The smell of stale alcohol clung to the peeling wallpaper of the tiny living room. Empty bottles were scattered across the table, and cigarette smoke lingered in the stagnant air. Morning light filtered weakly through dusty curtains, painting faded shapes on the cracked floor tiles.
Seraphina Lane—Sera to the few who cared to know her—moved silently through the room, careful not to let the loose floorboards creak beneath her sneakers. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, and she clutched her laptop close to her chest, her lifeline in a world perpetually on the verge of collapse.
A guttural voice broke the silence.
"Where do you think you're going so early?"
Her father was slouched on the recliner, a bottle hanging limply from his hand. His bloodshot eyes squinted at her, barely able to focus. The bruises on her wrist throbbed under the sleeves of her oversized hoodie.
"To class, Dad," she said softly, avoiding his gaze. "It's Monday."
"College…" he slurred, lips curling into something cruel. "Think you're better than me because you're some big-shot genius, huh?"
Sera stayed silent. She had learned long ago that words only fed his anger.
"Come here."
Her stomach tightened. "I'm going to be late."
But he was already rising from his chair, staggering forward. In two steps, he grabbed her arm. The pain shot up to her shoulder, and she winced.
"Ungrateful brat," he spat, his grip tightening. "All these years, all the sacrifices I made—"
"Let go!" she snapped, pulling away. Her voice trembled, and her heart pounded in her chest.
For a second, he seemed frozen, his drunken mind processing her defiance. Then his hand came down. Fast. Hard.
The sting spread across her cheek, and her vision blurred. But Sera didn't cry. Not anymore.
Satisfied, he released her, stumbling backward into his chair and mumbling something incoherent.
With shaking hands, she adjusted her hood over her head, picked up her backpack, and left the apartment without another word.
The air outside was sharp and cold, biting against her flushed skin. Sera kept her head down as she walked briskly through the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts, toward the MIT campus. She passed crowds of students laughing, carrying coffee cups, and discussing assignments. They lived in a world she could barely touch—a world of safety, warmth, and certainty.
By the time she reached the lecture hall, her cheek had begun to swell. She pulled her hood lower, letting her auburn hair fall forward to cover the mark.
Inside, Professor Alden was already scribbling equations on the board. His sharp eyes caught sight of her as she slipped into her seat at the back of the room.
After class, as students shuffled out, Alden approached her. He was a wiry man in his late fifties with a no-nonsense demeanor.
"Sera," he said softly. "Stay behind for a moment."
She froze but nodded.
When the room was empty, he spoke again. "Rough morning?"
She hesitated before nodding once.
"You know the lab is always open to you," he said gently. "No one will bother you there."
"Thank you, Professor," she whispered, clutching her backpack tighter.
The lab was her sanctuary. Rows of high-end computers and half-assembled machinery filled the space. The hum of processors and the faint scent of burnt metal greeted her as she sat down at her usual station.
Here, she wasn't Sera Lane, the girl with the bruises. Here, she was Seraphina, the genius programmer.
Lines of code danced across her screen as she worked on her latest project—a software optimization program for high-performance vehicles. It was sleek, efficient, and light-years ahead of anything currently available on the market.
She was in the zone, fingers flying over the keyboard, when her phone buzzed beside her.
Theo Grant.
Her stomach did a little flip.
Theo had been her classmate in high school—once the smart kid with a rebellious streak, now the kingpin of Cambridge's underground racing scene.
She hesitated before answering.
"Hey, Theo."
"Hey, Sera. Long time, huh?" His voice was smooth, with an edge of mischief.
"What do you need?"
Theo chuckled. "Straight to the point, I see. Look, it's about your program. The one you've been fine-tuning. I have a client who's willing to pay big for it."
"It's not ready for sale yet," she said firmly.
"That's the thing—it doesn't need to be sold. Just installed. But it has to be you doing it. Client's orders."
Sera frowned. "Why me?"
"Because no one else knows how to handle your code like you do, genius girl."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Theo… I don't want to get involved with your world. I'm trying to build a life—a real life."
"I know, Sera," he said, his voice softer now. "But listen, this isn't just about money. This is an opportunity. Come to the race tonight. Install the program. Get your cash. And then you can walk away."
"How much?"
"Enough to get out of that hellhole you call home."
Sera's breath hitched.
"Where's the race?"
"The old airstrip. Midnight. Wear something warm—it's gonna be a long night."
The call ended, leaving her staring at her phone.
Hours later, back in her cramped bedroom, Sera stared at the small wad of cash she had managed to save. It wasn't enough—not yet.
Her father was passed out in the living room again. Empty bottles littered the floor.
She closed her eyes, clutching her laptop bag.
The choice wasn't really a choice at all.
She couldn't stay here.
The night was alive with roaring engines, screeching tires, and the distant crackle of loudspeakers. Bright headlights sliced through the darkness as cars lined up on the old airstrip. The crowd was electric—drunk on speed and adrenaline.
Theo spotted her almost immediately. He was leaning casually against a sleek black sports car, arms crossed over his chest.
"Sera!" he called, grinning. "You made it."
She walked over, pulling her hoodie tighter.
"This better be worth it, Theo."
"Oh, it will be." He gestured to a matte black car parked a few feet away. "That's the beast you'll be working on tonight."
But before she could respond, a ripple moved through the crowd. Whispers. Nervous glances.
Then, a man stepped into view.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with the quiet confidence of a predator. His sharp jawline and piercing eyes made the air feel colder. He was dressed in all black—leather jacket, fitted pants, boots that crunched against the gravel.
Sera's breath caught in her throat.
Theo leaned closer to her ear.
"That's him. Damon Hale."
The name felt like a gunshot in the night.
And as Damon's gaze locked onto her, Sera felt something shift deep inside her chest—something dangerous, something inevitable.