Beatrix Tate tugged at the sleeves of her too-tight uniform, feeling the stiff Academy blazer pinch her shoulders as she scanned the opulent crowd of supers. Her hand twitched toward her wrist out of habit—reaching for the smooth metal of a bracelet she no longer wore. Instead, her fingers met bare skin, and she curled them into a fist.
The hall was massive, a cathedral of glass and steel that shimmered under bright, artificial starlight. Above, holographic constellations swirled in perfect synchrony, illuminating rows of pristine tables laden with food she couldn't name. Students milled about, laughing, whispering, and occasionally throwing careless displays of power that left scorch marks on the marble floor.
She watched one boy with ice-blue eyes freeze a goblet mid-air. A second later, a girl with golden curls sent it crashing to the ground, shattering it into silver dust. No one batted an eye.
"Do you always stare this much?"
Beatrix jumped. A tall, dark-haired boy with a sharp grin was standing just to her left, his eyes dancing with amusement. He was polished in a way she'd never been—blazer immaculate, shoes that actually looked expensive. The kind of boy who wore his confidence like a second skin.
"Not interested," she muttered, moving away from him.
"Didn't ask if you were." He smirked, giving her a slow once-over. "You're one of them, aren't you?"
She stiffened. Them.
"Excuse me?"
He tilted his head toward a group of students at the far end of the hall—each wearing the same heavy expression. Leo Mercer. Vivienne Cross. Reina Voss. Kian Ashworth. All names that had been on the news for a year straight. Survivors. Like her.
Beatrix clenched her jaw. "Go away."
"You're going to have a tough time here, lab rat." His grin didn't falter. "Better get used to it."
Before she could snap back, she felt a buzz in her pockets, weird she had put her phone on Do not disturb. But then she noticed everyone seemed to have also gotten a message
Conversations hushed as everyone took out their phones
"Congratulations to my newest set of victims. Oops—did I say victims? I meant supers-in-training."
The text was smooth, melodic, and dripping with malice. It carried a lilt of amusement, each word sharp as glass.
Beatrix froze, what the heck was this? A prank?.
"Some of you may already know me from your oh-so-sinful parents who graduated from here," the text continued. "And some of you are just as clueless as the day you were born. Either way, let me introduce myself."
"My name is Whisper. Think of me as the one friend you can't seem to get rid of. I collect secrets, break them open, and let them bleed."
Someone cursed under their breath. It seemed people did actually know this person.
"Most of you will hate me. A few of you might even love me. But I guarantee, by the time I'm done, every single one of you will find me very entertaining. Especially this year's crop. You all came preloaded with so much drama, it's almost like you want me to ruin your lives."
Beatrix swallowed hard.
"Till we meet again… don't bother looking over your shoulder. I'm already there."
The text had ended there.
The dorms at the Academy were built like palaces. Marble hallways. Gold-trimmed doors. Even the air smelled expensive, like the kind of cologne Beatrix had only smelled in magazine ads.
She walked slowly, clutching the folded paper with her room number. Dorm 7, Room 5.
Her sneakers squeaked on the floor as she stopped outside. She twisted the knob. The door swung open with a quiet creak.
Inside, five beds were neatly made. The room was split into a common space and private alcoves. Plush rugs covered the floors. A view of the city skyline stretched beyond a floor-to-ceiling window.
One by one, they arrived.
Leo sauntered in first, tossing his bag onto a bed without looking at anyone. He ran a hand through his dark hair, already bored.
Beatrix watched him from the corner of her eye. She didn't need to see his face on a thousand news reports to know who he was. He carried himself like he was untouchable, like gravity bent around him even after what he had gone through, she wished she had that type of confidence.
Vivienne was next, her heels clicking sharply as she entered. Her glossy blonde hair gleamed under the light. She didn't acknowledge anyone as she inspected the room. She claimed the bed nearest the window, smoothing her fingers over the silk duvet like she was appraising it.
Her gaze flicked to Beatrix once—sharp, cold—and then away again.
Reina came in behind Vivienne. She was wiry, with dark eyes that didn't miss much. A studded jacket hung off one shoulder, and her nails were painted black. She looked around the room like she was searching for the nearest exit.
Her eyes met Beatrix's for a moment. She smirked. The smirk of someone who didn't trust anyone and didn't care if they knew it.
Kian came last. Silent. Tired. He moved like he was carrying a thousand invisible weights on his back. His sharp cheekbones and pale complexion gave him a ghostlike quality.
He took the bed furthest from everyone else. He didn't look at any of them.
No one spoke.
Beatrix dropped her bag beside her bed, her pulse thudding in her ears. She could feel the tension in the room—tight as a wire stretched to its breaking point.
They had nothing in common. Nothing except the one thing they could never talk about.
Whisper's final words from the night played in her mind.
"You came preloaded with so much drama, it's almost like you want me to ruin your lives."
She exhaled slowly.
Maybe she already had.
Beatrix woke up to a pillow smacking her full in the face.
She jolted upright, gasping as her hands shot out defensively, her mind flashing to sterile labs. But instead of danger, all she saw was Leo Mercer standing at the foot of her bed, an infuriating grin tugging at his mouth.
"You're way too deep when you sleep for a super in training," he remarked, shaking his head. "Intro to combat starts in ten minutes."
Beatrix scowled, throwing the pillow back at him. He didn't even bother dodging.
"You could've just said that instead of assaulting me."
"Could've," he agreed easily, "but I didn't." His grin widened as he turned toward the door. "Hurry up, Wildcat."
"Don't call me that," she muttered.
He didn't reply, the door clicking shut behind him. When she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked around, she realized he hadn't been lying—every bed was empty except hers.
She made it halfway through brushing her teeth before frustration boiled over.
"Wildcat." What kind of ridiculous nickname was that? Probably something he thought was clever—feral and scrappy, a nod to her background. She groaned and tossed her toothbrush into the sink, quickly tugging on her uniform.
By the time she yanked on her boots and ran out the door, she was the only one left in the entire dorm hall.
She sprinted through the gleaming marble corridors, breath heaving, cursing her luck. This was supposed to be her clean slate, her one chance to start over—not a repeat of every humiliating moment she'd already survived.
Halfway to her destination, she crashed into something—or rather, someone.
A gasp escaped as her books slipped from her grip.
Before she could react, a boot shot out, leather-dark and heavy, and hooked her falling books with the tip. A quick flick, a graceful spin—and the books were in hand before they could hit the floor.
Beatrix blinked.
The girl in front of her stood with an air of easy precision, her movements as fluid as water. She had dark hair that fell like a storm over her shoulders, dressed in black jeans, a torn jacket with silver chains hanging loose, and rings that glimmered faintly under the light, easily her type unfortunately. Her lips quirked upward as she arched a brow.
"Didn't expect to play catch this morning."
Beatrix stumbled, words failing as her cheeks flushed. "I wasn't—I didn't mean—"
The girl tilted her head, her eyes sharp with curiosity. "Newbie?"
Beatrix swallowed and nodded. "First year."
The grin tugging at her mouth softened. "Blair," the girl said simply. Her voice had the kind of rhythm that drew people in. "Second year"
Beatrix exhaled slowly. "Beatrix. Sorry for slamming into you."
Blair handed her the books, her fingers brushing briefly against Beatrix's. Then she added, almost lazily, "You're looking for something."
"Yeah, uh..." Beatrix bit her lip, shifting her weight. "Do you know where combat class is?"
Blair's smile widened, a flicker of something mischievous in her eyes.
"I might."
Beatrix waited, brows raised. When the silence stretched, she sighed. "Please?"
Blair's grin sharpened. "Only if you agree to sit with me at lunch."
Beatrix stared at her, she was suspicious, before the experiment she was just an average looking girl and as horrible as what she had gone through was, she came out a whole different level of attractive and that came with all sorts of trouble she had learned quickly. The girl was too confident, too casual for a first meeting—but something about the way she asked made Beatrix hesitate. She glanced down, then back up.
"...Deal."
"Good." Blair turned on her heel, her boots tapping softly against the floor as she started down the hall. "Follow love."
Beatrix narrowed her eyes. "Don't call me that."
Blair only chuckled.
When they reached the combat room, Blair led her to the door, but she didn't stop there. Instead, she turned to face Beatrix fully, stepping into her space with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before. Her hand came up, cupping Beatrix's chin lightly between two fingers.
Beatrix stiffened, her breath catching.
Blair's eyes glinted with something close to amusement. She leaned in, her voice a whisper as she said, "See you at lunch."
Then she turned and left, Beatrix turned to see at a point in time Blair had already opened the door. Every pair of eyes inside—every last genetically perfect super and artificially made—snapped to Beatrix.
Beatrix groaned inwardly, cursing Blair for making her an instant spectacle. She ducked her head and walked in, pretending not to notice the stares, and took a spot near the back of the room.
The instructor, tall and stone-faced, glanced at her with no more than a raised eyebrow. He looked the way statues did—perfectly still, perfectly unamused.
"Late."
Beatrix flinched. "Sorry."
He didn't respond. He gestured toward the mat. "Pair up. No powers."
Beatrix felt a knot form in her stomach.
A shadow shifted beside her. She turned—and there was the boy from her first day, smirking lazily, rolling his shoulders as if he were warming up for a dance.
"Fancy seeing you again," he drawled, eyes glinting. "Didn't know you had friends."
"Excuse me?"
"Blair," he said, the name like a half-smile on his lips. "Ironheart?"
Her confusion must have shown because his grin only widened. "Didn't know who she was? Cute."
Before she could ask what the hell he meant, his fist was already swinging toward her.
The fight was short and brutal.
Her form was terrible, she had never fought before in her life maybe struggle but not hand to hand fighting but he was faster, heavier, and too damn smug to make mistakes. She landed a single hit to his ribs which she tossed up to luck before he quickly drove her into the mat, slamming his fist on her face.
Pain thudded through her limbs as her vision blurred.
"Enough," the instructor called, his tone flat.
Beatrix barely caught her breath.
When class ended, she stayed for the next, enduring endless drills and tactics until her muscles screamed. By the time she trudged toward the cafeteria, her head throbbed.
She stood at the door, feeling every bruise as she scanned the tables.
Her heart thudded faster.
A familiar voice.
"Looking for something, stranger?."
Blair's hand settled on her shoulder, fingers warm, her presence too close for comfort but still awfully comforting.
Beatrix caught the faint scent of jasmine and something darker, smoky and electric, a scent that lingered even after Blair pulled her away.