# AVARD HIGH 😈
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## 💀 AFTER YOU WIN, THEY START WATCHING DIFFERENT 💀
Not like you're lucky.
Like you're next.
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I was absolutely wrecked. Like, every muscle in my body was filing a formal complaint, and my knuckles looked like I'd tried to high-five a cheese grater. My cheek was throbbing with its own heartbeat, and there was definitely a bruise forming under my left eye that would probably look like abstract art by tomorrow morning.
But hey, at least Reed's chain was burning a hole in my pocket like stolen treasure.
The party was still going full throttle around me—music loud enough to wake the dead, bodies grinding together like the world was ending, and enough alcohol flowing to drown a small country. People kept swarming me with congratulations that felt more like warnings wrapped in fake smiles.
"Holy shit, girl, you actually did it!" Some chick I'd never seen before grabbed my arm, her grip just a little too tight to be friendly. "Didn't think you had it in you."
"Thanks," I muttered, trying to shake her off without being obvious about it.
"Must feel pretty damn good, right?" Her eyes glittered with something that definitely wasn't celebration. "Being the new Number Six and all. Just remember—the higher you climb, the harder you fall."
Yeah, because that wasn't ominous as fuck.
Penn materialized beside me like a guardian angel in designer clothes, taking one look at my probably-concussed expression and immediately going into protective mode.
"Okay, that's enough socializing for you," she said, grabbing my elbow. "You look like you're about to face-plant into someone's drink."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding from multiple places and swaying like a drunk giraffe. That's not fine, that's concerning." She steered me away from the crowd. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up before someone decides the new Number Six needs a rematch."
"Just give me five minutes," I said, because despite feeling like I'd been hit by a truck, I wasn't ready to leave yet. "I need to wash the blood off my face before I scare small children."
Penn looked like she wanted to argue but nodded. "Five minutes. Then we're getting the hell out of here before this place turns into a full-scale riot."
I made my way through the maze of sweaty bodies and flashing lights, dodging people who wanted to either congratulate me or challenge me to their own fight. The warehouse was huge and confusing, all concrete corridors and abandoned rooms that probably hadn't seen maintenance since the Stone Age.
Eventually, I found what used to be a bathroom tucked between some rusted lockers. The door creaked like a horror movie sound effect when I pushed it open.
The fluorescent lights were having some kind of seizure, flickering on and off like they were trying to communicate in Morse code. The whole place smelled like industrial cleaner mixed with stale cigarette smoke and bad decisions. Someone had written "GLORY KILLS QUICK" across the mirror in what I really hoped was just lipstick.
Cheerful bathroom graffiti. Just what I needed.
I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, hissing when it hit the cut on my lip. The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain, which was gross but also kind of poetic in a twisted way.
My reflection looked like it had lost a fight with a blender. Hair sticking up at weird angles, mascara smudged like a raccoon, blood crusting at the corner of my mouth. But Reed's Number Six chain felt solid and real in my hand—proof that I hadn't just hallucinated the whole thing.
I dabbed at my split lip with a paper towel, trying not to wince. The adrenaline high from the fight was completely gone now, leaving behind just pain and exhaustion and way too many questions.
Did Cirrius go through this shit? Did he stand in some grimy bathroom after beating someone's ass, staring at himself in a cracked mirror and wondering what the hell came next? Did he bleed like this when he earned his Number Five chain?
And where the fuck was his chain now?
The door creaked behind me, but when I turned around, nobody was there. Just the echo of footsteps moving away down the corridor—quiet, deliberate steps that didn't match the chaos of the party.
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, right?
I followed the sound down a side hallway I hadn't noticed before, past doors with numbers that had been scratched out like someone was trying to erase history. The footsteps led me to a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor.
Smart Camille would have gone back to find Penn and gotten the hell out of there.
Unfortunately, Smart Camille had apparently left the building.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was small and forgotten, filled with broken furniture and the thick smell of dust and abandonment. But what made my heart stop wasn't the decay—it was the soft glow of a desk lamp in the corner, illuminating something that shouldn't have been there.
A photograph in a cracked frame.
Four boys with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera like they owned the world. They looked younger, happier, like they didn't know what kind of hell Avard High was going to put them through.
I recognized three of them immediately—Chase, Levi, and Jax, looking like baby-faced versions of their current selves.
But the fourth one...
He had my stubborn cowlick. My lopsided smile. That same scar on his chin from when he'd tried to climb our neighbor's fence and face-planted into the concrete.
Cirrius.
"You followed me."
I spun around, heart trying to escape through my throat, to find Chase standing in the doorway. He didn't look surprised to see me, just tired. Like he'd been expecting this moment and dreading it in equal measure.
"I didn't mean to," I said, which was mostly true.
"But you did." He stepped into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. "Funny how that works."
There was something different about his voice—softer, more raw. Like seeing that photograph had stripped away whatever walls he usually kept up.
I gestured at the picture, trying to keep my voice casual even though my heart was doing gymnastics. "Quite the boy band you had going there. Very 'brooding teenagers with trust issues' aesthetic."
That got me a small, bitter smile. "Yeah, we were real charmers back then. Young, stupid, thought we were fucking invincible."
"What happened?"
His jaw tightened. "Avard High happened. Life happened. Death happened. The usual greatest hits."
I pointed to the figure I knew was my brother, keeping my expression carefully neutral. "Who's the one in the middle?"
Chase was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges.
"That's Cirrius. He was..." He paused, thumb tracing the crack in the glass. "He was one of us. Number Five. He died last year."
"I heard about that," I said carefully. "Suicide, right? Jumped from the roof?"
Chase's laugh was harsh and hollow. "Yeah, that's the official story."
Something in his tone made my skin crawl. "But you don't buy it."
"Cirrius was a lot of things—reckless, stubborn, too fucking noble for his own good—but suicidal? No way in hell." His blue eyes met mine, intense and angry. "He was a fighter. Someone who'd rather burn the whole system down than give up on it."
My throat felt like sandpaper. "So what do you think really happened?"
"I think he asked too many questions. Got too close to something he wasn't supposed to see. And I think someone made sure he couldn't tell anyone about it."
The room suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. "That's a pretty serious accusation."
"Yeah, well, this is a pretty fucked up place." Chase moved closer to the photograph, his expression dark. "Students die here, Camille. They have 'accidents' or 'breakdowns' or just disappear. And everyone pretends it's normal."
He turned to look at me, something shifting in his expression.
"You've been asking a lot of questions lately," he said quietly. "About chains, about rankings, about dead students. Why?"
My mouth went dry. This was dangerous territory—one wrong word and everything could fall apart.
"I'm naturally curious," I said, trying for casual and probably failing.
"So was he." Chase nodded toward the photo. "Right up until the end."
We stared at each other across the dusty room, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between us like a loaded gun.
"Who are you really?" he asked softly. "And don't say just another student, because we both know that's bullshit."
My heart was beating so loud I was surprised he couldn't hear it. "I'm exactly who I said I am. Camille Jones, Number Six, professional pain in everyone's ass."
Chase studied my face for a long moment, and I could practically see his mind working, connecting dots I desperately didn't want him to connect.
But then something shifted in his expression—not recognition, but something else. Something almost like protectiveness.
"You should be careful," he said finally. "This place... it doesn't forgive curiosity. And it sure as hell doesn't forgive people who get too close to the truth."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's advice. From someone who's lost too many people to this fucking place already."
He moved toward the door, but instead of leaving immediately, he stopped. His hand rested on the doorframe as he turned back to look at me, really look at me, like he was trying to memorize something.
"The car outside—I arranged it. Not Lea." His voice was quieter now, almost vulnerable. "It'll take you back to campus safely."
"Why?" The question came out smaller than I intended.
He took a step closer, and suddenly the dusty room felt charged with something I couldn't name. His blue eyes were intense in the lamplight, searching my face like he was looking for answers to questions he couldn't ask.
"Because you're hurt," he said softly, reaching up like he might touch the bruise on my cheek, then stopping just short. His hand hovered there for a moment before dropping to his side. "And because you shouldn't be wandering around here alone after what you pulled tonight."
"That's not really an answer."
"No," he agreed, moving another step closer. "It's not."
We were standing close enough now that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that made my head spin in ways that had nothing to do with my possible concussion. The air between us felt thick and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Chase-"
"You remind me of him," he said suddenly, voice rough. "The way you fight, the way you don't back down even when you should. The way you ask questions that could get you killed."
My breath caught. "Who?"
"You know who."
He was close enough now that I could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, could count the individual eyelashes that any girl would kill for. There was something raw in his expression, something desperate and dangerous.
"I should go," I whispered, but I didn't move.
"You should," he agreed, but he stepped even closer, until we were sharing the same air. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Because you're too damn stubborn for your own good. Just like he was."
The grief in his voice was so naked it made my chest ache.
"I'm sorry for whatever happened to him. For whatever you lost." It felt like I was saying it to myself rather.
"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't be sorry. Just... be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."
"Chase—"
"Promise me." His other hand found my waist, thumb brushing over the fabric of my dress. "This place destroys everything good that comes into it. I can't watch it destroy you too."
The rawness in his voice, the way his hands shook slightly where they touched me—it was like seeing him without all his walls, without all the careful control he usually wrapped around himself like armor.
"I am fine," I said, and meant it.
He closed his eyes like my words physically hurt him. When he opened them again, there was something different there—something that made my pulse race.
"I should let you go," he murmured, but his hand at my waist tightened, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
"Probably."
"This is a bad idea."
"Definitely."
But neither of us moved away. If anything, the space between us seemed to shrink, until I could feel the heat radiating from his body, until his breath was warm against my forehead.
"Camille," he said my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"Yeah?"
Instead of answering, he cupped my face in both hands, thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. His touch was careful around my bruises, like I was something precious he was afraid of breaking.
"Nothing," he pulled back straightening his jacket with a deep heave of breath.
"Take care of yourself," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Cee."
The nickname hit me like a physical blow. My hand flew to my throat, eyes wide with shock.
He saw my reaction,the way I went completely still, the way my breath caught. For a moment, something that might have been recognition flickered across his face.
But then he was gone, disappearing into the corridor and leaving me alone with the photograph and the echo of a name that no one should know.
No one except Cirrius.
My legs gave out, and I sank into the dusty chair behind me, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
He knew.
Chase knew exactly who I was.
The question was: how long had he known?
And what was he planning to do about it?