before they thought better of it, or after they thought worse of it.

My thumb hovers over the search bar, and I type her name before I can think better of it. *Kira Vance.* The autocomplete suggestions roll in like a tide of filth — *Kira Vance party*, *Kira Vance Jake*, *Kira Vance drunk* — and each one makes my jaw tighten a little harder.

I click the first result. A video. Twenty-three seconds long. Posted three hours ago by an account with no profile picture and a string of numbers for a handle.

The title reads: *Kira, the biggest slut ever.*

My thumb presses down before my brain catches up. The screen goes black for half a second, and then it loads — a bedroom I don't recognize, cheap fairy lights strung across the headboard, a bottle of vodka on the nightstand. The angle is wrong, too high, like the phone was propped on a shelf. Someone wanted a good view.

Kira is on the bed. Her black dress is rucked up around her waist, the silk scarf I gave her twisted loose around her throat. Her head lolls against the pillow, eyes half-closed, mouth slack. She's not moving. She's barely breathing.

She's unconscious.

And there's a hand on her thigh.

The video cuts before I can see a face. Just the hand — broad, tan, a silver ring on the middle finger — sliding up her bare leg, pushing the hem of her dress higher. And then a voice, low and laughing: *"Told you she'd come around."*

The screen goes dark. It's muted. The comments are already loading.

*she's so wasted*

*jake always gets what he wants*

*someone record the rest*

I close the app. I open it again. I watch it a second time, and then a third, because I need to be sure. I need to memorize every frame — the angle of her arm, the way her head is thrown back, the way she doesn't move when that hand pushes her dress up past her hip.

She doesn't move at all.

The hand on her thigh is Jake's. I know it the way I know my own reflection — the silver ring he wears on his throwing hand, the one the sports blogs always zoom in on. The quarterback. The golden boy. The man who whispered in her ear at the party, who told her he wished it were already Saturday.

And now here he is, with his hand on her, while she lies there like a doll someone dropped.

I watch it one more time. I count the seconds. I count the ways I'm going to make him pay.

The video is twenty-three seconds long. It's been viewed four thousand times.

But the worst is yet to come, as I watch a link in the comments: "Check out the full video here".

I press the link, I must know, I must see how much my rage needs to grow.

The video starts, I pause it, looking at the time stamp. 3 hours long. 3 hours of abuse of my Kira. I must watch it, I must know what happened, exactly. I press play, I watch, the rage growing inside.