By the time the bell rang that afternoon, my whole body felt like it had been wrung out like a wet rag. My arms ached, my back was screaming, and there was probably enough sweat dripping down my neck to water a small plant.
I dumped my cleaning stuff—dusty mop, half-broken broom, and a bucket that smelled vaguely like someone had washed old socks in it—by the wall and dragged myself toward the basketball court.
The sun was ridiculous. Not just hot. No. It was the type of sun that makes you rethink every bad life choice that led to you standing outside at 3 p.m. in black clothes. My top clung to me like it was in a toxic relationship and refused to let go. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the sharper tang of rubber from the court. Somewhere far off, someone's sneakers squeaked against pavement, and the sound just made me thirstier.
The vending machine sat at the corner like some shady dealer offering cold salvation. I shoved a crumpled note inside, pressed the button, and listened to the satisfying thunk as a cold bottle of water dropped into the tray. The condensation kissed my palm, icy and perfect, and I twisted the cap off like it was the most important thing I'd do today. First gulp—heaven. Cold sliding down my throat, making my chest ache in that good way.
I collapsed onto one of the benches near the court. It was faded red metal, chipped at the edges, and hot enough to toast bread on. Still, I sat. Sweat trickled down my temple, and I swiped at it lazily. My baggy cargo pants were sticking in weird places, and I tried to readjust them without looking like I was wrestling a wild animal.
My brain, because it's annoying like that, decided to start running in circles again. What am I even doing here?
When I signed up for Avard High, yeah, I knew it wasn't a normal school, but I didn't expect… whatever this is. The fights. The chains. The silent rules everyone somehow knows but doesn't tell you. Was this what Cirrius dealt with? What he fought through just to survive here?
It had been weeks already, and it didn't feel like I'd made progress. I wanted answers—who killed him, who sent that text—and then I wanted out. Cirrius had been a Number 5, which meant he probably hung around Chase, Jax, or Levi. Maybe even Spencer, if the universe really hated me. The problem? How do you get close to them without looking like you're up to something?
I was still chewing on that thought when a hand landed on my shoulder.
I jumped so hard my water bottle slipped, splashing cold all over whoever was behind me. I spun around, and—oh. Oh.
Water dripped down the front of his shirt, soaking the white cotton until it went almost see-through. The fabric clung to his shoulders like it had been made for him, outlining every lean muscle. His dark hair was a mess, damp at the edges like maybe he'd just showered or maybe he was just one of those people who looked good even while sweaty. And then there were his eyes—blue. Piercing. A little bit annoyed. The sunlight caught the water droplets on him, making them glitter like some stupid slow-motion scene in a movie.
Chase Everett.
"Damn," he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
"Oh crap—sorry," I blurted, instantly mortified. "I didn't mean to—uh—" My gaze dropped to his soaked shirt again before I could stop myself. Yeah. Mistake.
He narrowed his eyes, taking one slow step closer. "You sure have a knack for getting on people's nerves, Jones." His voice was low, smooth, but with that dangerous edge.
I scowled. "Why did you sneak up on me like that?"
He didn't answer, just walked past me toward the old sink by the far end of the court. The kind of sink that looked like it had been here since the school was built, its faucet dripping in slow, lazy intervals.
"Why are you even here?" I called after him, grabbing my water bottle.
No response.
"Everett, I'm talking to you."
He turned, face unreadable. "I thought you were someone else. Didn't mean to startle you." Then, without warning, he peeled off his shirt.
And yeah. My brain stopped working for a solid three seconds.
His chest was all lean muscle and sharp lines, the kind you only see in fitness ads or questionable TikToks. His skin had a faint golden tan, and there was a tattoo—a snake—wrapped around his right bicep, detailed enough that the scales looked real. It wasn't perfect, though. The lines were a little uneven, like whoever did it wasn't exactly a professional.
"Are students even allowed to have tattoos?" I asked before I could think better of it.
"It's not against the rules," he said casually, running water over his shirt. "Not encouraged, but not banned. Some people get them before they come here."
I tilted my head. "So, did you?"
He glanced over, and for a moment I thought he'd ignore me. But then, a small smirk. "No. Got it here. A student did it." Something in his face shifted, just a flicker, like he didn't want me asking more.
"Interesting," I murmured, even though curiosity was buzzing in my chest.
He wrung out his shirt, water dripping onto the cracked pavement, then looked back at me. "The chain looks good on you."
I raised a brow, half expecting sarcasm, but his eyes had that weird sincerity.
"Deserved," I replied, folding my arms.
"You know," he said, stepping closer, "I admire your courage, Jones."
I laughed under my breath. "You saying that to feel better about yourself?"
He chuckled softly. "You got a chain before my time limit. Kicked me in the groin. You're insane. But I kind of like it."
"You should be pissed," I pointed out. "Shouldn't you want revenge?"
He tilted his head, gaze steady. "Most people would. But you… you're different."
I blinked. "Different how?"
His smile turned slow, almost predatory. "I want to know what makes you tick."
My stomach did a weird flip, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Maybe I'm just not scared of you."
He laughed again, low and husky, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips before meeting my eyes again. "You intrigue me, Jones."
It hung in the air for a second. The way he said it—calm, but like there was an inside joke only he got—made me want to roll my eyes and blush at the same time. Which was annoying.
"Not sure if that's a compliment or a threat," I muttered, capping my water and standing up. The bench's heat had left red lines on the back of my thighs.
"Could be both," he said, pulling his shirt back over his head. The damp fabric stretched over his chest before settling in place, clinging to him just enough that my eyes tried to do their own thing and stare.
I quickly looked away. "Lucky for you, I don't care."
"Hmm." He stepped past me, his cologne trailing behind—clean, with a sharp note I couldn't place. The kind that makes you wonder how rich he was.
I followed without meaning to, my sneakers squeaking slightly against the court's faded green paint. The place was empty except for a couple of basketballs rolling lazily in the far corner and a stray leaf that kept blowing in circles like it was lost.
"You following me, Jones?" His voice was teasing, but there was that low undertone again—like he actually wanted to know.
I snorted. "Please. I just happen to be walking in the same direction. I was here first. Don't flatter yourself."
He glanced back, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Too late."
I hated that my stomach did another flip. "Seriously, Everett, what are you doing here? Don't you have, like, important Number 3 business? Threatening people? Counting chains?"
That got a soft laugh out of him. It was husky."Not today. Maybe tomorrow." His gaze flicked to me briefly. "What about you? Planning your next attack?"
I pretended to think, twitching my lips."Maybe. Or maybe I'm just waiting for you to slip so I can kick you in the groin again."
"Cute," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. "But you only get to surprise me once."
The air between us felt charged, the late-afternoon heat wrapping around everything.
We reached the end of the court, He held the door for me, one eyebrow raised, and I hesitated—because the move was so…normal.
"What?" he asked, reading my pause.
I stepped through, brushing past him. "Just wondering if chivalry's part of your intimidation tactic."
"Only for certain people." His voice was low, almost thoughtful.
"Lucky me," I said.
"Very lucky," he murmured, and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hear it.
"Alright. Spill it. Why are you acting like last night never happened?"
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "Because sometimes it's better to see where a game goes before you play your next move."
I folded my arms, pretending that didn't make me ten times more curious. "Game?"
He tilted his head, smirk back in place. "You'll figure it out, Jones."