The rain had stopped by dawn, but the clouds lingered—thick and low, like the sky itself was holding its breath. The scent of wet stone and smoke coiled around Elira as she stepped outside, the bruises under her eyes hidden beneath her usual mask of indifference.
She hadn't slept. Not after what happened the night before.
The ribbon still sat on her desk—untouched but not forgotten. Not after what she'd found inside it. Not after what the note had said.
Not after he had signed it.
Azriel Moreaux.
His name alone was a curse now.
She hadn't seen him since the rooftop, since the moment he revealed that he knew more about her than he should—too much. She'd expected surveillance. Expected someone would be keeping tabs. But not someone like him.
Not someone with eyes like that.
Not someone who could walk through walls no one else even saw.
He was dangerous—not in the way that made girls blush. In the way that made empires fall.
Azriel leaned back in the leather chair of his father's private study, fingers steepled, eyes flicking between the surveillance screens.
Elira Vale.
She didn't know everything yet, but she would. Eventually.
She thought she could run through this city without drawing attention. That was her mistake.
She wasn't invisible.
She was a glitch in the pattern.
And Azriel had always been taught to eliminate anomalies.
But for now, he'd watch.
Study.
Because Elira wasn't prey.
She was something worse—a wildcard.
She didn't play by the rules. And neither did he.
Still, there were expectations. The family. The syndicate. His father's empire didn't tolerate chaos.
He was meant to be control incarnate. Order.
So why did she feel like gravity in reverse?
She was reckless. And loud in her silence. A girl with blood on her hands and ice in her stare.
He should have reported her already. Should have handed her over.
But he hadn't.
Not yet.
Because there was something else—something he couldn't explain, not even to himself.
Not attraction. Not curiosity.
Something primordial.
Something dangerous.
He leaned forward, pressing pause on a screen where Elira stared down at a lighter flicking between her fingers.
"What are you hiding from me, little ghost?"
The academy was colder that morning. Empty, even though it was full.
Elira moved through the halls like smoke—seen, but never touched.
Until she wasn't alone.
She heard him before she saw him.
The sound of shoes against marble. Purposeful. Clean.
She didn't stop.
Neither did he.
She reached her locker and opened it slowly, pretending not to notice the figure approaching from behind.
"Still pretending this place doesn't watch you?" he said quietly.
She froze.
Then turned.
He was closer than she expected. In a tailored coat. Unbothered. Calm.
Azriel.
The boy who had sent her a ribbon soaked in implication.
The boy who had read her files.
The boy who had seen her that night when she wasn't wearing a mask.
Her voice came out steady. "What do you want, Moreaux?"
He tilted his head. "To see if you're smart enough to stop pretending."
She slammed her locker shut. The echo cracked through the hallway like a warning shot.
"And if I'm not?"
"Then they'll eat you alive."
"You mean you will."
That smirk again—cold, calculating. Not flirtatious. Not even amused.
Just in control.
"I don't need to, Elira. The system's already set. I'm just the reminder."
She hated the way her name sounded in his mouth.
She hated more that it made her listen.
"You're trying to intimidate me."
He stepped closer. "No. I'm trying to save you from believing you're untouchable."
"I've survived worse."
"Not like this."
There was a moment of silence—a pause heavy enough to press on both of their lungs.
Then, without warning, he handed her something. A flash drive. Plain. Unmarked.
"What's this?"
"Insurance. Or a leash. Depends on how you use it."
Her fingers closed around it, slow and reluctant.
She wanted to throw it back in his face.
But curiosity had always been her first sin.
Later that night, she found another envelope.
No return address.
Inside: a photograph.
Her. At age seven. Standing beside a man with a scar under his left eye.
A man she hadn't seen in over a decade.
On the back, scrawled in ink:
"You were never lost. Just watched."
She dropped it. Her hands shook.
Not from fear.
From rage.
She didn't know how he had it.
Didn't know why he was sending her these ghosts.
But she knew one thing:
Azriel Moreaux had crossed a line.
And if he thought she'd back down—
He had no idea what kind of monster she was trying not to become.
Because Elira Vale wasn't a pawn.
She was a loaded gun.
And this time—she might just pull the trigger.
———
To be continued... 🖤