Juliette

CHAPTER 1

"Are you sure this is the right place?" I say, narrowing my eyes at the house in front of me.

My earpiece crackles, and Dustin's voice comes through. "We've gone over this so many times," a huff. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know... it doesn't seem very..." I trail off, staring up at the huge Victorian mansion. It looms three stories above the street with too many windows to count. A grand porch wraps around the front, held up by massive white pillars that I would never be able to afford even if I sold my kidney. Or kidneys. It's impressive, yes. But it's also sort of creepy. Like those haunted houses they feature on YouTube where a family of three had died and was apparently buried under the foundation. That kind of creepy.

"Very what?" Steve chips in, then I hear a loud thud before he says ow and Dustin grumbles something about personal space.

"Are we doing this or not?" Dustin says impatiently.

"Just fucking chill, dude, I was just making sure we're not robbing somebody's grandma." I say, already making my way around the house, because breaking through the front door is all leagues of stupid. "I would feel so bad."

"We're not robbing somebody's grandma." He sounds horrified. "I'm pretty sure it's just some rich bastard who won't mind losing a few bucks. The owner's barely home, from what I've heard--" There's a sound of plastic crinkling, "Find the cellar door, it's there somewhere."

I press my back against the wall, look around cautiously, and when I'm sure it's clear and nobody's about to jump me, I continue creeping along the outskirts.

This place is even bigger up close, more intimidating. I risk a quick look through one of the windows and frown when there's only pitch blackness. Christ. Why did I vote for Dustin's choice of place, again?

Every summer break, we gather around in Mike's basement to plan small heists around Hawkins. It's become a fun little tradition at this point. Everyone looks for a place before the meeting, pitches it to the group, and votes for the place with the best return on investment. Though I'm pretty sure Steve just votes for wherever he thinks is cool; it's just a shame that most of his choices only leave us with more junk and pennies we don't need.

Even then, we still let him vote to 'preserve' his right as part of the team, or whatever Lucas said.

"Hey, do you think they have big dogs inside?" Steve cuts in again, muffled as he chews on something. "How about tripwires? Ugh, I knew it, we should have just gone with the pizzeria down the block."

"Shut up," says Dustin. "Nobody gets rich off stealing frozen dough. How's it looking out there, Y/N? You alive?"

"Most alive I've ever been."

I'm already in the back corner of the mansion. As I drag my eyes across the yard, across the overgrown weed that hasn't been tended to for what looks like years, something catches my attention and I grin to myself, bolts of adrenaline rushing through my veins. Fucking Jackpot, baby. There's a small grimy window just above the ground.

"I've found an entrance," I whisper into the mic as I grab my mask. It's one I've worn every mission. A simple white mask that my friends and I bought from Starcourt Mall a year ago after our very first heist, as suggested by the ever-so-smart Maxine Mayfield after an employee almost caught me snatching a box from the storage room. I wanted to keep it white and simple; a blank canvas that betrayed no emotions, but Lucas had other plans and had seized it from me before painting the nose red, slapping two ruby-red hearts on the cheeks and drawing ridiculous lash lines; delicate, spidery lines branching out from the eyes that make it look like a weeping clown. I love it.

I feel a bolt of renewed confidence as I put it on. Being anonymous has a lot of perks. "Are you positive there's a signal inside? I kinda need your directions, Dustin." I say, giving the latch a twist. "Fuck, it's locked. Is there any other way?"

More muffled chewing. "El and I already combed through the entire yard last week," Dustin says, chews some more, gulps. The sound makes me want to choke myself. "It wasn't locked before, maybe you're just not strong enough."

Me? Y/N fucking L/N? Not strong enough?

"Maybe you should get off your ass and raid this house yourself instead of having a fucking mukbang with Steve."

It's one grueling minute of twisting and pulling and tugging at the stubborn latch, and when it still won't budge, I drop to my knees and give myself a breather. It's surprisingly hot out here, even in the middle of the night, and I'm fucking itchy from all the weeds touching my skin. There's grass every where--all of them nearly towering over me--and I worry for a second about a snake assassinating me while I'm crouched down like this.

"How about the door to the kitchen?" Steve suggests.

"That's been an option all along?"

"We're here to guide you, not to think for you," Dustin says.

"Same damn thing."

I slip around the corner, instantly spotting the patio door. It slides open and I swiftly sneak inside the kitchen, making sure to close the door behind me. For someone who lives in a house like this, they sure as hell can't afford the damn electricity bill. The entire house is practically bathed in utter darkness.

I stand still for a moment until my eyes adjust, and then I'm out of there, already moving through what seems to be the foyer. An antique chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the grand staircase, and I nearly piss myself when something moves; my reflection on the mirror, it turns out. Nope. Not fucking looking at that. I tear my gaze away from the mirror.

There are paintings everywhere, lining the wall as I make my way upstairs, and I try not to stare at the faces there, at their scowls and angry eyes. Ancestors, no doubt. They're probably buried here. I swat away at the thought. Ghosts aren't real, for fuck's sake. I need to get it together before I give myself a heart attack.

It's not that I'm scared. I'm anything but scared--especially after El had confided in me, told me her tragic childhood, her parents, the lab. Ever since then, I was sure there's nothing more cruel and heartless and selfish than humanity itself. Humanity is fundamentally cruel and evil. Ghosts are the least of my problems.

My movements are fluid and confident and I'm buzzing with excitement even after having done the same shit 100 times. It never gets old. I always look forward to the thrill, like an addict waiting for the next hit, the next mission. So no, not scared. I'm excited. The setup is fucking perfect, because I'd never risk my friends going out on their own, and I'm the most qualified for this job, anyway. My ability to move silently like a cat in the dark, to charm if ever I'm caught. I use it all to my advantage.

I start with the nearest door, but it's stuck, and I wrestle with the knob for a good 10 seconds before moving onto the next. Each one I try is locked, to my dismay, which is weird because who locks their rooms? Unless they know they're about to get robbed, or that they're not even home.

I tap my earpiece a couple times to ramp the volume up, immediately regretting it when Dustin's crunching and chewing assaults my ears. The bastard is still eating. "Hey, focus, hello? Which room is it?" I whisper, look around. There's only two more rooms I haven't tried, but I'm not going to bother if none of them are the right ones. Plus, the other one is the attic, and that's a hell no. I'm not nearly suicidal enough to freely offer myself to... nope, ghosts aren't real.

Dustin's voice jolts me back into focus. "It's the last room just below the attic hatch, can you see it? Did you bring a flashlight?"

"I already told you, I don't need a flashlight. Where's the trust, Henderson?"

I hear him groan. "My god, this is a disaster. You need to stop letting your ego win. One of these days, I swear. I slipped a small flashlight in your pick set, please use that and don't get murdered."

I roll my eyes as I stalk towards the door. "Like I said, I don't need it. Be back later, bitch."

"Wait, n—“

I disable the earpiece before Dustin gets the chance to complain, stuffing it in my cleavage. As much as I love the gang, I'd rather get shit done in silence, preferably without someone munching in my ears.

The knob twists easily, and I'm surprised it's fucking open. Of all places to keep unlocked, they choose the most important one? What a bunch of idiots.

A cold draft tears through me as I push the door open, and I shiver from it. It's a large master bedroom. I realize it's the only room with the window wide open. The moonlight spills through it, so it isn't as dark as the rest of the house. The bed is clean and proper, not a single crinkle on it, and all the pillows are puffed up and the blankets folded neatly next to each other. I don't think anyone's been home for a while.

Next to the bed is a large vintage vanity set with a trifold mirror, one so dusty I can barely see myself through it. I waste no time opening the drawers, feeling hopeful when a small jewelry box greets me. It opens with a soft click, and I gasp.

You're shitting me. A diamond ring? No fucking way, this is a gold mine. I quickly grab it and slide it into my ring finger. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I reach for the next drawer; there's so much more, I don't think my pouch is big enough.

I comb through the drawers, emptying them of their contents and stuffing everything inside the pouch, from odd shiny jewels to gold bands encrusted with gems that are worth more than my life's savings. I also find a bronze pocket watch with an elaborate floral pattern on the back, but I stuff that in the pockets of my jacket instead. It's going to be mine.

Five minutes later, when I'm sure everything expensive is in the pouch, I quietly push the drawers back in place, turn to give the room a once-over, and when nothing else grabs my interest, I pull my earpiece by the wire. It pops out of my cleavage and I quickly put it back on as I stride to the door. My pockets are full, and fuck, the gang is going to love this. I'm already fantasizing about which jewellery is going to be liquidated, which ones are supposed to be kept as an investment, which ones Max and El would love. They can have anything, just not the diamond ring, which surprisingly fits perfectly around my finger. Good fucking God, we'll be swimming in money and we don't have to share eggos. Even a small trip outside of Hawkins wouldn't dent shit.

My grin widens at the thought.

Just as I'm about to grab the knob, something sharp and cold presses against my throat, and my heart drops to my ass.

"Hello, little thief."

Chapter 2

I’ve only ever been caught twice.

The first one was entirely Dustin’s fault; an annoying oversight on his part that resulted in me barging into the wrong house and spending at least an hour flashing my good smile and crafting a convincing story about being new to the city, how hard it was to be a girl all alone on the other side of the planet away from her parents. All that bullshit.

The second time was Steve’s fault, because instead of keeping watch outside the casino, he got fucking distracted by his reflection on some random window and started fixing his hair instead; I remember having to jump into a dumpster and smelling like unwashed ass for a week.

In short, it’s rarely my fault, because I like thinking things through. I’m only confident when I’m sure I’ve already accounted for every possibility. A contingency plan, I like to say.

Except I actually haven’t.

Because if I have, there wouldn’t be a guy pressing a blade to my throat. There wouldn’t be a guy to catch me at all.

This time, without a doubt, I’m the one who fucked up.

The hand I have over the knob itches, and I contemplate turning it fully and getting the fuck out. My daily morning runs have long since paid off— I’m lean as hell. And I think I have the advantage if I choose to run. I think.

As if having read my mind, his deep, repulsive voice says, “Open that door and I will ensure it is the last thing you ever do.”

Well then.

“I suggest you drop your hand and turn around. Surely your mother taught you it’s bad manners to ignore your guests.” He says, bored. I fight the urge to throw my head back and smash his face with my skull. “Hm. Or is it the other way around? You are my guest and I am your host, since you so bravely entered my house.”

I draw in a deep breath. The rational part of me that thinks he isn’t kidding finally takes over, and I slowly let go of the handle.

“Turn around.”

“You know, it’s kind of hard when you have a knife to m—“

A heavy hand grabs the back of my collar, yanks me around, and slams my back into the door with a painful thud. I wince at the pain and close my eyes, attempting to steady my breaths.

When they open, it’s to a pair of eyes— a piercing, unblinking, icy blue. His skin is pale, so pale they almost look translucent under the moonlight. Against better judgment, my attention drifts to the tense line of his jaw, then to his bare chest, the glistening drops of water trailing all the way down to his abs and disappearing into the white towel wrapped way too low around his waist.

He’s so close that his scent fills my lungs— soap and mint with a bitter edge of tobacco.

I’ve completely forgotten about the situation until my gaze tracks lower, to the lean muscles of his forearm tensing and flexing as he tightens his grip around the knife. The knife. Realization slams into me like a ten wheeler truck and I forget to breathe.

“Who sent you here, little thief?”

I stare at him through the mesh holes of my mask. “Um. Nobody?”

He hums, and my breath catches when the sharp point of his knife brushes against my pulse— a tender little movement that has me panicking. It hooks under my mask, peeling it off, and it falls to the ground with a clatter. I don’t even realize it’s off until the cold breeze grazes my bare face.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Okay, no, calm down. It’s okay.

The man tilts his head, looking like he’s studying me, maybe wondering if he knows me from somewhere— which, he probably doesn’t, because I’ve never seen him before.

“How disappointing,” he tuts. “For a creature as breathtaking as you, choosing to reduce herself to something so incredibly small. A repugnant little thief…” he shakes his head. “Truly a shame.”

Repugnant?

Are you kidding me? I’m repugnant? Why the fuck is this guy so dramatic? Given, I can’t really complain because I’m the one who broke into his house, but still.

“Do you not agree with me?” His free hand finds my chin, lifts it up so that I have no other choice but to look at his face.

God, I fucking hate his voice. That impassive, condescending tone that he uses, like he’s way above me and I’m nothing but a nuisance— an annoying disruption to his night routine.

“But that is precisely what you are, is it not?” He says when I don’t answer. “You consult with your little companions, go through my patio door and strip my room bare without so much as a regard to the consequences of your actions. Because you are nothing more than a selfish girl so deeply consumed by your own pathetic needs.”

What? “How did y…” I start to say, then clamp my lips shut, dumbfounded. How the fuck did he know? Dustin never told me anything about cameras, and I would have seen them if there were any?

He smiles. The bastard actually fucking smiles. “Did you truly expect me to be blind to your laughable plan?”

“Are you done threatening my life?” I say, my tone smooth and calm. “Because I have other places to be, you know? I’m a pretty busy person.”

“Really?” His hand leaves my chin, and it slides down to wrap around my throat instead, squeezing to rid me of air. “You have more houses to rob? More victims to steal from? Greed is a terrible sin, little thief.”

“I’m not robbing anyone anymore! Get your filthy hands off me.”

“A thief and a liar,” he says, mocking. “How uninspiring. Tell me, how many people have you robbed?”

He tightens his grip around my throat before I could answer, pressing my body flush against the hard door and I gasp, my hands quickly flying to claw at his wrist, but he’s too fucking strong and it feels like I’m already running out of air. I can hear my own pulse roaring in my ears, the frantic beating of my heart. I can’t fucking breathe. His eyes remain indifferent as he watches me curiously.

Dread and fear make their way into my veins for the first time tonight— the threat of death becoming terrifyingly real with every passing second.

But then he releases his grip, and my knees instantly buckle as I collapse to the floor in a pathetic heap, and I’m heaving, coughing, dragging lungfuls of air back into my body.

I snap my head up, glaring at him through a dizzy haze. My eyes burn with unwelcome tears—fuck, am I crying?—while my neck flares, stinging the skin he just touched.

He only shakes his head ruefully. My eyes widen when they land on his hand.

My brown fucking pouch.

“You even took everything,” he sighs, weighing the pouch in his palm, looking genuinely offended. “You are delusional if you think I’d let you keep this.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I choke out.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Such a vulgar mouth. I think you will benefit from letting me correct that behavior.”

“What?”

He tosses the pouch over his shoulder, steps back just enough before straightening to his full, imposing height.

He is a statue above me, a terrifying, massive god— every line of his lean, sculpted body is perfect. I don’t know how I haven’t noticed, but with him standing as far he is, I’m granted a full view of his body, including the inked parts of his arm. A tattoo of a beautiful pocket watch just below the bend of his elbow in all its glory— the same pocket watch I stole from him. Its chains wrap gracefully down his arm, tapering off at his wrist where a detailed cross is drawn perfectly against the pulse point.

“Little thief,” he says.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Language.”

I glare at him.

He’s staring down at me with an expression I can’t read. I can only hope he can’t read mine either— can’t see through the facade I’m putting on display. I’m fucking scared, there’s no denying that. I don’t know what this man is capable of, what he intends to do with the knife. All my regrets are quickly forming around my head. I shouldn’t have disabled the earpiece. God, I’m a fucking idiot.

The silence is stretching on for too long and it’s starting to make me feel self-conscious. He’s just looking at me, searching for something, I’m not entirely sure and I don’t care.

“Do you think you deserve my forgiveness?” He asks.

I scowl. “I never asked for your forgiveness, and if you think I’m going to stroke your ego, then you’re just going to be disappointed.”

“Let me clarify,” he says, leveling me with a dark stare. “You seem to be confusing two entirely different concepts, love. You stroking my ego means nothing to me. But do you not agree that you should take accountability for your disgusting actions?”

“Disgusting actions? Boo fucking hoo, I stole your precious gems, so what?” I retort, tasting the venom in my own words. “I hate rich people like you. You guys are so out of touch with reality that you’re fine with treating people like shit.”

“Like what?” He smirks, then waves a hand. “Nevermind, I don’t care nearly enough about your opinion.”

He steps closer, and his repulsive scent violates me again. I inhale the sharp, soapy scent; the mix of mint and tobacco that leave me fascinated. I mean repulsed. We are not doing this.

“You forget that you are completely at my mercy right now. You are all alone inside my room. With me.”

I flinch at the emphasis he places on the last word.

“You broke into my house,” he continues, “you have done something very disappointing. It’s only fair that you make it right.”

“I’m not making shit right.”

He ignores me, stepping deeper into my space. The knife in his hand gleams ominously. “Get on your knees.”

I freeze, blink up at him. No. “Excuse me?”

“Get on your knees, love. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I obey, because as much as I despise this condescending psycho whose head is so far up his ass, I do value my life. My knees ache as they meet the cold, hard floor. I don’t look at him, though, because I refuse to grace him with that fucking opportunity.

“Look up.”

I force my chin up, glaring. “I hate you.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I might end up loving it too much. Do you know what to do, little thief?” He touches my chin with his fingers, and my skin burns at the contact. “Do you know what I want?”

Slowly, I shake my head.

“Use your words while I’m still being nice to you.”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “What you want, I mean. I don’t know.”

His lips curve up into a soft smile. “Why don’t you ask me, then?”

I hesitate for a second. Count in my head to three. Then more numbers to calm down. Whatever comes out of my throat sounds utterly pathetic and I consider just letting him stab me. “What… What is it? What do you want?”

“Hmm. Since you have a remarkably filthy mouth,” his voice is low— the deep rumble killing my ability to think, “I think you need to learn how to use it properly. You are going to look at me, and you are going to beg for my forgiveness.”

I stare at him, not bothering to hide my disgust. “Oh hell the fuck no.”

He shrugs. “A pity,”—sighs—“I guess we are doing this the hard way.”

My heart is pounding. “What? What hard way?”

“You’ll see.”

I don’t think so.

I start rising to my feet, my entire attention darting towards the door, but he very slowly shakes his head. His eyes darken into a bottomless pit, and something about it stills me in place.

Fear trickles through my body like a breaking dam.

I stay on my knees.

“That’s a good girl,” he says. “You know how to listen, after all.”

My mind is mush. Blank as warmth creeps up my cheeks and stings me there. I feel it everywhere; my ears, my nose, almost my entire face. Like bolts of electricity it’s almost embarrassing. Fuck. What is wrong with me?

“Apologize to me. Look at me while you do it.”

I do. I look at him, at his pale blue eyes. My throat feels like it has a million sandpapers and I swallow hard, letting my lips part around the words I can’t seem to get out of my throat.

“I… I’m sorry.”

But that’s not enough for him. He leans down. So close. His face is so close to mine as he searches my eyes— and I search his back. There’s a glint that wasn’t there before, and something else. I don’t know what. Triumph? Pride? “What are you sorry for, love?”

My hands ball into tight fists, and pain blooms from where my nails are digging into my palms. I welcome it, because I’m no longer thinking when I say, “I’m sorry for breaking into your house—“ I clear my throat. The words taste like sin, but I drag them out anyway. “I’m sorry for stealing the jewellery. The gems. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know any better. Please forgive me, it won’t happen again.”

He watches me carefully.

For one long moment, he simply stands over me as I simmer in my own embarrassment, and I force myself to keep looking at him so I don’t regret it and say something else.

Then he chuckles. It’s a soft, pleased chuckle, and for some reason it makes me feel… good? I must be going crazy.

“Very good,” he says softly. “Such a good listener.” He reaches down and gently brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The way he does it is so tender, so impossibly gentle like I’m a delicate glass that I almost lean into his touch, starved for more.

But before I can, his hand drops away, and his eyes— his expression, everything flattens into the same cold, bored expression he had.

Something familiar lands on the floor with a heavy thud, right in between my knees, and my stomach twists at the sight of the brown pouch.

CHAPTER 7

I don’t make a sound. Not a single bone in my body moves.

I think I have lost all my senses.

It’s not until his scent invades my nostrils—a grounding mix of mint and tobacco—that I realize what’s going on, and I’m certain I don’t need the lights to know who’s my savior.

Embarrassingly, I recognize him even in total blackness.

His hand leaves my mouth and in an instant, my feet are off the ground and I’m being carried away, one arm under my thighs and one against my back. He’s running so fast I can feel the impact of every footfall vibrating through me. Feel every rise and fall of his chest as he breathes with effort.

There’s a myriad of sounds around us—pure, unbridled chaos unfolding in our wake: the doctor yelling orders, footsteps thundering hurriedly behind us, and then the sound of weapons being drawn—guns being cocked as the footsteps double and triple, their angry cadence echoing so much I’m not sure if they’re right behind us or far off in the distance.

“Oh my God, they have guns,” I mumble.

“I’m quite aware, love, I have these things called ears.”

Henry makes a sharp turn just in time as a shot fires and hits the corner we just rounded. I flinch at the noise, at the horrific reminder of the kind of death that awaits, and he tucks me tighter against his chest, whispers something I can’t even make out from all the noise. I have sandpaper down my throat and my ears are ringing, but the sirens quickly overpower that too, cutting through the air while bursts of red light sweep through the hallway. The speakers crackle and the staticky, almost robotic voice of a woman joins the chaos.

“Attention all staff and patients. This is a lockdown emergency. An active threat has been reported in the West Wing. This is not a drill. Remain where you are. Stay out of sight. Attention all staff and patients. This is a lockdown emergency. An active threat has been reported in the West Wing. This is not a drill. Remain where you are. Stay out of si—“

“Breathe,” he tells me.

I do.

It’s a sobering sensation. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath.

He’s dashing through more hallways, darting down long flights of stairs, making more turns, going places I’m sure we aren’t supposed to be.

I count the seconds and retreat inside that small bubble in my head because it’s all I can do. It’s all I can do to ignore the sirens, the lights popping and cracking, the doors flying off their hinges and the sound of metals hitting the wall behind us.

I get to 127 seconds when Henry says, “Close your eyes.”

I don’t register it quickly enough before he launches us straight through a window.

A fucking window.

“What the fuck—”

The hospital floor disappears, replaced by a long, empty drop. Shards of glass fly everywhere and I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, my hands trying to hold onto air—onto nothing as gravity fiercely yanks us down to our very fucking deaths. My wide eyes stay fixed on the ground, watching the distance close up too fast.

I’m going to fucking die, oh my God.

And I know I’m going to die. I’ve read so many texts about how it goes when you’re on the verge of death. How death itself likes to slow down time and imbue you with an overwhelming sense of serenity.

Acceptance.

Peace.

Memories flash and thoughts collide with each other as my life boils down into one single realization that makes me laugh: I never thought I’d die like this.

That out of the many things I thought I’d die from, it would be falling off a building.

With Henry Creel.

It would be from falling off a great height with my professor that I’ve sworn eternal hatred for.

Even worse, I realize, is that I’m spending my last precious seconds thinking about the syllables of his name, very faintly regretting that I have never even said it out loud.

Is that normal?

Is it normal to find no peace nor acceptance to that?

I’ve called him every name under the sun except for his actual name.

The ground is so close, too close, I can already feel death’s grip around me. Can feel the ground rushing to break my skull.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Shut out the world, shut out my thoughts.

The air. The terror. My pride.

I let my lips part, let them soften and form around the first letter, the next, the third, tasting of a sin so familiar—when a solid force breaks my fall just a few inches off the ground.

The force knocks the wind out of me and I’m only spared half a second to catch my breath and see that I’m no longer in the air, no longer dying, how am I not dead, and then Henry’s grabbing my hand and we’re both running into the abyss that is the woods.

There’s nothing but darkness ahead of us. Walls of black that feel entirely different from when you’re stuck in a pitch black room. It’s a dreadful void with only the moon to counter it, but Henry expertly navigates through them like he knows it like the back of his hand.

His strides are so unlike mine; where mine are frenzied, his steps are purposeful, controlled, consistent, and it makes me wonder just who the fuck he actually is.

It’s a stupid thought, since I barely know him, but right now he’s almost unrecognizable. So different in ways I can’t pin down.

But I have no time for that. I have no time to wonder who he is or how I’m not fucking dead. No time to wonder how my body is intact, how his body is intact. No time to wonder who the hell is after me.

Leaves crunch beneath my feet as I try to catch up, each step fueled by pure adrenaline.

We’re both moving in perfect symphony, his hand in mine, shoving our way past dense canopies, skipping over tangled roots and muddy patches.

Branches scrape my arms and legs, stinging my skin, but I don’t stop to check the tiny beads of blood that I’m sure are seeping out of me.

I’ve never felt so alive.

It makes me laugh, actually, because it’s truly comedic, truly ironic that I’ve never felt more alive than I do right now, running for my life.

Am I a masochist for that?

I’m gasping through my laughter, trying to breathe in, breathe in, breathe in, keep breathing as strings of gunshots ring around us. I think they finally realized chasing us here is useless and have resorted to shooting blindly. Still, I don’t look back to confirm that nobody’s on our tail anymore.

I lose track of time. I don’t know how far we’ve run—the forest is much the same, dark and unchanging, but my throat has since gone dry, my legs numb, my skin clammy. My lungs are burning and it’s getting worse with every inhale that I’m forced to slow down.

“Fuck—fuck, wait—” I wheeze out, stopping to lean against a tree. “Can we—” I lean my hands on my knees, wheeze some more. “Can we stop here?”

“I’d rather not,” he hisses, yanking me forward. “It’s not safe out here.”

“I don’t hear them anymore.”

He cranes his head back to glare at me. “Don’t be foolish. Just because you cannot hear them does not mean they…” he trails off, his eyebrows furrowing.

I spin around and prepare myself to jump but… there’s nothing there?

“What—” I start.

Henry yanks me backward, hauling me straight into the middle of an overgrown bush.

I spit out a stray leaf that wants to choke me. “Hey, what the f—”

He holds up a finger, his eyes alert as they scan the dark.

“What’s going on—”

“Stay here,” he orders, then wriggles out of the bush before I can protest.

My body’s first instinct is to follow him. I’m just about to stand when the crunch of heavy footsteps—several of them—stops me. I instantly crouch back down.

Three men in grey suits emerge from the dark, their guns raised and pointed at where Henry is standing.

I freeze in place.

“Gentlemen,” Henry says, his voice unsettlingly calm for a guy who has guns aimed at his face. “Why rely on such crude weapons to assert power? Have you no creativity of your own?”

My jaw drops. The fuck is he going on about. This asshole is going to give me a heart attack.

I squint through the leaves and branches, trying to get a better view, and faintly make out the three men exchanging bewildered glances. One of them scowls and cocks his revolver. “Where’s the girl?”

Henry’s gaze slides down, zeroes in on the weapon. A wry smile tugs at his lips. “What girl?”

The man steps forward and shoves the barrel of the revolver directly toward Henry’s face. I have to smack a hand across my mouth to keep from gasping. Everything in me wants to spring out and take action, but my feet feel awfully heavy, glued to the earth like they’re being held down.

“We’re authorized to use lethal force in case of non-compliance. I will ask you again. Where is the girl?”

Henry takes a slow step forward himself, completely undeterred.

God, please don’t be fucking stupid.

“Step back,” the other man cocks his own gun.

“You are aware,” Henry says to them, “that Brenner views you as nothing more than human cattle? A disposable one, I have to add. Sending you here was careless on his part,” he grimaces. “He has marched you men right into your deaths.”

Laughter echoes in the air, and it’s come from the two other suits. The one holding the revolver close to Henry’s face only shakes his head like he can’t believe this shit.

I can’t either.

“Our deaths?” he scoffs. “We only want the girl. If you hand her over, I will spare you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot fulfill that request.”

Henry’s words seem to put a deeper scowl on the man’s face, and he looks Henry up and down with obvious revulsion. “You have the audacity, boy. Who do you think you are?”

Henry is surprised for a moment. Genuinely surprised.

Then, taking a step back, he puts on a bizarrely sweet smile. “Oh, of course, my apologies,” he says. “I must have forgotten my manners. Let me introduce myself properly,” he extends a hand. “My name is Henry Creel.”

The man visibly stiffens.

I catch the exact second his hand wavers on the gun.

I’m holding my breath, counting to three, back to one as the silence thickens. I’m not sure I understand what’s happening, but I hold onto the single, solitary feeling that has laid claim to me.

Fear.

BANG

Henry drops to one knee, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the fucking face, and then he lunges forward, hurtling the man into the tree with so much force his body practically crumples against the wood and falls with a thud.

I’m horrified, completely frozen as I watch the scene unfold through small gaps of leaves.

Oh God.

Did he just kill someone? Oh my God don’t tell me he just killed someone. I think he’s dead, I think Henry just ki—

The two men quickly jump into action and take aim, but Henry pivots sharply, parting both his hands outward. Their guns fly out of their hands and vanish into the tree lines, somewhere out of sight.

I stare in disbelief. He’s completely out of arms reach, and yet—

How?

I’m dreaming.

This is a nightmare.

This isn’t real.

For one terrible breathless second, the two men just stand there stiffly, frozen in their hesitation, ashen-faced as realization dawns on them.

They are defenseless—utterly vulnerable in front of death himself.

Henry slowly stalks toward them, snapping twigs beneath each step, and the sound startles them both, but they’re too stunned too mesmerized like I am, drowning in their terror to even find proper footing as they trip over their boots.

“S—Stay back,” one of them stammers.

Henry only raises one hand in response.

I gasp. “No.”

My eyes are desperately scanning for something—a harness, perhaps; a rope, a helicopter, anything that might explain what’s happening, but there is nothing.

The sky is an empty dome—a dark, empty heaven as it begins pulling on the man.

He’s floating.

Suspended in the air.

By nothing.

No.

No, no, no. There has to be something. Maybe I just can’t see it. Maybe I’m caught in a dream.

The man gasps and chokes and claws at his throat to free the sounds, the screams, but something is stopping him. He thrashes against it, putting up a good fight—and failing—his jerky motions coming to a slow stop.

I’m only awarded a few pulses of silence before a terrible, nauseating sound rips through it and I fall from my crouching position.

My world is tilting, spinning, my reality and everything I have ever known about the world fracturing into a million tiny pieces as the cracks echo in the air—

And it is without question the sound of bones breaking.

Of wrists twisting in unimaginable ways, in directions I never thought possible.

The horror of it hits me in the face, clenches its spindly fingers around my throat and I’m moving.

I’m moving and I don’t know why. I haven’t realized I’ve gone out of my hiding spot or that I’ve risen to my feet, already charging toward the monster causing this devastation to try and stop him; to try and yank on his arm, push it down. But he is stone. A ruthless, immovable force of nature that I may as well be pushing on a solid wall, and I don’t understand I don’t understand, I’m failing to comprehend why I can’t move him or why he seems to be in a trance with his eyes pressed shut in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed, his outstretched hand clenching.

I open my mouth to beg—to cry out a string of nos and stops but every letter of the alphabet stays tangled in my throat. Words have failed me. They have frayed apart and instead have come out as guttural screams to join the man’s cries in a twisted, discordant duet of sympathy. Agony. And it doesn’t last very long, it doesn’t last very long because the man’s jaw pops out of place, torn open too wide too far, and then his eyes are crying—crying blood—until he cannot anymore.

Two empty sockets stare at us before he drops from the sky like a puppet whose strings have been cut hastily.

Thud.

The forest holds its breath with me.

He’s dead I hear myself say. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead

The forest exhales when a crunch echoes.

My own vision has gone unsteady, but I drag them upward anyway.

I look at the last man and see him stumbling backward, crunching more leaves in his path as he tries to get away. His mouth is set in a tight line, his entire body shaking at the sight of his dead colleague on the floor. Then he stares at me, stares at the monster beside me.

He takes another step back and—

Crack.

He is dead he is dead he is dead

I don’t flinch as he falls.

I can’t stop shaking. I think I’m shaking. Am I shaking? I try to touch my cheek, but it goes right through. I think it’s gone right through.

This is a dream. That must be it. I get it now.

I’ve learned that dreams are nothing but manifestations of your subconscious, of unprocessed emotions.

I need to wake up and face my emotions.

I’m going to wake up in clean sheets, tell Hopper how sorry I am; that I’m going to keep my nose clean and steer clear of trouble. I’m going to hug my friends and tell them how much they mean to me. I’ve learned my lesson so please wake me up, why is nobody waking me up?

Around me, the trees sway in response.

And the three dead bodies in front of me have not gone away.

I see their blood, thick and heavy and real, crawling out of their broken limbs and kissing the dirt.

Years of living, hoping, loving, only to end up dead on the forest floor.

I will never wake up from this.

The reality of it slaps the numbness off my system and I jerk back, ripping my hand off Henry’s arm—because I’d been holding onto him this entire time.

I’d been holding onto the monster who caused all of this.

My spine meets a tree and I press my palms flat on the bark, steeling myself against my thoughts. I keep my eyes pinned to Henry’s back—to that tall, calm figure standing without remorse.

Without regret.

Impossible. I don’t know who he is. What he is. But he is not human.

I’m petrified.

Too scared to breathe properly, too terrified to move as I watch him stare at what he’s done.

I try to remain completely still.

But slowly, so very slowly, Henry’s head tilts up. Looks over his shoulder.

At me.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, like he’d forgotten I was even there.

My lungs seize for a single beat.

Only one single beat.

And then without thinking—

I run.

Because fuck this shit.

With shaky legs, I dash past tree after tree after tree, my eyes wild as they scan the darkness ahead. It’s fear unlike any other—thrumming under my skin and propelling me forward. The sounds of the forest have died with them and all I can hear is my erratic heart and my own labored breathing coming in fast and sharp.

So much pain. So much exhaustion settling into my already battered bones, but I ignore it, forcing my feet to go harder and faster, each pound sending needles up my shins.

Fuck.

I need to get away. I can’t die here.

A laugh echoes behind me, sounding much closer than I’d like. “Why do you run, little thief?”

I grit my teeth and push my legs.

Behind me, his footsteps draw closer, speeding up a notch, and the thought that he might catch me sends a renewed burst of adrenaline through my veins.

I don’t think about the absolute certainty that he’ll catch me, or the fact that my lungs are going to give out soon. But there is that traitorous part of me that can’t help but think about why he would rather chase me instead of tearing me apart like he did with them. I think he could. And maybe he would. He can destroy me even with his eyes closed.

But he isn’t, because he’s just chasing me, matching my pace like it’s a game and dragging out the seconds.

I am like a frog in a pot of water slowly being boiled alive.

Madness. It’s madness.

He’s a fucking psychopath through and through.

My head is spinning with so many thoughts but every single one of them keeps slipping away like the ground and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t decide what to think. I can’t figure out if this is a dream. I can’t establish if it’s even worth running anymore.

I’m tripping over roots, over rocks, over dirt, but I push off the ground each time. I keep touching my face to see if I’m still alive because I can’t feel anything anymore except for the heartbeat behind my eyes, inside my ears, my chest. Every inhale feels like swallowing broken pieces of glass and I can’t breathe hard enough, can’t run fast enough.

Am I dying?

I feel a hand around my arm and it wrenches me backward so hard it sends my body flying into something solid and warm.

I move my legs, trying to push through, but I am oddly stuck in place.

I wonder why the trees have stopped moving. Why the ground has gone still. Why the wind has stopped whipping my hair.

Warmth brushes against my ear tenderly. “Enough.”

My head pounds as nausea rolls over me. The forest is blurring in and out. I think I might be sick. There is a profound, lingering fear stuck somewhere in my stomach and I’m straining to dig it up. Why am I here again?

Someone spins me around.

A familiar face comes into view. Shards of winter lock onto my eyes, bright with concern. They are the most stunning shade of blue I’ve ever seen.

“Mr. Creel?” I whisper.

His eyes widen a fraction, then he frowns.

Why is he frowning? I want to ask him why he’s frowning. Mr. Creel, why are you frowning? Is something wrong?

He keeps frowning. I don’t think he can hear me. I don’t think I’m saying it out loud. His lips part to speak, and I realize I’m the one who can’t hear him. What’s going on, I want to say. Why are we here?

I need to stop blinking so much, but my eyes feel extremely dry, like they’re far too big for their sockets, and there’s a strange pulse in my neck that seems to quicken with every passing beat.

I’m sinking into his touch, my head dropping into the crook of his neck. His arms around me do little to soothe the pain. It’s like someone has replaced my spine with lava, like someone freed a bunch of angry hornets in my head, and suddenly I’m paralyzed from the neck down.

I think I’m really dying.

I blink and blink and blink, but the shapes won’t stop shifting and mixing into hazy swirls of colors. Too many colors. I try to focus on the dot in the middle, which is spreading like a black tide, and it takes no more than a full second before it coats my vision and I’m blind.

I am fading.

Disappearing from th e   w o  r   l    d

***

Today, I only counted 3876 seconds before the door opened.

It’s not the only deviance of the day, either.

The doctor only visits my room after much, much higher numbers, so I know it’s not him. He also only comes with his friends; those grumpy guards who always wear grey suits and carry big metal boxes. They turn it on when I don’t listen to them.

But today, I don’t hear their footsteps.

These steps are quite different. They are soft, gentle strides.

I don’t move from the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, and, since the doctor has put the blindfold back on me, I can’t see who has come to visit me at such a peculiar time.

I try instead to listen.

They are tiptoeing around me, stopping only a few feet in front of me.

And then a sharp intake of breath.

But that’s it. They don’t say anything.

I hug my knees closer, wanting to fold in on myself, be smaller. I don’t know why I am suddenly anxious, suddenly self-conscious.

Are they watching me?

The soft rustle of air in front of my face has me flinching and I back away, but there it is again.

Their touch makes me shiver.

Soft fingers brush my forehead. They trail lightly along the fabric tied around my eyes, and I slant my head to offer more of my face. I regret it instantly when it makes them freeze for a split second, their breath hitching.

But the person doesn’t pull away. Instead, their thumb slides down the edge of the cloth, and I remind myself to breathe in breathe out as they sweep over the curve of my cheek. Holding myself still, I let them undo the fabric.

It slips away in one tug.

I gasp.

Today, I am looking at a boy.

I think I’ve seen him before.

He stares back, his eyes like morning frost, like glacial ice, brilliant with curiosity. He’s so close, it makes my heart race as my gaze roams over him, over his white uniform, hair a mix of blond and brown, skin like that of a porcelain doll.

“Hi,” I whisper.

My words seem to astound him. He turns a shade of red. “Hello,” he says quietly.

I offer him a smile. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“I asked you first.”

He smiles at me then.

A genuine smile. I study it, fascinated by how much it softens his face, how unusually perfect. He is a contradiction of shapes and sharp angles yet soft soft smiles and strawberry lips.

“You are beautiful,” I say out loud.

He startles.

My eyes widen as I catch myself, and my face burns with a thousand suns I’m surprised I haven’t melted. I avert my gaze, wanting nothing more than to snatch the blindfold back over my eyes and hide.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Shaking my head, I say, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Why not?”

“Because the doctor says I can’t have friends.”

Too swiftly, he takes my wrist in his hand and I have to stifle a gasp, feeling horribly exposed. His touch is warm and gentle. He flips it over cautiously, inspecting my skin. “Why don’t you have a number?”

I swallow hard, my heart stirring inside its cage. “What number?”

He drops my wrist. Frowns. Looks around my room, at the emptiness of it. “They hid you,” he says, his voice low. “You’re at the very bottom.”

“Hid me?” I’m not sure what he means.

He picks up the black fabric on the floor and appraises it. Frowns again. “Why do you wear this?”

I break eye contact, too aware of how close he is, too aware of my heart trying to do back flips. Too aware that I shouldn’t be looking at anything. “I… I—“

Gently, he catches my jaw, forcing my entire world to tilt with it, and I wonder how someone’s touch could be so gentle and powerful, and what beautiful paradox that my body seems to obey.

“Can you look at me?” he whispers. “What did they do to you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and retreat behind the darkness that’s become my friend over the years. “You shouldn’t be here,” I lie. “You can’t look into my eyes.” Another lie. I want you to look at me I want you to stare at me, is what I want to say.

“Why can’t I look into your eyes?” A soft hesitant breath. “They’re— they’re pretty.”

My gasp gets trapped behind my teeth and I— what? “Pretty?”

“Yes, pretty. Can I say that?”

No, you can’t. You will see terrible things.

Yes, I want you to. Can you do that again?

“Stop,” is what I end up saying.

“I don’t know your name, so maybe I’ll call you Pretty from now on.”

Pretty.

The word flaps like a bird and sits on top of my heart. I think I like it. I ache for it.

I try to work my voice around it. “Pretty.”

“That’s you,” he mutters. “Are you never going to tell me your name?”

“I want to know yours.”

He’s silent for a few seconds, his fingers slightly flexing on my jaw. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

“If I tell you my name,” he finally says, “will you tell me yours?”

My head nods, having gained a mind of its own. I did not mean to, but maybe I am a little curious.

He releases a sigh. “Okay.” A pause. “My name is Henry. What’s yours?”

I’m briefly surprised. “Is that your real name?”

“Yes. Will you tell me yours now?”

My name. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt. As long as he doesn’t stare into my eyes nothing can truly go wrong. A name wouldn’t hurt him. I rehearse the word in my head so many times it begins to sound weird.

“Hey,” I feel him tug on the hem of my gown. “We had a deal, Pretty.”

I huff. “Okay. My  n a m e   i   s . .  .

my namee iss

my name issw.. had a dealpretty

okay mynameis hey ..weeeehad a

dealprettyy..pretty

Yyprettt

yyyy y  y y    yzz

***

My eyes rip open.

The first thing I notice is that I’m not blind. This one in particular is reassuring to know, because I almost thought I was. It took me several seconds to regain my vision and then several more to understand that I’m just in a very dark room.

I don’t know what the fuck happened, but it feels like I’d gone against a massive cheese grater. My throat feels dry and dust-laden, my bones weary, my muscles sore. There’s a palpable sense of dread and unease wedged somewhere under my skin, and I’m struggling to understand why it’s there or where it’s come from.

The second thing I notice is much less reassuring, if not outright disturbing.

This isn’t my room.

I know this because there’s a very fluffy duvet draped over me, and I don’t own one. I also don’t own a vanity set and a chandelier.

So pretentious.

I try to sit up and rest my head against the headboard, breathing through the onslaught of nausea until it’s gone down. I catch a glimpse of the curtains swaying, dancing around the strings of moonlight that spill into the room. It’s the only source of light and I have to keep squinting to get a better look. It must be sometime after midnight.

And then beside me, there’s shuffling.

And snoring?

Panic quickly seizes me and I’m squealing and kicking against the mysterious shape under the duvet. It flails wildly in response and I drive my heel harder, harder, harder until it tumbles off the bed and hits the floor with a loud thud.

“Oww.”

“Why the fuck am I here?” I demand, clutching at the sheets. And oh my god, “Who the fuck changed my clothes?”

“Love, ca— ow—“

The pillow hits him squarely in the face and I snag another one. “Why the fuck am I here?”

Henry rises to his full height—unexpectedly disheveled, his bare chest heaving, eyes narrowing as he works out a crick in his neck. My eyes drop to his shoulder, right where a white wrap stretches across and runs taut across his chest and under his arm. Right where I stabbed him. “You fainted,” he simply says. “I should have carried you instead of making you run. My mistake entirely, I am sorry. Are you hungry? Do you want anything to—ow.”

I quickly grab another one and throw it.

“Enough.” He flicks a hand. The pillow I threw changes direction mid-air and smacks the wall next to my head instead. “You do not always need to resort to violence to get my attention.”

I stop.

My own memories start assaulting me, striking me with sharp pieces, and suddenly the walls are closing in and I can’t seem to get enough air in my lungs, can’t seem to stop seeing limbs twisting and bones breaking and blood, oh, so much blood.

I was in the hospital and I—I tried to—oh God I was in the forest and—no, no, no—

“No,” I gasp. “No no no, it’s not real. It’s not— no—”

Henry tries to touch me but I flinch away and slap his hands.

“No, get the fuck away from me,” I scramble off the bed, backing myself into a dresser. “Get away from me, you monster.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

I don’t know your name, so maybe I’ll call you pretty from now on.

We had a deal, Pretty

We had a deal, Pretty

We had a deal, Pretty

Pretty

“No,”  I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It’s not real.”

He walks over to me, lifts his hand as if to touch me again but decides against it. “Please,” he says instead. “Can you lie down before you hurt yourself?”

“Stop pretending like you give a shit about me.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “You make me sick.”

He laughs a little. “Do you truly believe I am pretending? After all this time?”

I try to dart to his left but his hand comes up faster, catching me by the waist. “No, you are not leaving.” He pulls me in his arms.

“Yes the fuck I am,” I shriek. “I would rather fucking die than stay here with you”—I thrash my arms and wriggle out of his grasp but he just holds me tighter—“let me go you psycho!”

He gently sets me onto the mattress and I’m about to scramble away when an invisible weight pins my limbs flat against the sheets. “What—” I wrench my hands, trying to tear them off, but my entire body feels superglued.

Henry stands over the bed, looking down at me with eyes so steady and amused. “I would tell you to save your strength but”—he sighs—“I am well aware that you’ve never been one to follow my instructions.”

“Let me up!” I scream, still tugging against whatever the fuck he just did. “Turn this shit off, let me go!”

“I’m afraid I cannot, love. I cannot risk you running and getting captured by Brenner’s lackeys. It’s far too dangerous out there, particularly given your current state of mind.”

“And I’m safer here? With you?” I snarl. “With a psycho like you?”

He tilts his head. Laughs again. “Yes,” he says, nodding. “Yes, you are safer here, believe it or not. I am the only person who can protect you right now.”

“I don’t need fucking protection.”

“We can certainly arrange that.”

I gape at him. Clear my throat. “That’s not what I— nevermind. Can you just kill me, actually? I’m sure you would find that easy to do, since you’re a goddamn murderer.”

He swipes a hand and I’m being hauled in an instant, forced to sit upright, the invisible force holding me firmly in place. Soft fingers catch my chin. Tips it up to meet his gaze. “You want me to kill you?” he whispers.

“I would rather die than be here with you,” I spit out. “Kill me right now.”

His thumb brushes the curve of my cheek. Then he smiles. “My dear sweet girl,” he says. “I do not like throwing away what’s mine.”

I jerk my face away, scowling.

“I have scoured entire lands in search of you. You did not make it very easy for me.” He pauses, as if to think, his usually blue eyes taking on a deep navy as they observe my breathing. I try to calm myself. The last thing I want is to have a panic attack in front of this asshole.

“I could never find precisely where you were, but I did not mind the frustration of it,” he continues, his fingers brushing down the column of my throat. I’m tempted to break his fingers but I’m horribly motionless. “You have always been an anomaly of some sorts.”

“What?” I croak.

“You have always evaded me,” he goes on, fascination marring his strong features. “Always managed to slip away, and you weren't even aware. It was almost impossible for me to believe that you were completely oblivious to the fact that you were blocking every single one of my attempts to ransack that brain of yours.”

I flinch when he presses the pads of his fingers against my temple. Taps it twice. “I could never get in here.”

I don’t say anything.

His eyes search mine for a long moment, like he’s trying to look past them. I worry for a second that he can actually read my mind, that he can do more than whatever this is.

He dismisses whatever thought he has with a wave. “Oh well. I am a patient man,” he says. “I’ve been so, so patient, and now, my patience has proven itself to be immensely rewarding.” His face breaks out into a wide, wide smile.

Anger suddenly carves its way into my consciousness, and, if I were sure I stood a chance against him—or could move, for that matter—I’d knee his balls. “You are a monster.”

He seems to contemplate that. Then he simply nods. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“You’re a fucking freak. You— you killed them. You’re a killer. How did you… how could you— I—“

Morbid curiosity fills me in spite of myself. I want to ask all the wrong questions. I want to ask how he did it, how he could just snap a human body like that... but it's wrong, so wrong. I'm still trying to erase the gruesome images from my head. Still holding onto the brittle hope that this is just one bad dream.

I clear my throat. Clear it again. “You killed them.”

“I did, yes.”

“And you feel no remorse. You—you have blood on your hands and you are not even guilty. You're a killer.”

“My memory is perfectly intact, yes. You do not need to remind me.”

I'm so stunned I don't know what to say to that. I let my face morph, no longer finding it in me to pretend.

I’m disgusted.

I’m angry.

I’m in disbelief.

And somewhere deep down I feel betrayed.

“You’re a monster.” The words shake on my tongue. “I don’t even want to look at you. You—you disgust me.”

Henry flexes his jaw. Stares at me for one moment too long. His expression is smooth and disturbingly devoid of emotion.

Then he drops his hand from my face and takes a small step back. The retreat surprises me. “I was trying to save you.”

“Save me?” Memories of their bodies burn behind my eyes and I shut my eyes to ward it off, to keep from throwing up, but I can’t scrub it away and they keep swimming and swimming and their limbs twisting and twisting and I—

I’m breaking.

“They were human beings.” My voice cracks. “They—they had families. They had dreams!”

“And you? Do you not have dreams?”

I say nothing to that.

“Do you not have a life worth saving?” he presses on.

“I don’t give a fuck if they were trying to get me,” I blurt out. “You don’t get to play fucking God.”

“And they do? They’re allowed to play God?” he lets out a humorless laugh, then leans over me. “The men I killed would have captured you without so much as a second thought. If you begged for your life, would they have stopped? Would they have thrown down their guns and called it a day?”

I shake my head, blinded by my fury, blinded by my tears that are coming in hot and heavy. “You’re a hypocrite. You’re so much worse. You give me so much shit about being a thief. You humiliated me.”

“Oh, yes. I made you apologize for breaking into my home. How truly catastrophic for you,” he tilts his head. “I suppose the concept of accountability is entirely foreign to you.”

“I hate you,” I hiss.

“Of course you do,” he murmurs. “I don’t expect anything more. I never asked you to view me as a hero.”

“I never asked you to kill anyone.”

“Why? Because it’s wrong?”

“It’s always wrong. You make me sick.”

“Says who?” he asks sharply. “Morals are a luxury of the safe. The privileged. Those who do not need to worry about staining their hands to survive. The men you grieve for would never grieve for you, and yet here you are. Why do you cry for them, love?”

I yank frantically against the force but my body still won’t budge. “Let me go.”

He closes the distance between us, his face hovering just a few inches from mine. I can feel his warm breath brush against my lips with every slow exhale. “Why, sweet girl, do you allow yourself to be dictated by arbitrary illusions? A painstakingly boring performance all in the name of order,” he says softly. His gaze drops to my mouth before they flit back to my eyes. “The world is full of people who would rather show their good side. I have shown you the worst of me, and yet somehow, you have decided that I am the only one undeserving of redemption.”

“What do you want from me?”

“That,” he says, suddenly pulling away and straightening up, “is a very stupid question. I want you back.”

“Want—want me back?”

He hums and flicks his wrist. Across the room, the closet door swings open and I watch as two dark leather gloves emerge from the dark, flying straight into his grip. “Yes,” he whispers with a smile, slipping them on. “And I have a reason to believe you are already starting to remember.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

He looks at me tentatively. I feel oddly vulnerable under his gaze, strapped to his fucking bed by a goddamn force I can’t even see.

Suddenly, I feel the weight slither off me, and I’m about to take this chance to clamber away when it comes back again, this time around my waist, my thighs, my ass.

I suck in a startled breath as my body lifts from the bed.

“What— what are you doing—“ I breathe, trying to claw at the air, but the force catches them too and pins my hands to my sides. “Are you… are you going to kill me?”

He doesn’t answer me as he hoists me up into the air until I’m floating upright, being pulled closer to him, my own body closing the inches between us. I’ve never been more defenseless in my life. This feels somehow worse than being pinned to the bed. What the fuck is he trying to do?

“I will never hurt you.” His tone is unexpectedly soft, warm and earnest; it makes my head swim. I don’t understand how someone like him—someone who had just murdered three people—can sound so genuine. “You should know that by now. Are you afraid of me?”

“I would never be afraid of a coward like you,” I grind out. “You are pathetic in my eyes.”

He huffs out a small laugh. “Well, at least you are not afraid. I prefer your defiance over your fear. You have always been a wild one.”

I glare at him. “Let me go, Henry.”

He laughs again, louder this time, and he looks so delighted with himself it’s actually petrifying just how much it makes him look… beautiful? He looks beautiful when he is happy, but there is nothing to be happy about.

It’s like the more I stay here, the more I lose my mind. I almost forgot I’m still floating mid fucking air.

“Can you say that again?” he whispers.

“Say what?” Can he read my mind?

“My name.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“I want you to say my name again,” he says. The force suddenly yanks me closer, eating the infinitesimal distance between us until his minty scent is violating my nostrils once more. “Will you say it for me?”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“For you, yes.” His breath skims my lips, warm and intoxicating. “It has been so very long,” he whispers tenderly, “so, so long since you said my name. I’ve been aching for it, Pretty.”

My lips part around a gasp.

Pretty.

Henry studies my eyes, carefully at first, and then he must have seen something because his gaze shifts ever so subtly, like something lit them up, ignited by realization. He watches my face eagerly, raw hunger setting his blue eyes ablaze. I startle when his hand slides up the side of my neck, digging his fingers into my nape. “You remember me?” he asks, though it’s more like a statement than a question. “Do you remember me?”

I’m too stunned to speak.

“I was right,” he says, holding me tighter, running his fingers down the hollow of my spine until they find the small of my back. He presses me flush against him, destroying the last bit of air separating our bodies. “I knew you’d still be there. I knew it. I was right,” he says, leaning his forehead against mine. “I have been waiting for this moment. I have spent every single night of the last several years wishing for nothing but this. To be this close to you again. And it felt so agonizingly long that I never want to go through that again.”

“I still don’t understand,” is all I can say. I’m breathless.

“You need to remember everything,” he says hurriedly. “And you will. You will remember everything, and you will fight beside me.”

“I don’t understand—“

“I need you,” he whispers against my lips. His other hand finds my throat, his thumb sweeping over the underside of my jaw. “This,” he says, “this has been causing you so much pain, right?” He presses his thumb on the spot firmly and I hiss. Familiar pain jolts through my body, sharp and electric, though this time it’s significantly muted. Henry’s eyes flash with worry and he immediately eases the pressure, brushing over the skin with featherlight touches as if to coax the pain away. “I’m sorry. You’re okay, love. I can fix you.”

”Henry please,” I pant out, closing my eyes shut. “What’s going on.”

”You will understand soon, once I remove it. I will take all the pain away from you. But you need to promise me one thing in return.”

I swallow hard. “What… promise what?”

”Promise me you’ll stay,” Henry breathes. “Promise me you will join me.”

I shake my head. “I’ll never join you. You’re nothing but a mons—“

”For now,” he cuts me off sharply. “For now that is how you see me, that is how you see this. But very soon, you will see the truth. I am very patient. I have all the time in the world.”

”What truth? What do you mean?”

“That you are in love with me.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “That together, we are limitless, love. We can set fire to the world,” he says, his thumb stroking over the same sensitive skin of my neck. “You just need to join me, Zero.”

CHAPTER 6

I feel strangely slow today.

Like my limbs are made of steel and I’m wading through mud.

It’s a pleasant, floaty feeling and I kind of like it. It’s how I’ve always imagined being on a cloud would be.

This is probably the most relaxed I’ve been.

Well, the most relaxed I will be, if only the goddamn beeping would stop.

I groan and pull a pillow over my head. I’m thinking about throwing El’s alarm clock out the window— and so help me God I actually will if it rings one more time.

Just kidding, I love my sister. She’ll probably kill me if I do that.

It beeps again, the sound clearer this time, and I frown. Actually, it doesn’t sound like El’s alarm. Maybe someone’s calling me?

Nah. I would know, because I’m not a boring cunt. I only use Usher’s Hey Daddy (Daddy’s Home) as my ringtone.

Beep beep beep

With another groan, I shove the pillow away and sit up.

It turns out to be a horrible idea, because sharp pain erupts at the back of my hand and my head spins, a wave of nausea washing over me. I’m instantly sober, the last dregs of sleep leaving my body as my eyes snap open and blink at what seems to be a hundred fucking suns.

Fuck, why is it so bright here?

My focus sharpens on the room around me. Still too fucking bright, white all over, except for the brown sofa in the corner and a large TV with Netflix on display.

God, don’t tell me.

Don’t tell me I’m in a hospital.

My gaze drifts to my hand, which has been throbbing since I first gained consciousness, and I frown at the long plastic tube attached to me, confirming my worst fear.

Everything comes crashing back into me.

My skull being split open by the pain. My neck. El sobbing and Hopper’s strained face as I thrashed on the floor. The crazy dreams— or hallucinations, I don’t even fucking know anymore.

Then the events prior to that, with Henry being at the helm, talking about knowing how to help me before pinning me against the desk. The taste of his lips, the feel of his skin—

Goddamnit. I’m going crazy.

So much has happened and I don’t even know where to start and what to make of them, much less decide a reasonable plan about it.

I blow a sigh of relief when I see my phone on the nightstand, wasting no time to grab it. Notifications immediately flood my screen when I connect to the hospital’s free WiFi. Majority of them are from the group chat; concerned messages from my friends while mentioning my username a billion times, one private message from Steve saying: ‘If you die on me I’ll bring you back to life and kill you myself.’ And another from Max saying she hopes I’d wake up soon and that she’ll visit again tonight.

I’m about to type a reply when a new notification pops up, causing me to nearly drop my phone.

Unknown: Thank me later, little thief.

My eye twitches at the message.

Little thief.

This motherfucker.

I ignore every instinct telling me not to reply, not to play into his games, but my fingers are already flying over the keys and hitting send before the better more rational part of my brain could stop me.

Me: how did you get my number, asshole?

He reads it immediately, and my heart jumps to my throat at the little dots bouncing up and down.

Unknown: That’s no way to show gratitude. You’re breaking my heart.

Me: gratitude for what? oh right, for stalking me and being a goddamn creep. go to hell, professor.

Unknown: I have a first name, you know? Though I must admit… I’m not opposed to this arrangement if it pleases you. You are always welcome to call me Sir, too. (wink emoji)

My mouth drops. Is this guy serious?

Me: over my dead body, bitch. gtfo

Unknown: What does ‘gtfo’ mean? Text me properly.

Me: it’s get the fuck out, do you live under a rock or what?? you can’t be that clueless

Unknown: Mind your language. It’s a pity to see such a pretty mouth be thoroughly wasted on vulgarities.

Me: get the FUCK out. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Unknown: Is this your way of flirting with me? I can think of a far more exquisite use for that mouth.

I scoff at my phone, hating the way my cheeks are heating up. I’m so mad. So so mad. It’s the only explanation.

Exquisite use for my mouth.

What the hell does that mean?

I mean, I know what it means, but surely he doesn’t mean it that way? Right?

I keep staring at it, my foot bouncing under the blanket as I try to think of a good threat. I don’t reply nearly fast enough because he sends another text.

Unknown: Is someone flustered? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it. I can see the cogs working in your clever little brain. Tell you what. I’m at the Hawkins Hospital, since a certain thief decided to stab me. You can always stop by if you find yourself tempted by my offer.

My foot stops fidgeting and I re-read the text. I re-read it for the next five minutes to be exact, trying to register the words, then panicking, because he’s here too. Does he know I’m here? I wouldn’t even be surprised.

Just my fucking luck. I’m convinced I did something truly reprehensible in my past life to deserve this kind of karma.

I’m about to curse his bloodline in ten different ways when I hear footsteps outside my door.

A few seconds later, my door is shoved open and Steve comes rushing in, face flushed, eyes bloodshot. He has a white balloon in one hand and a ridiculously big basket in another, all while staring at me like he’s witnessing the second coming of Christ.

I grin, pocketing my phone away. “Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?”

Huffing, he narrows his eyes as he walks toward me, tossing the gifts on the bedside table.

Just great. That look can only ever mean one thing and I really don’t want to have to sit through ten minutes of Steve being Steve.

“If you’re here to ask about what happened, I’m just as clueless as you are,” I tell him.

He drags a chair and sets it next to my bed to sit. Runs a hand through his hair and levels me with a concerned look.

“Your hair looks like shit today, Harrington.”

“I gotta ask—“

“Man, I’m fucking starving, I hope there’s actual food in that basket. I’m not eating hospital f—“

“The OxyContin.”

I pause. “What?”

“Where are you getting them? The pills?”

His question lands like a punch to my gut. I can only stare at him as my mind races. How did he know?

My mind flashes to El, but I push the thought away just as fast, refusing to believe it. El wouldn’t have told him. I’m one hundred percent sure. She wouldn’t. She knows how much it would hurt Hopper if he found out I’d been pulling shit like that right under his nose. She would never do that to him, and she would never do that to me.

Unless Jason himself ratted me the fuck out.

But the thought deflates just as quickly too, because there’s absolutely no way Jason would rat me out without exposing his own stupid side hustle, and I know he’d rather slam his dick in a car door than let anyone see him as anything less than the golden boy of Hawkins University.

In short, he puts his pristine image above all else and would never do anything that would ruin what he spent years curating.

Which leaves me with just one person.

I know exactly why you have been stealing.

I’m very aware of your secret.

I’m willing to offer you a way out of your mess.

My jaw clenches.

No way Henry fucking Creel told them.

“That bitch,” I breathe.

“Who’s a bitch?”

I look up, startled. Steve’s face hovers close, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. It’s only now that I’m seeing how tired he is. He has horrible bags under his eyes, and I don’t think he even bothered with his hair routine. “Nobody important.”

He lets out a defeated sigh. Places a hand over mine. “Can we please talk?” He pleads. “Please? I need to know what’s going on, I’m serious. What’s up with the pills?”

I shake my head. “Steve…”

“Is it true?”

“You don’t understand—“

“Let me,” he pushes. “Let me understand what’s going on with you. I’ve been so worried for the past few days. You’ve been ignoring my texts since the last heist, and now I’m finding out you’re using…” he stops. “Can we talk about that? Is it—“

“It’s true,” I whisper. “I’ve been using them, yeah.”

His eyes soften. “Why?”

“Why?” I can’t help a laugh. “Because my head is trying to kill me every fucking time, Steve.”

“Your head?” He frowns. “Is… is it the stress? The heists? You don’t have to do them if it’s too stressful. I’ll even call everything off, I’m sure they’d understand.”

Huh?

“You don’t… you don’t have to do this alone,” he goes on. Leans closer and takes my other hand. He squeezes them gently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t come to me. We’re going to get you the right help, okay?” He says. “Fuck, you don’t even need the Oxy. If it’s… if it’s a shrink you need, I can find you the best one in the state. Or a really good place. A really good rehab, y’know? Somewhere private.”

Oh. “Steve, that’s not what I meant.”

His eyebrows furrow. “What are you trying to say?”

“I meant it literally,” I sigh, leaning back into the pillow. “Like, literally. My head fucking hurts all the time. Actually, it’s my neck. It starts in my neck and then turns into this— this really, really bad headache that makes me want to wish I don’t have a head.”

Steve blinks. “What? I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“You’re saying they’re not regular headaches. Did you ever get them checked out? By a doctor?”

At that, I laugh, pulling my hands away from his. “Of course I did. Multiple times, really. You know what they did each time? Asked me a bunch of bullshit, that’s what.” I snort. “It’s always ‘Are you eating well?’ ‘Did you get enough sleep?’ ‘Are you stressed about something?’” I glare at the wall. “Man, fuck hospitals. Do I have to sell my kidney just so I can afford more useless questions from them?”

Steve drops his head into his palms. “Jesus Christ,” he groans. “How long has this been going on?”

I shrug. “A couple months now?”

He makes another pained sound that makes me roll my eyes.

“You’re dramatic, Harrington, I’m fine now. I’m awake. Good as fucking new.”

“Yeah well.” He juts his chin toward the door. “Hopper’s out there somewhere trying to rip someone’s throat out. He thinks they got it all wrong. Said you would never touch that shit, so he’s making them redo the labs.”

A knot twists in my stomach. Hopper knows.

“What do you think’s happening?” Steve asks. “The doctors… they—“

“They never mentioned anything about my neck, did they?”

“…No,” he says quietly. “Not really, no.”

“Yeah I figured.”

“Do you know what it is?”

I stare at the ceiling. “I wish I did.”

He sighs. “Shit, man.”

I really agree.

“Do you think it’s n—“

The door swings open so hard it rattles in its frame and Steve practically jumps out of the chair, spinning around.

If Steve looks like shit, then Hopper looks about ten times worse. His eyebags are deeper, his eyes bloodshot, his face red. He’s still wearing the same clothes I last saw him in, though they now look crumpled.

“Get out,” Hopper barks.

Steve blinks, steps in front of my bed instinctively. “Oh uh, hey Chief—“

“I said out, Harrington.”

Steve shoots me an apologetic look over his shoulder. I give him a tight nod.

“Ha-ha, right,” he winks, offers Hopper a 2-finger salute, then disappears out the door.

Just fuck me with a chainsaw. Please and thank you.

Hopper is standing at the foot of my bed, drawing in slow, shaky breaths, clearly trying—and failing—to suppress his anger. I’ve never seen him be this furious before, and Hops is always grumpy,  so I know I’ve truly, royally fucked up this time.

He tosses a crumpled paper onto my lap. “Care to explain to me why the hospital just handed me a sheet confirming my kid is using opioids?”

“I—“

“I’ve spent half my life cleaning other people’s messes in this godforsaken town,” he cuts me off. “But nothing could’ve prepared me for this. This is your mess, kid.” He gestures to the paper. “What’s that all about? Oxy fucking Contin? I’ve got my kid sneaking around like a junkie, is that what we’re doing now? You just… you don’t give a damn anymore? Are you trying to put yourself in a body bag?”

My fists clench. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Goddamnit!” He slams his hands down on the guardrail and my soul nearly leaves my body. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not! You don’t get to brush this off, Y/N. I’m not trying to be a dick, but you’re young. Too young to be dealing with shit like this,” he growls. Takes a step back and rubs his face with one hand. “Fuckin’ hell, if you can’t get through the day without a pill, tell me,” he says, his voice cracking. “Tell me when you’re okay, tell me when you’re not okay, but don’t lie to me.”

My mouth opens, but the words remain stuck in my throat like a huge lump I can’t push out. I want to tell him so many things, I want to scream, I want to yell that I’m not an addict, that I fucking hate taking them, I hate how dependent I’ve become— how fucking useless I feel. I want to say sorry, I want to lay everything out for Hops to see that I didn’t mean to hurt him.

But I can only look down at my lap, watch the crinkled paper blur. I blink and blink and blink, staring wide-eyed at the paper to keep the tears from forming.

Please don’t cry. Please don’t.

But I can already feel them spilling over and my hand immediately flies up to catch it, wipe it away before Hopper notices.

“Hop, I…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry.”

Silence.

I feel the mattress dip down as he sits next to me, his large hand coming up to brush the hair out of my face. “Don’t be sorry, be better,” he says.

I only manage a nod as I wipe another stray tear. Fuck this is so pathetic.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything, kid.” He reaches out and takes the paper from my lap. Throws it into the nearby trash can. “You know I try. I try to have as much time as I possibly can with you and El. I try to understand. I don’t like being the angry man in the house.”

“I know,” I say. “I know, Hops.”

“They want to put you under mandatory observation,” he says. “You’re going to stay here, we’re bringing in a doctor— a shrink— and you’re gonna tell them the damn truth. You’re not gonna lie to them. And once that’s cleared, you’re coming home with me, you’re eating three meals a day, get better, keep your nose clean, and pray to whatever god I don’t catch you with another pill, you understand me?”

I blink up at him. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he exhales. Stands up. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, then remembers where he is and grumbles something before shoving it back.

“I gotta get some paperwork signed,” he says, his tone much softer now that he’s gotten it out. “Don’t get any funny ideas, don’t even think about going anywhere without letting me know,” he warns as he pushes the door open.

He lingers there for a bit, his gaze solemn, and it makes my heart crack.  With one last look, Hopper says, “I’m glad you’re okay, kid.”

And then he’s out.

I only wait one full minute before grabbing my phone and sending an emergency text to the group chat.

I’m sure Hops will forgive me.

I hope.

***

“So. Are you guys in?”

Everyone exchanges glances, then back at me. The gang got here an hour ago, just fifteen minutes after I sent my message, and I spent said hour finally coming clean with the stupid neck pains and of course, pitching my wonderful idea, only stopping whenever the nurses came in to prod around, which was a fucking lot.

“You want us to help you break out of the hospital?” Lucas repeats very slowly.

Hey, I have no choice.

“Something like that.”

Lucas drops into the seat next to Max. He seems to be going into shock.

“I’m down,” says Max, shrugging. “Dunno about you guys, but hospitals are such bullshit. I believe they won’t be able to help Y/N at all.”

Lucas' eyes go wide. “Are you crazy? We can’t just smuggle her out of here, there are cameras everywhere. We’re all gonna get in trouble!”

“Not if someone disables them,” Dustin pipes in thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

Everyone turns to stare at him.

“Not you too,” Lucas groans, slamming his hands over his face and pulling on the skin under his eyes. “Don’t tell me you guys are actually considering this. This could go horribly wrong.”

“How?” Will asks quietly from his spot next to Mike.

“How?” Lucas throws his hands in the air. “If we get caught, we’re going to actual jail, you guys. Mike?” He turns toward Mike, who’s looking way too focused as he types something on his phone.

He lifts a shoulder. “How’s this any different from the heists we pull? I’m in if everyone’s in,” he says, still typing while his other hand is resting on Will’s knee, rubbing gentle circles there.

Lucas slumps back in his chair, stares at the ceiling. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Come on, you guys,” I insist. “We don’t have much time. Hopper’s going to come back any minute now. I need to get out of here right the fuck now.”

“What’re we gonna do once we’re out?” Lucas points out. “We don’t even have a car.”

“Steve does,” I say, turning my attention to where Steve is standing. “Right, Steve?”

He freezes. Looks around. Then makes a face when he realizes I’m dead serious. “Okay, woah there, hold on. My car? Yeah right, no,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “We’re not using my Beemer as a getaway car. My baby’s a beautiful classic, okay. I’m not incriminating her for whatever this is.”

“Come oooon!” I throw a pillow at him. “I thought we were friends, Harrington. Where’s the loyalty?”

“My loyalty lies in making sure none of our asses land in jail, genius.” He fires back, throwing the pillow onto my lap. “You guys really wanna wrestle with hospital staff?”

“Guys,” Dustin snaps his fingers in our direction. “Chill, okay.” Then he counts off his fingers: “We’re not going to jail. Nobody’s wrestling with hospital staff. Yes, we’re using Steve’s car as a getaway. No, we’re not incriminating it.”

“Her,” Steve corrects him, deeply offended. “And no, we’re not using her as a getaway.”

Dustin ignores him. “Leave the cameras to me. This would be so much faster with Suzie’s help, but I’m not sure she’s awake right now and I don’t wanna disturb the sleeping beauty.” He unzips his backpack and pulls out the chunky laptop—the one he always uses for our heists—and flips it open.

“You guys cannot be serious.” This, from Lucas. “Will?”

Will looks up, surprised. He’s about to answer when Mike grabs him by the nape, yanking him closer to whisper something in his ear. Will visibly blushes and giggles. “I’m going,” he says sheepishly. “Mike’s right. This isn’t any different. Why draw the line at stealing? That could also land us in jail.”

I really doubt that’s what Mike told him, but I don’t bother to point it out.

“Unbelievable,” Lucas shakes his head, standing up. He begins walking towards the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Max pushes off the wall, chasing after him.

He pauses at the doorway. Looks back over his shoulder with a heavy sigh. His gaze is on me when he says, “Someone has to keep watch.”

A grin creeps up my face. “I owe you, Sinclair.”

He just gives me a small reluctant nod as he slips out into the hallway with Max in tow.

“We’re in,” Dustin announces out loud, tapping a couple keys. “We’re officially invisible, ladies and gentlemen. This loop should be good for—” he squints at the screen “—give or take fifteen minutes. Let’s get moving, people! Come on!”

“Fifteen minutes?” Steve gawks, already lunging forward to grab his keys from the table. “Christ, Henderson, you’ve totally lost the plot.”

Dustin shoots him a glare. “It’s a loop, Steve, do you want to make a better script? No? Then shut up and get going.”

“My god, stop the bickering,” Mike steps in between them, waves a big paper that I assume he snagged from the suspiciously clean square on the wall. He smacks it next to Dustin’s laptop, pointing at something I can’t see from the bed.

“Fifteen minutes is plenty if you two don’t stand there arguing like a married couple. Lucas just messaged me; he and Max will take the east stairwell to watch out for Jim, so we can’t go there.” He moves his finger across the paper. Taps a vague spot near the bottom. “There’s a delivery exit right here, right behind the west cafeteria. This should drop us at the edge of the woods. There’s also a cobble path there that leads to the employee lot.” He gestures at Steve. “You can wait for us there with the car. It’s faster that way. Take Dustin with you. I don’t wanna hear anything else from the both of you.”

I sit there, momentarily stunned. I often forget that Mike has a personality outside of drooling over Will. It’s kind of hard to think about one of them without the other, but when push comes to shove, the guy can actually plan. I can totally see why Will is crazy about him.

I slither off my bed and manage a couple steps before something tugging on my hand makes me stop. “Uh. Guys?”

They all freeze, turning back to look at me.

“What?” Dustin asks, his laptop halfway to his bag.

“What happens if I rip this IV off my hand?” I start, then decide I don’t care and just yank it off.

***

A lot of blood, as it turns out.

In retrospect, I should have thought that one through. It’s quite inconvenient sneaking around with a bloody gauze around my hand without, you know, rousing the staff’s suspicion, but we’re doing pretty okay. Thank fuck for the vending machines and the curtains, which made hiding significantly easier.

The three of us manage to make it to the west wing— just two more turns before the promised stairwell when Mike’s phone rings.

“Fuck, Mike! Mike!” Dustin’s voice comes through, frantic and breathless. “Where are you guys? Abort the cafeteria route! Abort right now! One of the guards just turned, he’s heading down the west corridor. Do not go there, wait for my cue—“

“Shit,” Mike hisses, both him and Will whisking me behind a large plant. “We’re in the west corridor right now,” he tells the phone.

“Double back. Get out of there!”

“On it.” Mike ends the call, throws his phone into his pocket as he turns to us. “We need a distraction. We need to draw him away from here.” A pause. “I’ll—“

“I’ll do it,” says Will.

Mike’s about to say something, but Will’s already stepping out from behind the fake fern, dragging his sneakers loudly as he walks away from us.

“Hey! Who’s there? This floor’s closed to visitors!” Someone shouts. Their heavy footfalls gain speed a few seconds later.

A loud clatter.

“You little—“

Mike swears under his breath. His pupils are blown wide, barely containing his worry as he peers over the fern. “Shit,” he mumbles, runs a trembling hand through his hair. “I need to… I need to…”

“Go, I understand.” I swallow, my own adrenaline spiking. “I’ll meet you guys there. I know where. I know what to do.”

He hesitates only for a second, then sprints out into the open, his sneakers squeaking as he takes off after Will.

“Stop right there! Both of you!” The guard barks.

I hold my breath for several long beats, keeping myself flat against the wall as I wait for their footsteps to disappear. The moment they do, I flee from my hiding spot, my steps careful and quiet as I prowl through the hallway.

I know I’ve snuck around a million times— I’m the gang’s designated infiltrator, after all, but I’m suddenly acutely aware of the stakes and the very ugly possibility of getting caught that it feels different, somehow.

I turn a corner and come to an abrupt stop.

My attention is on the four men at the far end of the hallway. The three of them stand rigidly, clad in black shoes and matching grey suits, looking like they just freshly crawled out of an espionage show. The fourth man, however, is completely out of left field— a local Hawkins police officer, if the badge on his faded uniform is anything to go by.

My  gaze slides to the man talking, deep unease prickling at me.

“Thank you, officer. We appreciate your help. Rest assured, your superiors will hear of your exemplary work.”

A gruff chuckle. “No need. Just doing my job, sir. Glad I could be of service. If you need anything else, just gimme a heads up.”

The officer extends a hand, which the man in the center firmly takes with a smile.

A damning sense of recognition slashes through me and I stumble back too fast, suddenly too stupid to remember how to walk, how to run, my heel catching against the floor with a squeak.

Their heads snap in my direction, and my world narrows to a pinprick when I lock eyes with the man in the middle. He also freezes in place, stunned— momentarily mystified, and I watch in horror as his expression changes, shifts into something that tells me he recognizes me too.

His hair catches the harsh light, each strand white like silver threads— spun too fine, too white, combed back too perfectly. Unmistakably him. The doctor in my hallucination, my dreams— only now he is here, unmistakably real.

As if I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, I stay rooted in place, even as the doctor begins to advance toward me.

Something’s wrong. I can’t—

A sound snaps me out of my daze; a heavy clang, so very loud and wrong, pitched down too low, too slow, like a distorted clock that I have to cover my ears and stifle a cry.

The lights overhead buzzes and flickers, shattering with an ear-splitting pop and bathing the entire hallway in total darkness. I’m breathing harshly now, my heart hammering out of my ears.

“Do not make a single sound.”

A large hand clamps over my mouth.

Taglist: @creelvx @nocasdatsgay @cristalbeesnow @heyyyygirl @mushroomwithinternetaccess @wandabillywrites

***

Chapter 5

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Terror wraps around my spine, loops down each vertebra and buries itself so deep I know it's a feeling I would never forget.

It feels like jamming a stick into wet clay, a fork into soft meat—

Henry recoils away from me, and the look on his face is one I've never seen before: pure horror flashing to raw, unbridled fury as he clutches at his shoulder, at the silver handle there.

His eyes are wide, so wide, so angry, laced with hurt and disbelief.

"You stabbed me," he wheezes. "You stabbed me?"

He actually laughs, and it’s a bitter hollow laugh that makes him look deranged. Twisted and sick, how different from the polished facade he portrays. Crimson blooms across the fabric of his shirt, his vest— a color so stark and alive and bold against the white of the fabric.

With bared teeth, he rips the letter opener from his shoulder, and a horrified gasp catches in my throat.

He looks at the bloody letter opener, then at me, back and forth, back and forth, and I see him trying and failing to understand something. I don't know what, though.

"You actually stabbed me—"

I scramble off the desk and nearly trip as I bolt for the classroom door.

"Don't you dare open that door!"

No, thanks.

My hand slams onto the handle, frantic, shaking, wrenching the stupid little metal, and I'm throwing my body against the wood but it's not budging, not letting me out.

I try again,

Again, again,

Again,

Push and pull push and pull

But it's like trying to fight a solid wall. Like there's something impossibly heavy on the other side.

"Do not shut me out," his voice comes tight, "I am trying to help you."

I spin around so fast. "Help me? You're— you're insane—"

"Please listen to me," he says again, gently this time.

"I don't need your fucking help, Professor, and I certainly don't need whatever the hell it is you're trying to play at," I say heatedly. My hand tugs at the stupid handle behind me. "Do you always do this? Prey on your students like the sick pervert you are?"

He grips the desk to steady himself, still holding his shoulder. He manages a fucking smile even through the pain.

Hell, he doesn't even seem like he's in pain. Just mildly uncomfortable, and it's fucking creepy and absurd.

Which means I probably should have stabbed him deeper. Maybe I should have gone for the neck?

"First, breaking into my house like a greedy fool," he grits, dry amusement flickering in his crazed eyes as he walks over to me. "And now, stabbing me? Are you truly so desperate for my attention that you've resorted to this."

I actually laugh at that. Desperate for his attention? This man is the most delusional person I've ever had the pleasure to meet.

No. Displeasure. There's no such thing as pleasure with this guy.

I'm fuming now, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a response.

"My offer still stands, Y/N, I can help you out of this mess. I'm willing to do everything in my power to ensure th—"

"Fuck's your problem? You don't know shit about me! So quit acting like you do!" My voice shakes with anger. "You humiliated me! And now you're using my crime as a way to get into my pants? Why? Why?" I'm no longer thinking, everything just coming out in a desperate torrent. "How the fuck did you know about Jason, asshole? Are you stalking me? Is that it? Fucking answer me—"

He grabs my jaw and I shriek, claw at him, but even with a gaping wound on his shoulder he's still annoyingly stronger than me.

"I was being generous to you," he says seriously, "but let me make something very clear. I'm still your professor and I will not tolerate any disrespect from you. If you wish to spend the rest of your life relying on Jason for your pathetic little fix, then by all means, go ahead. You are making a terrible mistake."

He releases my jaw with a harsh shove, the sudden cruelty leaving me stunned. I shouldn't even be surprised; he's always been a royal asshole, but his dismissal somehow has my stomach twisting into a painful knot.

I stabbed him for fuck's sake, of course he'd be mad.

As if the universe has decided that I'm not unlucky enough as it is, the door behind me suddenly gives way.

With a hiss, I fall backwards into the hallway and land on my ass painfully.

Fucking ouch. I press a palm to my backside and stare at the door in disbelief.

How fucking convenient that the door I've been trying to open suddenly opens.

Whatever. I've had enough of today.

Henry says nothing as he stands by the doorway, a look of utter revulsion written all over his face as he pats a black handkerchief over his wound.

He looks like he just failed to push a big shit out and I'm actually proud to say that I'm the reason for that constipated face. He looks roughed up, his hair no longer prim and proper, his dirty blonde strands sticking out messily, sweat dripping from his forehead to his throat, down to his Adam's apple as it bobbed and—

I look away. Clear my throat. I'm glad I stabbed him.

The prick had it coming. How dare he put his nasty lips on mine. Stalk me. Act as though he cares about my connection with Jason. I still don't understand how he found out about that or how much he knows, but right now, I don't even have the energy to care.

Fuck this whole university and fuck him.

Wait. No, that's gross. Not in that way.

Fuck, what's wrong with me today?

"If you're done being a nuisance, I have places to be," he says, casually stepping over my legs. He's throwing on a brown suit— the one that matches the color of his vest— effectively hiding my gruesome creation.

Nuisance. Hypocritical prick.

I scowl at the back of his head. "You fucked up, professor. Your days are numbered."

He doesn't even look back as he replies, "I'm so intimidated," before rounding the corner and disappearing.

I keep scowling at the empty hallway.

"Uh."

I crane my head to see Eddie looking all confused. Though it's more suspicious than anything. He offers me a hand reluctantly. "What was that all about?" he asks with narrowed eyes.

Grinning, I gladly take his hand and haul myself to my feet. "What was what all about?"

"You're not fucking Mr. Creel, are you?" Eddie asks, still with narrowed eyes.

My grin disappears and I narrow mine right back, beginning to walk in the opposite direction of where Henry went because I don't trust myself not to stab the motherfucker again.

"That's gross, Eddie."

He scurries to catch up, matching my annoyed strides. Shoves his hands in his pockets. "Is that a no? You didn't fuck him, right? Right?"

I inhale deeply.

His question has my heart jumping erratically and I don't like it.

Technically, we didn't fuck. Not even close. I think? So I can say no. I should say no.

Did Eddie see anything? I'm pretty sure the freaky door was jammed shut, so he couldn't have.

Maybe he overhead shit?

Nope. Not gonna think about that anymore.

The horrific, disturbing images of earlier's events flash through my mind. Henry's firm grip on my hips, squeezing and rubbing the same inch of skin; his sturdy, commanding frame pressed against mine, heaving, panting, as his lips devoured me; our gasps mixing and his groans echoing and his skin on—

Okay, seriously.

"No," I mutter. "I didn't fuck him."

Eddie doesn't look convinced. "If you say so... because you seemed like you hated him. I mean, I do too, but if you actually don't, you know I don't judge. I totally get the hype, man—"

I smack his shoulder. "Please shut up."

"Ow! Hey!"

"There is no hype, okay, he seems like a raging psychopath."

"Some people are into that."

I glare at him.

"O-kay!" Eddie throws his hands up and laughs. "I'm just kidding, man. He does look like a psycho. Hey, I'll catch you later," he stops in front of a door with 'Physics' written on it, though the P is so faded it just reads like Hysics. "Can't miss a class if I want to graduate this year. Once I get that diploma I'm running the hell out of here." He flashes me an enormous grin.

I chuckle. "I'm sure it's going to be your year."

Eddie just winks.

***

The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur, with me mostly using what's left of my willpower and brain cells to power through my remaining classes. Thank fuck it's the first day of classes, otherwise I'd be falling behind. My focus has been shot to shit, and everything's just a dull sequence of professors explaining the syllabus, the grading rubrics, and whatever the fuck. I don't absorb a single word of it, sitting in the back row of every lecture hall.

By the time my last class is over, my headache has mutated from a dull throb into an intense pain pulsing from my neck.

I keep walking, however, determined to get home while checking every notification from the group chat. I ignore Steve's missed calls, though. He probably just wants to have dinner again, which I have no time for. I'm simply too exhausted to go anywhere else but my room.

I scroll through the chat bubbles to try and distract myself from the throbbing pain, finding myself amused by the three photos Dustin sent to the group chat. Three photos of Mike and Will cuddling in what seems to be a lecture hall in 3 glorious angles, with Dustin's caption: 'Get me out of this class'

I giggle at the third photo specifically, at Mike's sleepy, drooling face and Will's splendidly embarrassed face.

Steve The Hair: D's getting cranky cuz all he's getting is phone sex LOL

Lucas: Oh my god y'all

Dustin: BRO Dustin: At least I have a girlfriend????

Steve The Hair: In Utah

Dustin: You have none in every continent, what's your point?

Max: in every continent is insane (skull emoji skull emoji skull emoji)

With a chuckle, I switch to my inbox with Steve.

Three missed calls from Steve The Hair

Steve The Hair: Yoooo Steve The Hair: U wanna get scoops ahoy? Im so bored (sad emoji) my treat

Steve The Hair: Where you atttt

I ignore it and turn my phone off, making a mental note to answer him later when my head isn't being crushed under a goddamn hydraulic press.

When I arrive home, El looks up from the small cabin model she's working on and smiles. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," I say, shrugging my cardigan off. "I missed you too."

El just laughs. "Steve called earlier," she informs me as she stands up, taking my bag off my shoulder to set it down. "He was asking if you're okay. You didn't eat lunch with them and they got worried."

"Oh. I was busy." Busy trying not to murder a certain professor. I sigh, rubbing an absent hand over my neck.

El zeroes in on the motion, her smile fading. "Is it getting worse?"

I only shake my head as I make my way to the bathroom. She follows me and stands by the open door with her arms crossed. "Y/N," she says. "You're lying."

If there’s anything I hate about El, it’s that I can’t hide anything from her. She simply knows me too well, and I’m sure she feels the same way. I guess that comes with living under the same roof as Hopper’s adopted daughters. You can’t keep secrets.

I can’t even go anywhere without El somehow finding out where I am, and her threatening that she’d tell Hopper unless I come back with like, ten boxes of eggos. The greedy fucker. But I love her, regardless, and I can’t help but feel like I don’t deserve her or Hopper for being a fuck-up.

I take in a heavy breath, both palms on the edge of the sink. "I don't know what you want me to say, El."

"I want you to get better. I want you to get help. Real help."

"We already tried that. Shit doesn't work."

"Then maybe we need to look harder. Just because it didn’t work doesn’t mean we can’t try again.” El pushes, stepping into the bathroom. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re my sister and I won’t let you keep doing this to yourself. There has to be another way.”

I look up at my reflection in the mirror. I’m sickly pale, and some of my hair’s messily matted to my forehead with sweat. I barely recognize myself. My eyes look hollow.

I grip the sink harder when a fresh wave of pain erupts— and it takes everything in me to not give it away. With trembling fingers, I open the medicine cabinet; maybe I’ll go for the Advil just for show, just to make her think I’m laying off the stronger shit, but what’s the fucking point. It’s starting to hurt too much.

I grab the OxyContin bottle and slam the cabinet door shut way harder than I intend to.

“You said you would stop, Y/N. I got you some Advil, it’s right there somewhere—“

"Advil doesn't work," I say, shoving past her into the room. "You know it doesn't work."

"But the doctors—"

“The doctors don’t know shit, El. I’m getting worse and all they’ve ever done is take our money and tell us to try ice packs,” I scoff bitterly. “Well guess what, we’re thousands of dollars poorer and their cold compresses still don’t do shit. They don’t take me seriously enough to try harder beyond tests and scans and all that crap.”

El doesn’t say anything for a second, but her face kinda softens. “Jason’s just going to take all your money.”

She’s not wrong. Jason is a greedy scumbag who will likely never get off my case for as long as I’m alive. Every time I think I’ve given him enough to buy myself three weeks’ worth of Oxy, he manages to jack up the price. He has no conscience, and I’m convinced he has no soul either. He knows he’s the only one who can pull this off without any consequences, and even if he does get caught, his daddy’s money can easily bail him out in the same day.

“Dustin said you lost the pouch last night,” El says quietly. Meets my eyes.“How many pills are left in there anyway? That thing’s not lasting another week. You can’t afford another deal with Jason.”

“I know,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds— hating how right she is. She’s always right. “Fuck. I know.”

“I’m going to help Hopper with dinner,” she says, rising to her feet. She stops by the door, looks at me hesitantly. Sighs. “I wish I could help you.”

“I get that.”

She flashes me a weak smile, then closes the door behind her.

I stare at the closed door, feeling like a major asshole for the way I acted. My eyes drift to the small cabin model on the desk— a tiny scuffed replica of this very house. There's little silly figurines standing by bits of green sponge meant to resemble grass. Even though they're faceless and kind of janky I can clearly tell who they are: Hopper, her, and me. Huddled together. She's made it so the wooden hands are pressed next to each other so they're holding each other.

A heavy wave of guilt washes over me. El has always loved making these things, and I know for a fact she has at least four more hidden somewhere. But the one she took the most time on is the model of Mike's basement. She frequently tells me it's her favorite place, and since she's making one for the cabin, there's no doubt that she feels just as home here too. She never fails to show how much she cares, and I... I don't even know when was the last time I showed that I care.

More guilt carves their way into my chest, but it's instantly ripped away, the bottle of pills flying from my grip as I scream.

I think I’m screaming. It’s hard to tell.

Three months of dealing with this persistent pain, but all of those days combined will never compare to this.

It’s like something is splitting my head open from the inside— a stabbing, burning force breaking out of me, pounding at my skull, at my neck, blow after blow after blow that I can’t do anything but scream. I feel every sick, pulsating pressure— each wave crashing so quickly I don’t have enough time to breathe in between. My vision is blurring around the edges. I try to yell for help, but my jaw is clenched so tightly together that it comes out as a strained grunt. My shaking hand flies to my throat as a new wave of pain sears from my neck, climbing up into my head like cracks on a glass.

In the midst of this chaos I can hear El’s voice yelling something I can’t understand, and then Jim’s horrified face comes into view, his mouth moving hysterically but I can’t tell what he’s saying either.

“Dad?” I choke out.

There’s another wave, another white-hot explosion that ripples through me with renewed violence, and I’m drowning,

gracefully

falling into

a    da r k      p  i     t

Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop Please stop

MAKE IT STOP

MAKE IT STOP

MAKE IT STOP

MAKE IT STOP

MAKE IT STOP

MAKE IT STOP

I wonder what it looks like outside?

I am a flightless bird whose wings have been cut off.

10 steps

8 steps

10 steps

8 steps

I always turn left, over and over and over

There are four corners in the dark. One door, but it's always locked. I have tried opening it 108 times. They open it every 37,800 seconds. Sometimes they're late for an extra 912.

10 steps, 8 steps, 10 steps, 8 steps, 10 steps, 8 steps, 10 steps, 8 steps

Over and over and

Over

37,798

37,799

37,800

I hear a heavy hiss, a loud clank, and I smile because they aren't late today. Slowly, the darkness stops pressing against my eyes and warm amber kisses my face.

I wonder what it looks like outside?

"Good morning, my child."

He smells like fresh citrus. Clean detergent. My lips try to form around the word I always say. Always use. It's my favorite word. "Hello."

Step. Step. Step. "You have been doing wonderfully," he tells me. It sounds like being draped in very soft blankets. I always crave that sound, that feeling. "You are getting much better. Much calmer and more focused. Do you feel that way?"

"I...am?"

"Of course," he says easily. "You should be very proud. I am proud of you."

I smile wide. I think I like it whenever he says that word. Proud.

"But we must ensure your progress continues," he says again, and I shiver at the feel of leather on my hair. He ruffles the strands softly.

Comfort.

6 seconds pass.

"Let us begin," he says. There's rustling and shuffling and more steps, heavy steps, light steps, forming around me.

I step back, horrified. Two arms catch me roughly and I still.

"There's no need to be frightened," he tells me gently. "We are going to try something a bit different. And I think, if you try your very best for me, we might just have a special treat when we are finished. How does that sound?"

"A treat...?"

He hums. "Yes, a treat. Will you behave for me?"

I like treats. I nod.

"Very good."

A beat.

"Secure her."

Panic pours into me, hot and heavy, as loud steps fill my ears and in an instant I'm being strapped down, bands and bands and bands of leather snapping painfully around my wrists and my ankles and my chest.

I’m a flightless bird whose wings have been cut off. I wonder what it looks like to be outside?

I wonder what it's like to fly?

Someone yanks the fabric from my eyes and I instinctively squeeze them shut, hissing as bright too bright too bright t o o b r ight lights burn through my eyelids.

I feel something cold on my neck, trailing a short burning line.

My fists are balled on either side as warmth seeps out from my exposed flesh. Smooth gloves pry into the open wound, and they stab something inside there, and I'm screaming I'm screaming and all my insides are screeching.

So much pain.

I think I will die.

I'm already dead.

"Enable it," he says.

Click.

The pain jolts me forward— a powerful current landing on my neck and slithering its way down my stomach, up my head, behind my eyes, inside my brain. I cry out as my arms thrash around uselessly.

“Please stop,” I choke out. “Please stop.”

"Doctor, I think we need to reduce the load. Her vitals are fluctuating dangerously. If we don't dial back, she might go into cardiac arrest."

"Cut the feed for now."

The pain snaps off and my body slumps weakly against the straps, my arms and legs like stone. My lips are still shaped around a scream but my voice no longer exists.

It's quiet for a moment, like my skull has been hollowed out and there's nothing there.

Slowly, light bleeds back into my eyes and my head lolls around in a daze, the last residues of pain easing off.

I blink so fast, damp lashes separating until the shadow in front of me resolves into him. He is the man who smells like fresh citrus and detergent, the doctor who visits my cell every 37,800 seconds. I have only seen his face three times in the light. So I look at him carefully. I study the whites of his hair that look like silver threads, the skin of his face that looks oddly smooth for his age, the faint lines of his forehead. His clean-shaven jawline.

But then I notice him.

The boy in the corner.

I almost gasp when he meets my eyes. Even through the haze of my tears, I can't look away. I don't think I've seen him before. Have I seen him before? I've been in the darkness for so long. His eyes are a striking shade of blue like swirling tidal waves; his dirty blonde hair is perfectly combed back, and yet there's something about his beauty that unsettles me. He doesn't seem real. There's something cold and dark about him. Maybe because he's not smiling. His lips are pressed in a tight line, his sharp jawline steeled.

The longer I stare at him, the more it grows in my chest. This peculiar, disconcerting ripple of emotions I can't seem to grasp. Anger? Sadness? It's a potent mix of both and it makes me avert my eyes.

I stare at the floor instead.

"Ridiculous," the Doctor scoffs.

I force my chin up.

"One," he juts his chin towards the blue-eyed boy. "Get out. I told you to stay out."

The boy— One, I take note of his name— doesn't move from the spot. He stays standing still in his corner, his gaze locked onto mine.

"Can one of you bring him out of the chamber?" The Doctor orders. "This is starting to become ridiculous."

"Of course, Doctor."

He's still looking at me even as he's being shoved toward the exit, craning his neck and keeping me in his line of sight until he can't anymore.

A final glance at his face sends another agitating ripple through my body.

Hopelessness.

"Turn the dial back up."

Click.

"N...No—!"

Click.

“Please stop… please— … please! Please stop!"

Pl  e a  s e

S ….t ..   o..         p..

S            t.           O.          P!! . ..

M.     A kk ee.     I tt s.     St.   O p

G.  D. Aamm I.    T

“G…da… it!”

I float in the darkness for what feels like an eternity, carrying this coldness in my chest.

Is this loneliness?

My heart is a swing and loneliness is a feeling perched carefully on top.

It’s been swinging for so long so so long it’s all it can do.

"Love," a voice says to me. It sounds so far away. I want to fly towards it. It's a tender voice, a soft kiss, a damp cloth to a fevered skin.

I mumble something.

"Return to me, love."

"Mmhm—who...where? What?" I say, trying and failing to move, trying and failing to open my eyes.

It doesn't answer me.

I keep floating like the lightest feather, and I've never felt so at peace before. I am alive.

I am an aimless bird.

But something is snagging at me, pulling me away from the darkness and keeping me still. I try to push it away. All I want to do is fly. But it keeps tugging and pulling and I'm getting frustrated.

“D..n…it,” I hear faintly. “Y/N!”

It’s a different voice this time, but I think I know him.

It says my name louder, and then some more words. “Hey…— Goddammit… ome on— your eyes…w…ke up….!”

He sounds like my dad Hopper. I laugh.

The motion wakes me with a violent rush and I draw in a sharp gasp of air as my eyelids fly open.

“Breathe, kid—“

I blink up at Hopper’s bleary face. His brows are deeply furrowed and he wears a frown that makes him look ten years older. El’s face hovers right behind his, pale and tear-stained with her hands clamped over her mouth.

“There we go,” Hopper is saying. He cradles my head in his knees, brushes my sweaty hair. “There we go, it’s okay, easy, now, just breathe.”

”What’s happening to me,” I croak, “what’s going on—“

Something rings in my ears and I’m slipping out again. I feel like the room is spinning too fast and I can’t tell if I’m on the floor anymore or standing up or sitting down and I think I might throw up—

Hopper says, “It’s okay, kid,”  and pulls me in a tighter embrace, rocking me back and forth. I feel a cool towel on my forehead and the feeling makes me sigh. “You’re okay. Take it easy. Just stay awake for me, the doctors are coming, alright? Just hold on, goddammit.”

El lets out a sob and rushes over to my side, practically yanking me off Hopper. “You can’t do that,” she sobs into my neck. Pulls away to look at my face while shaking her head furiously. I have to squint to make out her features.

“You can’t. God. You’re okay. You’re okay,” she says.

And it’s the last thing I remember before I fall back into darkness.

I welcome it this time.

Taglist: @creelvx @nocasdatsgay @cristalbeesnow @heyyyygirl @mushroomwithinternetaccess @wandabillywrites

CHAPTER 4

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Philosophy. My name is Henry Creel. Please take your seats before we begin."

Henry Creel.

His name rattles around my skull, bounces off each wall. The name of the guy I'd tried to rob last night. The conniving guy who had a fucking knife pressed to my throat, made me get on my knees to beg for his forgiveness, choked me.

And now he's standing in front of the class.

Because he's my fucking professor.

You have got to be shitting me.

I can't even delude myself into thinking that he doesn't recognize me, because he's still staring at me.

Out of every possible house to rob in Hawkins, I chose his house. Because of fucking course the universe hates my guts and wants me to die.

I have the biggest urge to get up and run, but his creepy eyes are paralyzing me.

A tiny, imperceptible twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Fucking fuck, he recognizes me. Is it too late to drop out? I'm sure Jim wouldn't mind, right?

This is probably just one twisted dream— a sick joke delivered by a humorless universe, and I blink so fast so hard to try and wake up, but I don't, and he's still there standing in front of the class. As my Philosophy professor.

He's wearing a warm brown vest, fitting snug around his body like it was perfectly tailored just for him. He has a white dress shirt under, and it looks like they're two sizes too small with the way the material strains around the muscles of his chest, his lean biceps.

A red tie rests around his collar, pulled tight and clean. His skin is pale and flawless; his jawline is so sharp.

But it's his eyes that truly alarm me. They're undoubtedly the same eyes that watched me beg on my knees last night. Though his hair is no longer a wet blonde mess because they're now deftly combed back, sleek and uncompromising. He stands perfectly straight, perfectly sophisticated and self-satisfied, perfectly revolting.

I hate him. Those eyes make me sick.

Because I know who he is beneath the appalling facade he so wishes to portray. It doesn't fool me.

The room has simmered down to an intense silence and I can hear my own breathing.

"I would like to preface this by saying that I have no interest in your names, your majors, or your reasons for taking up this course." His voice booms across the hall: deep, clear, and with unyielding confidence. "I am well aware that some of you have signed up under the impression that it will be easy; that we will be huddling around a campfire telling stories about dead men asking simple questions about life." He shakes his head, adjusts the cuff of his shirt, and it allows me a glimpse of the intricate black ink across his forearm— a beautiful tattoo of the exact pocket watch I'd almost stolen last night. The same arm he used to pin me against the do—

"And some of you," he continues smoothly, "may even think that this is an entirely useless course. You believe it has no bearing on your reality, your career, your... ambitions." His eyes sweep the hall until they land squarely on me and then I'm no longer breathing. "The moment you choose something—good or bad—is already an act that engages with Philosophy. Yet, we know it goes way beyond mere choices. It touches our beliefs, our reasons for conforming, reasons for breaking the law."

"He sounds like he's full of shit," Eddie grumbles under his breath.

"Seconded," I say blankly.

Eddie gives me a sideways glance. "You hate him too, huh."

Hate would be an understatement.

"You in the third row," the Prof tilts his head towards our direction. "Since you find yourself so thoroughly engaged in an interesting conversation, perhaps you would care to enlighten the class?"

Every head snaps towards me at once. Someone coughs in the back.

I freeze in place as heat floods my face and I grip my paper so tightly it crumples in my fist.

I hear Eddie drop another pen; it rolls onto the floor with a clack so comically loud it makes me cringe.

Fucking psycho bastard. He knows what he's doing and he knows that I know that he knows.

I drop my glare and wipe my face clean of anything scornful, painting on a polite smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Creel. It will not happen again. We were just talking about how excited we are for this class."

Eddie looks at me like I'm out of my mind. Which I probably am.

The Prof's eyes glint with unexpected amusement. "Excited," he smiles, though it doesn't reach his blue eyes. "How refreshing. Indulge me then," he says, "if a man steals because he desires something he cannot have, is he merely a criminal?"

This time it's my pen that falls to the floor. It lands next to Eddie's abandoned pen.

Silence.

Another beat of silence, because I'm so greatly astonished by his audacity.

He nods slowly, shifting his focus to Eddie. "And you? Would you like to help your little friend here?"

Eddie's eyes are wide and frantic as they flit between me and the prof. He's absolutely shitting himself and I want to wipe that pompous smile off the professor's fucking face. "Uh, m-me? I'm—uh, what? Sorry," Eddie sputters. "Yes? I think so?"

The Prof cocks an eyebrow. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you?" Eddie squeaks.

The back rows break into breathy laughter. I'm not sure how long I can keep my ass glued to the seat anymore.

"Shame," the Prof shakes his head. "It seems like your friend lacks the fortitude to answer for you." He turns away, his fingers loosely clasped behind his back as he paces the length of the stage.

"To steal," he says, "is to declare your will and needs above the other. Above the law. It's essentially saying that your will matters more than theirs."

Stopping at the far edge of the podium, he pivots back on his heel, looking across the hall. "It's easy to get lost in the legality of things— the rules, the boundaries, the simple binary of right and wrong. But Philosophy as a subject allows us to look at the intent behind the transgression. The choices we make are rarely pure black or white. Philosophy forces us to understand the million shades of grey in between, the why's, the how's."

When he reaches the table in front, he leans back against the ledge, props his hands on the shiny wood. I can't help but notice the way the fabric stretches taut across his shoulders, the lean planes of his chest. It's fucking ridiculous.

"For instance," he adds, "why a person might enter a home that does not belong to them, why a person might steal, and whether or not certain punishments are justified."

I take a sharp breath. This guy needs to give me a break. As if sending me to my knees, humiliating me and threatening my life isn't enough, he's also on a goddamn power trip. Toying with me. Enjoying it.

He's insufferable.

Someone raises their hand. I'm surprised to see that it's Chrissy, the blonde girl. "What if they're stealing to survive?"

He smiles for the first time, pleased, and the sight somehow irks me. "Excellent question," he says. Chrissy very obviously blushes, widens her eyes at her seatmate. Annoyance quickly floods my system. Of course she's swooning. Everyone is fucking swooning like a moron, except for Eddie, who I'm definitely befriending after this class to bond over our mutual hatred for Mr. Creel.

You lot are idiots for not noticing this evil mongrel.

"Now we arrive somewhere interesting, leading us directly to the heart of philosophy. If survival drives the act, we begin to question whether free will truly exists under desperation." He pauses, glances at my crumpled paper, and I swear I see something spark in his eyes. "At its core, this course is a pursuit of the truth— of knowledge. We are here to question and accept that it may not have a final answer. We are to be skeptical, to challenge assumptions."

My head is starting to hurt, growing into a full-on migraine the more this asshole talks, so instead of listening I just take another piece of paper and roll it in my fist, focusing on how small I can make it.

I get to thirteen fully crumpled papers, but I'm still jittery and anxious and I can't stop squirming in my seat because I can feel his gaze burning through my forehead and it's driving me the fuck insane.

I don't listen even as he's explaining the syllabus, or the recommended textbooks, and I don't look up even as his tediously boring presentation flashes on the projector screen.

I hate that he's enjoying this, making a damn spectacle out of my incompetence last night. I should've just let him stab me.

Or I should've just stabbed him.

I make four more crumpled papers, then relief washes over me when I realize the lecture's done and everyone's already packing their things.

Wasting no time, I grab my bag and shove all the mangled papers before I jog down, eagerly squeeze past the students, and I'm three steps away from my freedom—

"A moment of your time, L/N."

My feet suddenly screech to a halt. Eddie almost bumps into me, but he shifts just in time, shooting me a sympathetic look. He’s hesitating, hovering right out the door, then Chrissy’s dragging him away by the arm and he’s gone as the last trailing students disappear through the doorway, the door gliding shut behind them.

Which leaves me and Mr. Creel alone.

Again.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I’m going to murder this dickhead.

“I must say, looking at the back of your head is getting old.”

Slowly, I turn around.

He’s leaning casually against the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, idly leafing through a massive book with one hand. It tenses and flexes under the weight of the book and I can see the veins that ridge his skin, the chains coiling and ending with the cross tattoo, the—

“Stop ogling me, love.”

My attention snaps back to his face.

“While tempting, it is highly inappropriate,” he says, setting the book on the desk and smoothing over his vest. Blue eyes lock onto mine. “Given that I am your professor.”

“What do you want, professor?” I sneer. “Are you here to force me down on my knees again?”

“My,” he drawls. “I never knew that to be an option. Did you enjoy it, little thief?”

My mouth falls open. Closes. Opens again. “I…“ I choke out. “I—“

“This is a very pleasant surprise,” he cuts me off. “And I must admit, I’m fascinated by how easily you hide such an…” he trails off, studies me. “Such an obnoxious character. This whole act of yours—“ waves a lazy hand over my body “—is utterly tragic, really.”

I gasp. “I’m obnoxious? Really? I’m not the one making women beg because I’m an asshat who gets off on humiliating others.”

“No,” he pushes off the desk and walks over to me. “I get off on humiliating you.”

The fuck. “So you admit you’re a power-hungry creep?”

“Why? Do you intend to feed my power?”

“I intend to fuck you up, asshole.” I spit out, barely containing my anger now.

His lips twitch. “How exciting.”

I stare at him. “Is this funny to you?”

“Quite,” he says, a small grin creeping up his face. “You are so defiant, so vicious.” A pause. “Breaking you would be so pleasurable.”

My mind is running wild, my lips fresh out of words and letters and I’m breathing too fast all of a sudden.

“But regardless,” he continues, “I wanted to offer you something— a way out of your mess. I’m prepared to offer you a unique proposal… out of the goodness of my heart, of course.”

Goodness of his heart. Is this guy hearing himself?

“I don’t need your help,” I snarl. “And what fucking mess? The mess you created, you mean?”

“Don’t delude yourself. I am very aware of your little secret. This,”

He reaches into his pocket, and when he pulls his hand out, my eyes widen.

He lets the strings of the familiar pouch dangle between his fingers. My brown pouch. “I know exactly why you have been stealing."

Oh God.

I step back without intending to.

What? Surely he doesn't.

"What—" my voice catches. "What do you mean why I've been stealing?"

"You know what I mean," he steps forward. "You are in trouble, are you not?"

My heart is like a rock skipping through a lake. "What?"

"You're running from something," he simply says. He's so close I can smell the tobacco and mint. "I can help you. You wouldn't even need this," he frowns at the pouch, drops it back into his pocket and pats it smooth. "You can fight ba—"

"Stop," I snap, closing my eyes shut. My ears are suddenly ringing and there's pain thrumming from the side of my neck and everything just hurts and aches. "I can't handle this. What the hell do you want from me?"

The shrill sound in my head abruptly quiets when I feel his warm touch graze my skin, trailing an electrifying line of heat on my throat until his fingers find my chin. The small gesture has me trembling, has me wanting to cry from both confusion and satisfaction as the last bits of my anger—the one emotion always at the forefront of my defense—melt away.

He tilts my face upward.

"Open your eyes," I hear him murmur.

I try to jerk my head away but fail when his firm grip finds my face instead, thumb hooking over my jaw while his fingers dig into my cheek. I hold back a whimper.

"Don't hide from me," he whispers. "I should have done this last night, but I got so confused, I even stayed up all night thinking, what are the odds?"—a scoff—"How, after years of searching for you, you could just walk right into my arms with your grubby thief hands. Imagine my surprise when I realized you don't even remember me."

My eyes fly open as panic surges through me, the adrenaline granting me strength to yank his horrid hand away from me. I stagger backwards. "What the fuck are you talking about? Are you fucking deranged?"

Henry lets out a sharp, hollow laugh. Bridging the gap between us he says, "This is amazing. I've been wondering about so many things. Why you would choose this life so willingly, committing juvenile crimes just to pay off your debts to someone like Jason Carver," he shakes his head darkly. "You could be so much more, and I obsessed over that fact that it never even occurred to me," he says, looks at me seriously. "Maybe you didn't have a choice. Maybe you didn't know you could fight back."

"And now it makes sense," he reaches out, locks his fingers around my wrist before I can flinch away. "Now you have a choice. You can fight back. I'll help you remember."

My head is swimming. Years? Fighting who back? And how the fuck does he know about Jason Carver? None of this makes fucking sense. I’ve never seen him before, and I would’ve remembered him if I did, Hawkins being the little town that it is.

He’s a crazy deranged psychopath. He has to be. A deranged stalker who dug into my life, somehow found out about Jason, and is now trying to spin an elaborate fan-fiction in his delusional little brain.

He seems like the type to do that.

“Let go of me, you psychotic fuck,” I push at him, try to wriggle my wrist free, but he counters me, pushes me back and presses me against the desk, pinning both of my hands to the edge.

“Love,” he says, and it sounds tender, sounds crazy, sounds wrong yet so right, “you have no idea how lonely it has been without you.”

He inches closer, so so close I feel suddenly claustrophobic, the edge of the desk digging deeper into the small of my back. I can’t breathe. One two three’s in my head don’t work anymore and I’m so lost, with so many unanswered questions that I’m dizzy, helpless, watching it all unfold from a seat in my brain. His blue eyes find mine and I’m shocked to find they’re no longer cold; they are streaked by speckles of warmth and tenderness that it tears me apart.

“Let me help you,” he says. “You will not regret it. Let me piece you back together. I want you to let me.”

For one mortifying moment I think he’s going for a kiss, but then his warm breath touches the crook of my neck; I feel his lips make contact with my skin.

There’s a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and to my horror it’s come from me.

“I find it terribly sad that you do not remember me when your body responds to my touch like this,” he murmurs against my skin, moving his lips to the dip of my collarbone, the edge of my shoulder to plant soft, light kisses.

I’m gripping the edge of the desk so tightly my knuckles are white; my head is full of white-noise there is barely room for more numbers.

His jaw brushes against my cheek as his head lifts and searches my face.

What he sees must please him, because he smiles. It's a soft, genuine smile. “I’m losing my control,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine. “God, I’m losing it.”

He runs a hand over the swell of my hips, and I shudder, uselessly hope that he doesn't notice it. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh there. "You make a complete fool out of me, and I let you do it."

My lips part around a gasp, and then he’s kissing me, pulling me in, hauling me up all at once so that I’m sitting on the desk. He hooks one strong arm around my waist and presses his body flush against mine, my legs parting as he slides himself in between them to get closer.

Time seems to stop. Everything knocks the breath out of my lungs. My heart is a trapped wild animal inside my ribs, screaming and thrashing around.

I gasp and gasp and gasp because it’s all I can do beneath his frantic kisses, his strong hold, his desperate, ruthless mouth that devours mine like an insatiable god. I'm so horrified, so utterly undone to find that I'm kissing back with equal hunger, and I can't find it in me to shove him away and tell him to fuck off, because that urge doesn't exist anymore, and I wonder, with a startling jab of dread, if it ever existed at all.

So I try to find out and keep kissing, keep parting my lips for his tongue to explore, and we're both gasping so much I can no longer tell up from down, right from wrong.

The taste of mint and tobacco fills all my senses, and I let my fingernails rake across his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt— let my legs wrap around his hips. He lets out a groan, and the sound rattles my bones, wakes up something from within.

"God," he rasps, "you have no idea. You have absolutely no idea."

My skin prickles with white heat, an electric jolt so potent it could bring anything back to life. His voice. His hands. They're everywhere, mapping the curve of my waist, singing praises in my ears;

You are such a good girl

You fit so perfectly in my hands

My beautiful little thief

Then his lips are trailing down the column of my throat to kiss, nibble, burn,

But the sudden absence of his lips on mine is like being dropped into ice water, and something inside my head screeches to a halt as cold air seeps back into my lungs.

Reality comes barreling into me, crashing into me and I shove him off.

And in one swift motion, I grab the first sharp thing I see and sink it into his shoulder.

Taglist: @creelvx @nocasdatsgay

Chapter 3

“What do you mean you forgot?” Dustin is saying. “You forgot the one thing you came in for?”

I groan, run a shaking hand through my hair. “I already told you, I was panicking! You didn’t even tell me somebody was inside.”

Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. “There was? Fuck— sorry, I didn’t know.” He slumps into a seat. Steve only gives me a sad smile, mouthing a sorry. I nod once. “We didn’t even see anyone enter the house. But—“ Dustin frowns, “—you should have kept your earpiece on. You need to stop turning it off during critical parts of the mission.”

“I know. Sorry.”

I’ve been shaking since I left the mansion. My back also aches with the remembered feeling of the door and the way he…

My head throbs. The thoughts gather and stay stuck in my chest like a persistent parasite and I just want to carve it out.

It doesn’t go away even as Steve presses his hand over mine and rubs gentle circles with his thumb.

I’m lying to them. Of course I didn’t forget. But what was I supposed to tell them? Hey guys, sorry I forgot the pouch, I had a knife to my throat and he forced me on my knees to apologize to him, the condescending little prick, and then I missed the pouch by an inch when I tried diving for it. That was when I started running without looking the fuck back.

And now I’m here, lying to my friends because I was a complete coward.

“Hey,” Steve whispers. “You okay? Did you get hurt?”

I keep my gaze on the floor, on the little ketchup stain that’s been here for god knows how long. “I’m okay.”

Steve doesn’t buy it. “Did something happen inside?”

“No.” A lie. Yes, yes, yes. “Nothing happened. What happened to your hair?”

He grins. “My hair’s amazing, don’t fuck with me.” Then his gaze falls to my neck, and the grin immediately disappears. “I also have eyes, you know. Who did that thing?”

My heart does a violent little flip. I look at him, taking in his concerned expression. “What thing?”

He casts a wary glance in Dustin’s direction, who’s now opening a new bag of chips while tinkering with a radio, then back at me. He gestures vaguely at my collarbone. “Those are finger marks. Someone had their hands on you. You can’t lie to me.”

I grab his hand a little too roughly before I can stop myself. “You can’t tell anyone. Especially not the gang. Promise me you won’t. Promise me.”

Steve freezes, looks down at my hand gripping his arm, then slowly brings his gaze back up to mine. The soft ease of his features— the one he always, always wears— is completely gone, replaced by a look of reluctance and what seems to be anger as his jaw ticks. It’s so subtle, I think I would have missed it if I blinked. Steve is the kind of guy who’s rarely serious, so it’s kind of disquieting whenever he is.

He lets out a deep sigh, his shoulder deflating a little. Reluctantly, he says, “I promise I won’t tell anybody. But you’ve got to tell me what actually happened.”

“It wasn’t a big deal, Steve. I’d much prefer it if you dropped it.”

“You have marks on your neck and you’re telling me it’s not a big deal?” His voice rises just a fraction, and it has me flinching at the sudden sharpness of his tone. He catches himself instantly, throws a glance over his shoulder before stepping closer. It’s with restored softness when he says, “I’m sorry. I’m just really worried about you. You don’t tell me anything anymore. I mean, you don’t have to tell me anything at all,” he motions between us. “But please don’t shut me out when you’re hurt. You’re still my friend, remember? You can’t do that to me.”

Steve’s pleading eyes are searching mine, but I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to process them as this thick fog settles over my brain. There’s warmth radiating from his chest, and I watch the way it rises and falls as he breathes evenly, and it’s suddenly too much too intense too overwhelming and everything that happened tonight slams into me all at once, removing my ability to talk.

Silence stretches between us. His expression softens even further, and he gently squeezes my hand one last time.

“I just wanted to let you know,” he murmurs, giving me space.

“Of course,” I say to him. Clear my throat. “I’m sorry, too. I…” I hesitate. “I promise I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

“Tell anyone what?” Dustin asks, and we both jump.

Steve pulls his hand away from mine as if it burned him, turning to face Dustin. He sounds irritated when he says, “Christ, Henderson. And you’re the one preaching about personal space. Stop sneaking up on people like a freak.”

“I was sitting three feet away, dumbass,” he rolls his eyes, waves his walkie-talkie, “We need to report back to the headquarters.” Mike’s basement, he means to say. “Seriously. We already have a couple in the group, please don’t add another one or I’ll scoop my eyes out.”

“No one’s adding anything,” Steve laughs a little. It’s an awkward laugh, and I offer him a half-hearted, reassuring smile when he looks my way.

“Can we please start moving?” Dustin huffs, stalks back to his little radio corner. “I know my mom is pretty lax with me being out at night, but I’m not gonna push it. I have Mr. Clarke for first period tomorrow and I’ll cry if I miss it because we took too long.”

“Who cares, Dustin, it’s the first day of classes, nobody really pays attention.” Steve says as he slips into the driver’s seat and jams the keys into ignition. The engine sputters to life, and there’s a satisfying click when he pops a mixtape into the deck, drowning Dustin’s meltdown about the importance of first impressions with the bright, crisp harmony of ‘Mr. Sandman’ by the Chordettes.

The cheerful bum bum bum bum fills the van, but it does nothing to soothe my nerves. If anything, each beat is like a hammer’s blow, driving the dread deeper and deeper into my chest, my bones. It’s a sick, nauseating feeling. I plop weakly into one of the seats and stare out the window.

I can still see the mansion even as we’re driving away, still see the room I broke into, and the black figure standing still watching me back.

***

“Well, well, well,” Lucas nudges Will, lets out a low suggestive whistle as we’re walking to campus. “What do we have here?”

Mike Wheeler strolls up to the group with a wide smile and wraps an arm around Will’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Seeing the two usually makes me laugh; Will always looks like he wants the sky to fall down on him, but he never pulls away from Mike, ever. He actually pushes into him and they walk side by side like they’re joined to the hip.

But today, I can’t seem to keep a smile on for more than five seconds without the events of yesterday flashing back and reminding me that I have nothing to laugh about.

“I think you need to get laid, Lucas,” Steve grins and gives him a shove. “Why don’t you ask Max out?”

“This might come off as a shock, but I actually love her,” says Lucas. “And that means waiting until she’s ready.”

Mike whistles. “Damn, Sinclair. You are such a goddamn gentleman.” He turns to Will. “Am I a gentleman, baby?”

Will looks beet-red. He just shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he buries his hands into his pockets.

“It’s called having respect, Wheeler. I’m not a brute like you.” Lucas shoots back. He looks over at Max, who’s walking right beside me, flashing her a cute smile.

Must be nice.

“I’m sure Will handles Mike’s brutality just fine.” Steve says with a shit-eating grin.

Mike’s about to say something, but Dustin beats him to it, marching backwards ahead of us with a stack of bond papers wedged in his arms. “You guys are a bunch of heathens. Can we please change the topic before Mike starts praising Will’s dick again?”

I cringe at the memory of that. For once, I’m grateful for Dustin’s interference.

Will’s face turns a bright burning red and he pulls his hands out of his pockets, shoves them over his face. “God, I hate you.”

Mike glares at Dustin, then nudges Will’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He’s an idiot.”

I watch the group fall into their usual bickering, Dustin loudly beefing up Mr. Clarke’s ‘radical’ teaching methods while Lucas mocks him, and Mike still aggressively whispering reassurances to a bashful Will. I tear my eyes away from them because it seems too intimate. Like I’m violating their privacy.

When it’s time for everyone to break off and everyone says their goodbyes and see-you-laters, Max’s hand startles me as she pulls me aside.

“I heard about last night,” she says without preamble.

I hold my breath. “What about last night?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “You forgot the pouch. Steve said you also fell down the stairs?”

I did? “Oh—um, yeah. I… guess?”

“You guess?”

“I mean yeah, I did. My ass is actually fucking sore.”

Max glances at my neck—can people stop looking at my neck?—and I briefly panic until I remember I’m wearing a turtleneck. “The color looks good on you.”

“Every color looks good on me,” I roll my eyes.

Max gives an amused snort. “I was just checking on you. It wasn’t a bad fall, was it?”

“I’m walking, aren’t I?”

She shakes her head, pulling her backpack more securely over her shoulders. “Okay, good. I’d hate to spend the next summer with empty pockets. Without you, the whole team would fall apart.”

“That won’t ever happen, Max.” I say, because I’m probably going back to take the pouch. But I don’t tell her that. “Trust me.”

Max just smiles, then nods. “I trust you.”

***

The lecture hall is already brimming with students when I step inside, the excitement of the crowd palpable. Though I’m anything but excited. I don’t think I even slept a wink last night; it was an hour, at best, during which he invaded my dreams.

In my dreams I was still kneeling down on the hard floor of his room, just like last night. He stood tall and proud in front of me, just like last night. He wasn’t holding a knife, though. In my dreams, he was holding a belt— the material snapping taut around his hand. Whack.

There was a look of sheer, unadulterated disgust on his face that should be making me furious, should be scaring me.

Good girl.

You’re such a good listener.

To my horror, I woke up with a wet, forbidden heat in between my legs.

And I feel like I’m holding onto the very last thread of my sanity. The nausea definitely hasn’t gotten better, made worse by the memory of that disturbing dream and the fact that I didn’t eat breakfast because of it, and now my stomach is a swirling knot and my hands are clammy and slick against my notebook.

I take a seat next to someone I don’t know and can’t be bothered to know.

“Hey,” he says. I turn to face him, annoyed, but thankfully, he isn’t talking to me, because he’s talking to the blonde girl sitting next to him.

“Oh, Eddie!” Blonde Girl beams. She’s kind of pretty. Her strawberry blonde hair frames her face cutely. “You’re also in Mr. Hargrove’s class?”

“Mr. Hargrove?” He says, confused. “He quit last semester, didn’t he?”

“Oh, wait, for real?” She blinks. She fishes her notebook out from her handbag, stares at it. “Oh.” Her shoulders deflate, biting her lips apprehensively. “I thought we were having Mr. Hargrove for Philosophy. He was so hot.”

My eye twitches, and I clear my throat.

I’d almost forgotten about Mr. Hargrove. He was practically the campus heartthrob. Everybody swoons over him like an animal in heat, and consulting him for grades was a total fucking nightmare because there’s always a long line of students blocking his office. I never understood the appeal. I mean, Mr. Hargrove was objectively hot—I cringe even thinking the word—but he was a professor. I swear, teenagers and their hormones. They lose their minds over anything.

“Who’s going to teach us Philosophy now?” Blonde Girl pouts, resting her chin in her hands and sighing heavily. “Now I have no reason to attend classes.”

The guy—Eddie, I make a mental note of his name—laughs. “You’re going to hate this. The new professor seems like an asshole, from what I’ve heard. I saw him earlier at the department office.” He leans closer to Blonde Girl, his voice dropping to a whisper, but still loud enough for me to hear. “I was trying to get my schedule fixed, right?”

Blonde Girl nods keenly.

“He humiliated one of the grad students for asking something that, I quote, ‘was clearly answered in the syllabus’,” he says, shaking his head grimly. “Then he told her to reconsider her academic future if she lacked the initiative to read.”

Blonde Girl gasps. “No way,” she whispers, horrified. “He actually said that?”

Just great. I didn’t care about Mr. Hargrove’s looks, but at least he was easy to talk to and generously gave out A’s if you flattered him enough, which I enjoyed doing. Surely this guy can’t be that immune to my charms. There are a few golden rules and levels to this, and I’ve already mastered them all.

The first rule is to always be in their line of sight, hence my perfect seating arrangement— three rows back and slightly off center; not in the front row because that makes you look like a total suck-up. The second rule is that you must always engage in eye-contact. A nod here and there to pretend like you find the topic interesting, or maybe a whole act of pretending you’re thinking; tapping your pen against your chin and furrowing your eyebrows. Third, you never ask them anything during class, because that’s too showy. It leaves a much better impact to ask them right after class.

It’s an art form I’ve come to enjoy, aside from the heists we do. Some professors are remarkably easier to charm— especially when they live for the validation of a smitten audience. It makes them feel important. And I’m more than willing to provide them an award winning performance for that sweet, sweet A+.

“Yeah, swear,” Eddie is saying while shrugging. “I already don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“You guys are being too critical,” someone says. I look over to see a girl half turning her seat to join their conversation. She’s got big eyes and a short, choppy pixie cut the color of copper. “I think he’d be your type, Chrissy. No joke. A lot of girls are wetting their panties right now. Someone even said he’s hotter than Billy.”

Chrissy scrunches her nose. “I don’t know about that. No one’s hotter than Mr. Hargrove.”

The chattering quickly dies down, and I hear the sharp squeak of chairs turning and papers frantically folding and crumpling as a tall man walks into the hall.

In the far corner, a group of girls giggle like hormonal little fucks. Beside Eddie, Chrissy also gasps, and Eddie completely drops his pen on the desk where it rolls off onto the floor.

I frown at the pen, thinking about how idiotic this situation is, before steering my gaze to the professor.

My entire body goes rigid when I find that he’s already looking at me— two eyes a striking shade of blue. Icy blue.

Deep unease prickles at my skin, at my nape, attacking me with morbid familiarity. My heart begins to pound violently. I'm surprised I’m still breathing.

He’s still looking at me when his lips part, and the sound cuts through the buzzing white noise in my head.