Lucas's fingers hovered inches from the fire alarm.
His pulse thundered with anticipation—the thrill of it, the promise that in mere seconds the room would erupt into chaos, screams echoing beneath a rain of dripping red humiliation. It would be poetic.
Perfect revenge for what had happened on Outreach Day.
Lucas felt the movement halt before he fully understood why. Fingers closed around his wrist—not roughly, but with enough certainty to make resistance pointless.
He sucked in a breath and turned.
Ethan stood behind him, posture relaxed, expression calm in a way that felt deliberate. There was no anger in his face, no urgency—just quiet awareness, as if he had arrived exactly when he meant to.
"You know," Ethan said, almost conversationally, "I was actually enjoying tonight."
Lucas tried to pull free. He didn't move an inch.
"I danced," Ethan continued. "With two beautiful girls. That alone makes this night statistically rare."
He leaned in just enough for Lucas to hear him over the music.
"And I can't let you ruin it."
Lucas's brows knitted together, confusion flashing across his face.
"One of them," Ethan went on, voice lowering, "might even appreciate your little stunt. At first."
"But she'd hate it the moment she realized it wasn't blood. Just paint."
Ethan tilted his head. "So no. I can't let you pull that."
Lucas stared at him, mind scrambling.
How did he know?
And—worse—what kind of person talked about liking being soaked in red like that?
"So," Ethan said quietly, tightening his grip, "come with me. I think it's time you learned a lesson about not messing with Nevermore again."
He didn't wait for an answer.
Ethan pulled Lucas away from the alarm, steering him toward the exit—no, dragging him. Lucas stumbled, shoes scraping against the floor as he tried to resist, panic replacing his earlier excitement.
"Hey—let go of me!" Lucas hissed, glancing back toward the dance floor.
At the entrance, Lucas's two lackeys hovered near the doors, fidgeting as their eyes darted around them.
One of them frowned. "Why isn't Lucas coming back?"
The other shrugged. "Relax. He just went in. No need to rush."
Before the question could linger, the doors slammed open.
Both of them flinched.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
Their expressions shifted instantly—from confusion, to recognition, to fear. The last time they had crossed him, it had ended with a water barrel and a long, humiliating inversion. Their bodies remembered before their minds caught up; both took an instinctive step back.
Then they saw Lucas.
His arm was caught in Ethan's grip, twisted just enough to keep him still. One look was enough for them to understand—the plan was over.
Whatever they had hoped to pull off had drained away completely. And if they were caught by him, the outcome would almost certainly be worse than last time.
They didn't wait to hear what Ethan might say.
"Run," one of them muttered.
They turned and bolted, shoes slipping as they fled, abandoning Lucas without a second thought.
"Hmm," Ethan said mildly. "And where do you think you're going?"
He snapped his fingers.
Both lackeys were yanked off their feet mid-stride, lifted clean into the air as if caught by an invisible grip. They flailed uselessly, panic setting in as they dangled several feet above the floor.
Ethan looked back at the three of them, his expression calm—unsettlingly so.
"Funny thing," he went on, almost conversational. "You all seemed very eager to paint people red tonight."
A thin smile crossed his face. It wasn't friendly.
"So I thought I'd return the favor."
All three swallowed hard.
In that moment, the same thought hit them at once: they should have stayed in their rooms. Slept. Done nothing at all. Whatever satisfaction they'd expected from this night wasn't worth what was about to happen.
Rave'N ended.
Music cut short. Doors opened wide. Students streamed out, laughing—until whatever waited outside stole the sound from them.
They saw it.
Three boys knelt on the ground just beyond the entrance. Their wrists were bound, their clothes drenched in red paint that dripped steadily onto the pavement, pooling beneath them in glossy streaks. Cardboard signs hung from their necks, letters scrawled thick and uneven:
WE ARE IDIOTS.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then—
"Whoa. What the hell?"
A snort of laughter broke the silence. Then another. Phones came out almost on instinct, camera shutters clicking as angles were found and documented.
"Is this some kind of performance art?"
"No—that's the mayor's kid."
"That's paint… right?"
The boys kept their heads lowered. No protests. No explanations.
The crowd parted as Principal Weems strode forward, irritation etched clearly across her face. Her eyes swept over the scene—the restraints, the red stains, Lucas's unmistakable expression of humiliation.
"Who did this?" she demanded.
Silence.
Her gaze shifted—and stopped.
A truck stood nearby. A water truck. Hoses are still damp. Red streaks smeared along its metal sides.
Weems' eyes narrowed.
That told her enough.
Three Jericho boys. Nevermore grounds. During Rave'N. With equipment like that. The intent was obvious—and thoroughly unacceptable.
She stepped closer. "Care to explain why you're here at this hour," she asked coolly, "and why you brought that with you?"
Still nothing.
Weems' expression hardened. "Because if I don't hear a very convincing explanation in the next five seconds," she said evenly, "my next call will be to the mayor."
****
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