"TO THE WELL-ORGANIZED MIND, DEATH IS BUT THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE."
I've always been addicted to the rush that comes with adrenaline. That sharp, dizzy thrill that makes your pulse stutter and your lungs forget how to breathe.
It's the closest thing to being high—at least, that's the only thing I can compare it to. I never touched drugs in my previous life.
Looking back now, I almost wish I had. I should've lived harder, wrecked myself more—let the chaos eat me whole instead of keeping it at arm's length.
I wasn't some goody two-shoes, but if I'd gotten into a little more trouble, maybe I'd have more stories to tell in this one. More scars to trace. More sins to remember.
The little trouble my friends and I did get into—average teenage pranks—had my blood pumping like a sixteen-year-old about to suck her first dick.
The mix of excitement and adrenaline was pure intoxication—like mainlining sin straight into my veins. It hit hard. Fast. Addictive. Like fucking drugs.
But I never let myself drown in that chaos. Not completely. I always kept one hand on the edge, just enough control to pull myself back before it swallowed me whole.
Now, though? Control feels overrated. I've been handed what most humans would sell their souls for—a second life. Another chance. And this time, I plan to live it the way I damn well please. Sinfully. Shamelessly.
Omari's truck jerked violently down the bumpy road that led—and somehow seemed to mirror—the storm brewing inside me. My pulse thrummed with restless energy.
I'm as giddy as a high school girl on the first day after a summer glow-up, except my excitement isn't about fitting in—it's about tearing through whatever stands in my way.
"I can feel your excitement from here, Vel," Omari drawled, voice dripping with amusement. "I've never met anyone so eager for an interview."
I rolled my eyes, because of course he'd say that.
We were headed to Yosemite for the second stage of the so-called interview. But unlike what Omari thought, my excitement had nothing to do with sitting in front of a bunch of smug bastards pretending to be gods behind their fancy desks. I couldn't care less about their judgmental stares or their scripted questions.
What really had my pulse racing was the thought of getting it over with—so I could finally start the real work. The mission.
The eagerness coiled inside me like a live wire. My blood thrummed with adrenaline, and if I had even a shred less self-control, I'd have jumped out of the truck and walked the rest of the way just to prove I was getting closer.
The speed of this damn truck was torture. Every bump felt like a test of patience. I could've sworn I saw a sloth race past us—and win.
"Could we go a little faster, Omari?" I asked, voice sharp with impatience.
He shot me a side glance, smirking. "On this bumpy road? Nah, babe. I'm not in that much of a hurry to get back to hell."
Fair point. Neither was I. But I was desperate to get the next Yosemite blood on my fingers.
When we finally pulled up to the building, I didn't even wait for the engine to stop. I swung the door open and jumped out, barely sparing Omari a glance. My heels hit the ground with purpose. Striding toward the entrance, I exhaled slowly. Time to clear the board.
The lobby was colder than I remembered. Polished floors. Air that smelled like money—lots of it.
At the front desk, an unfamiliar woman greeted me—definitely not the same one I'd met before.
"Good morning, miss," she chirped, all polite and professional. At least this one knew how to keep her mask in place. Still, I could practically smell the nerves radiating off her from across the massive desk. Fear has a scent—it's subtle, but I never miss it.
"Good morning… Celia," I greeted, catching her name on the tag pinned neatly to her chest. "I'm here for the interview."
"Sure, miss. Can I get a name?"
"Lilithine Zaravel," I replied without hesitation, letting the new name roll off my tongue like it belonged to me.
Her reaction was instant. Brows arched, eyes widened—and before I could blink, she stepped out from behind the desk, her posture shifting from casual professionalism to something almost… reverent.
"I'll escort you, ma'am," she said, voice dipped in respect that didn't belong here.
What the fuck? Since when did a receptionist bow like she'd just met royalty?
The last one had offered to show me around because she assumed I was related to that snake, Carter. But this one? This one didn't even bother pretending. There was something in the way she looked at me—something that screamed recognition or fear. I couldn't decide which.
"The other receptionist—the brunette with the coily hair," I said, watching Celia carefully. "I met her the first time I came here. Is she off duty?"
Her shoulders stiffened like I'd tugged a nerve.
"Uhm… I'm afraid she had to be let go," she said softly, each word picked like she was walking barefoot over glass.
Fired?
Interesting.
For a second, curiosity itched at me, but I pushed it down. Whatever happened to the girl wasn't my problem. Not today. I had a mission to finish.
"Lead the way," I said coolly, shaking off the thought as quickly as it came. I can play the little detective — find out the whats and the whys later.
She led the way to the elevator, heels clicking softly against the marble, and I followed close behind. Once inside, I noticed she didn't press the same floor as last time. Instead, her finger hovered for a second before settling on Rooftop.
My brow arched. The air between us shifted—thick, expectant.
I opened my mouth to ask but decided against it, folding my arms and watching in silence. Sometimes, silence makes people uncomfortable enough to talk.
She didn't.
The lift climbed, humming quietly, carrying us higher until the doors slid open with a soft ding.
Celia turned to me with that same strange composure.
"You may go now, miss. The others should be waiting."
I almost laughed. The absurdity of her calmness clashed with the pounding in my chest. Still, I stepped out—jaw tight, mind alert.
And then I saw it.
A goddamn helicopter.
Sitting in the middle of the rooftop like some over-the-top movie prop, its blades glinting in the morning light.
The sly old man from the first interview stood beside it, speaking to a man I assumed was the pilot. The moment I took a step forward, both turned.
He smiled—like he'd been expecting me.
"Look who finally showed up, Lily!" he called out.
I bit back the urge to correct him—after slicing that smug grin in half with the chopper's rotor blade.
"You sound like you've been waiting for me," I said coolly.
"Because we have," he replied, spreading his arms slightly. "The others have already gone ahead, but I insisted on waiting to leave with you—knowing you'd be fashionably late."
That tone. Familiar. Mocking. Like he thought he understood me. It grated under my skin. If only he knew.
If I could've been here an hour earlier, I would've. But what do you expect when Omari and I live on a damn hill outside town, surrounded by trees and silence? Getting here feels like crawling out of exile.
"Where are the others?" I asked flatly, cutting through his smugness. "When does the interview start?"
The old man's grin deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"Oh," he said softly, "but it already has."