The heavy door to the hidden basement hissed open with a soft hydraulic release, revealing a chamber humming coldly. Concrete walls lined with reinforced steel panels enclosed rows of weapon racks, modular shelves, and matte-black crates labeled in sharp white stencil. Cool, white, sterile light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over the arsenal laid out before her.

Edel stepped inside, boots echoing on the polished floor. The scent of gun oil, rubber, and steel filled the air—familiar, almost comforting. Her fingers grazed the edge of a sniper rifle resting on a mount, its sleek, carbon frame looking almost too elegant to kill.

"This is new," she muttered, eyes scanning the wall of gear. "Last time you had only a small selection of guns and knives."

Hugo smirked from behind her. "You had me on short notice at the time. Things change when the last surviving Monclerchanteau gets targeted by who-knows-what."

He moved past her, flicking open a slim black case. Inside lay a compact submachine gun, lightweight and collapsible, paired with a curved suppressor and a holographic sight. "This is the HMX-9. Polymer build, adjustable recoil dampeners, custom mag for armor-piercing rounds. Smooth as butter."

Edel lifted it, weighing it in her hands. "Nice," she said, pulling the slide back with practiced ease.

He handed her a pair of fingerless gloves with reinforced knuckle plating and biometric lock override triggers. "These'll link with the gun's safety protocols. Only you can fire it once synced."

Then, Hugo turned to a long rack of tactical wear and picked up a tailored armored jacket—lightweight, flexible, matte charcoal in color with faint hex-weave patterning.

"You need to stop dressing like you're on Vogue. You haven't even been on the cover in years," he said, eyeing her current outfit—a sharp, blood-smeared blazer dress with torn lining and singed edges. "Seriously, how the hell are you still alive wearing that? Are you a model or a fighter?"

Edel arched a brow. "Both. I was going for intimidation. My enemies need to know they're dealing with a Monclerchanteau"

"Right..." he deadpanned. "Try this on."

She took the jacket, testing the fabric. It was deceptively light.

"Graphene-infused weave," Hugo explained. "Stops small arms fire, stab-resistant, and breathable. Pair it with these—" he opened another case, revealing a set of modular body armor pieces, sleek and contoured to fit under clothing, "—and you might find it better than whatever you're wearing now."

Edel glanced back at him, a faint smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "I like that it's still quite fashionable."

"Like you said, you're a Monclerchanteau. High fashion is part of your brand, after all."

She chuckled quietly and began loading gear into a black tactical duffel—ammo, smoke pellets, a custom pistol, two knives with pressure-triggered electric charges. Her face settled into grim focus.

"How long can I stay at the safehouse?"

"As long as you need," Hugo replied. "But I doubt you'll want to sit still for long."

She zipped the bag shut and slung it over her shoulder. "You're right."

Hugo leaned forward, brushing a loose thread from the bag strap. "I'll send fresh clothes—fortunately, I still have your measurements. Though I have to say," he paused, concern softening his eyes, "you look... malnourished. Are you even eating?"

Edel shrugged, shifting her weight. "It's hard to eat when you're always running. And honestly, I haven't felt like it."

Hugo's expression softened, as if he were recalling something precious. "I wish this reunion came under better circumstances. I was looking forward to taking you out for a steak—like old times." He offered a small, wistful smile. "Remember surf-and-turf night at your father's? You demolished that plate. You were always a good eater."

Edel couldn't help the faint curve of a smile at his memory. "Dad always said I had a stomach twice my size."

"He was right." Hugo's eyes warmed. "Rhiannon told me about the beef bourguignon—the way you cleared the dish and still asked for more. You left her maybe two bites out of a pot meant for ten. All that protein built you up—gave you the strength to be a fighter."

"I don't know when you last had a proper meal, but if you're going to rebuild—mind and body—you need fuel. At least try to eat something once you get to the Hills."

She met his eyes, caught between stubborn pride and the aching need for care. Finally, she nodded. "Okay. I'll try."

Hugo rested a hand on her shoulder—light, but firm. "Good. And Edel... you're not alone in this. Not ever."

She squared her jaw, the weight on her shoulders easing just a fraction. "Thank you, Hugo. For everything."

He squeezed her shoulder once, then stepped back. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll brief you on the upgrades I've ordered—comms, drones, the works. And I'll make sure there's a proper ribeye waiting for you."

Edel allowed herself a breath, a small flicker of hope igniting behind her tired eyes. "I'll hold you to that."

------

The flame of Erika's candle trembled in the soft wind, wax pooling at the base like tears. She tightened her grip on the thin paper cup beneath the wax stem, hoping it wouldn't crumble in her clammy hands. Around her, the bottom of Janss Steps was dotted with flickering lights and hushed voices, a fragile hush blanketing the students gathered in mourning.

Her heart thudded under her gray oversized UCLA hoodie as she stole a glance at the names written on the memorial banner. Some of them she'd passed on campus just days ago—laughing, scrolling, existing. Now they were names on a tarp, outlined in marker and surrounded by flowers, stuffed animals, and notes from friends who'd never get to say goodbye properly. The scene seemed to stretch across the entire quad, with flowers, candles, and pictures lining the steps of the 87-step staircase and filling the field. Every empty space had been transformed into a memorial for a cherished loved one.

So many friends, family, and strangers from the school and community had gathered around this area to mourn the lives that were lost so soon. The sky was so pitch black that not a single star twinkled in the night.

She swallowed hard.

She didn't feel like she belonged here—at least, that's what the voice in her head kept whispering. She hadn't known the victims personally. She wasn't brave, or outspoken, or particularly remarkable. Just a quiet freshman who lost her phone every other week, who tripped over her own words and picked at her sleeves when conversations stretched too long. She was heavier and less striking than the polished, effortless girls UCLA seemed to be full of. Always on the outside looking in, never quite sure where she was supposed to fit.

Crowds made her anxious. Parties were a nightmare. And tonight—tonight she'd almost turned back three separate times.

But something deeper had pulled her here. Maybe guilt. Maybe grief. Maybe a fear she hadn't yet dared to name.

She stepped closer to the growing shrine and let her eyes scan the faces in the photographs—smiling, vibrant, frozen in time. She read the notes tucked into bouquets and the scribbled prayers on old notebooks and napkins. The obituaries described them as gifted, beautiful, full of promise. They'd just been trying to enjoy a night out before finals. Instead, they'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And now they were gone.

To her right stood Aluna—tall, slender, magnetic with beautiful chocolate skin and brown eyes. Her extroverted roommate had been the one who coaxed Erika out of their dorm tonight, gently but firmly refusing to let her stay curled up in bed with her laptop and headphones. Aluna fit the UCLA image with effortless grace: confident, outgoing, the kind of girl who made friends within minutes of walking into a room. She looked genuinely heartbroken as she gazed at the candles and photos, her expression open and raw with sorrow.

Erika, on the other hand, felt like a fraud.

It wasn't that she didn't care. She did. But a dull, gnawing voice whispered that her grief wasn't earned. That deep down, part of her was... relieved. Relieved she was too introverted, too awkward, too socially anxious to have gone out that night. If she hadn't hidden away in her room, she might've been one of the names printed on the memorial placards. That thought made her stomach twist.

She rubbed her arms against the chill, the wind threading through her loose brown curls like icy fingers, trying not to let her guilt show on her face.

"I wonder where America's been. She hasn't answered her phone for days. I hope she's okay," said Aluna, her voice low and worried. She rubbed her hands together, eyes scanning the crowd as if hoping her missing roommate might suddenly appear among the mourners.

Erika nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Me too." Her stomach tightened at the mention of America. The silence from her had stretched too long. Something felt wrong.

A soft shuffle from behind made Erika and Aluna turn. A small group of four stepped up beside them—young, close to their age, and for a moment they could have been mistaken for fellow students. One of the girls, thin and beautiful with warm brown hair, wore a black skirt and a cropped black cardigan over a black tube top with black heels. She knelt gently at the memorial, placing a bouquet of white roses in front of a photo of a smiling girl posed in front of Royce Hall, dressed in neat, professional attire.

Beside her, another girl with a sleek blonde ponytail quietly added a small arrangement of lilies, bowing her head in silent prayer.

Then, from within the crowd, a voice called out.

"Astrid? Are you okay?"

A fit blonde girl in low-rise jeans and a white fairy tank top stepped forward, her brows raised in surprise.

Astrid looked up, her face softening. "Grace! It's good to see you."

"I'm so fucking sad about what happened to Celeste," Astrid said, her voice catching as she glanced at the bouquet she'd just laid down. Her throat tightened. "She didn't deserve that."

"I know," Grace whispered, her eyes glossing over. "Me too. Not her. Not like that."

They stood in silence for a beat, the crowd murmuring softly around them, candles flickering in the dark.

Astrid pulled back slightly, composing herself. "How's everything at the sorority?"

Grace exhaled slowly, the weight behind it visible in her posture.

"Not so well," Grace admitted, her voice thick. "We lost so many... It's been hard to even go back. And we missed you. You just disappeared—we were getting worried."

"I know. I'm sorry." Astrid offered a faint smile. "I took a leave of absence for my mental health."

Grace nodded with understanding. "That's more than fair. You've always been strong, Astrid. Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

"Thank you. I will." Astrid paused, then turned slightly to gesture to her companions. "Oh, Grace, these are my friends. We just came to pay our respects before heading out."

"Of course," Grace said, offering the others a polite but respectful nod. "Take all the time you need. And... stay safe out there."

"Thank you, Grace. Let the sisters know I won't be back for a while," Astrid replied, her voice softer now. Grace nodded, then leaned in for one last hug—tight, familiar, full of unsaid emotion.

Erika watched the exchange, her chest tightening with something she couldn't quite name. Jealousy, maybe. Longing, definitely. There was an ease to the way girls like Astrid and Grace fit into each other's lives, like sisters cut from the same cloth. Erika had Aluna and America—her world was smaller, quieter—but in a place as big and gleaming as UCLA, even that could feel like barely enough.

As the vigil quieted and more people trickled away into the night, Erika shifted on her feet, hugging her cardigan tighter around herself. Aluna glanced at her phone, lips pressing into a thin line.

"She still hasn't responded," she muttered, referring to America.

Erika hesitated. "Do you... Do you think she's just at someone's place? Maybe her phone died?"

Aluna shook her head. "No. She never disappears like this. Not without telling one of us. And I don't like that her last location pinged by the frat houses."

Erika's heart dropped. "The ones on the edge of campus?"

"Yeah," Aluna said, already starting to walk. "Come on. We'll just go check. Maybe she's there. Maybe it's nothing."

They headed down Bruin Walk, the bustling energy of campus long faded, replaced by shadows and the occasional hum of a passing scooter. The path grew quieter as they veered toward the outer edge of the university grounds, where the frat houses sat like looming haunted houses—some loud with leftover music, others dark and strangely still.

"I hate this part of campus at night," Erika muttered, glancing over her shoulder.

Aluna gave her a reassuring glance. "We'll be fine. America's probably just fine."

But as they turned onto a narrower side street lined with garbage bins and empty kegs, they saw something that made Erika freeze.

At the end of the alley, a faint flashlight flickered against the brick wall. Shadows moved in and out. Voices—low, murmuring—echoed in the dark. And in the center of it all, bound and gagged, was America, her dark curls matted with sweat, her eyes wide with terror.

Erika choked on a gasp. "Oh my God."

A group of five students surrounded her, their faces painted with that haunting, bone-white mask and faint sigils drawn on their hands. New Maskers. Students, just like them—converted not out of faith, but fear and thirst for power.

One of them, a tall boy in a dark blue t-shirt, held a jagged ceremonial blade and was muttering something in a language Erika couldn't recognize.

"She's meant for a blood sacrifice," Aluna whispered in horror. "They're going to kill her."

Erika could barely breathe, but something cold and steely bloomed in her gut—something fierce.

"What do we do?" she asked.

Aluna turned to her, jaw clenched. "We stop them. We have to."

'Can't we just call the police?" Erika whispered, panicking.

"Will they get here in time?" replied Aluna, shaking in fear.

Suddenly, a loud crack split the night air, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting pavement.

Erika and Aluna jerked back as one of the masked boys went flying sideways into a stack of trash bins, groaning.

Charging straight through the alley like a wrecking ball was Tabo.

Silent, relentless, and fast.

He didn't say a word—just threw another punch that broke the nose of the boy with the knife, sending him sprawling backwards and scattering the ceremonial blade across the asphalt.

The remaining Maskers turned to flee, but Tabo grabbed one by the collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough to leave a crack. Another tried to hit him with a wooden rod, but Tabo dodged easily and swept the attacker off his feet with a brutal kick to the knee.

Behind him, two familiar figures rushed in: Astrid and Charlotte.

"I've got her," Astrid shouted, dropping to her knees beside America. Her hands moved swiftly, undoing the bindings around America's wrists and gently removing the gag from her mouth.

One of the masked boys hesitated, frozen mid-step as he caught sight of Astrid. His eyes widened beneath the edge of his white mask. "Wait... are you Astrid Pradame?" he asked, voice cracking with recognition. "You're... you're that girl from the party... From SAE..."

Confused, Astrid stared at him with suspicion until Tabo drove his fist clean into the boy's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

His mask flew off his face, revealing a tan boy with scraggly black hair. The boy groaned, dazed, and tried to scramble away. "Wait—I didn't mean for this to go this far! I thought—" he stammered, blood running from his nose.

Tabo grabbed the collar of his hoodie, fist raised again—but Astrid placed a hand on his arm. "Wait."

Tabo looked at her, then back at the boy, breathing hard through his nose.

The boy raised his hands in surrender, trembling. "I-I didn't want to hurt anyone. They told me it would make us powerful. That it would protect us."

"Please, please. Just trust me, Astrid."

Astrid narrowed her eyes, then stepped forward. "Then take responsibility. Stay here. When the police come, tell them everything. About the ritual, the recruitment, the names. Got it?"

The boy nodded rapidly. "Yes. Yes—okay."

Aluna and Erika rushed over, Erika nearly stumbling over the loose pavement in her haste. They dropped to their knees beside America, who was now sitting up, breathing heavily but alive.

"America!" Erika cried, wrapping her arms around her. "Oh my god, I thought—"

"She's okay," Aluna said, crouching beside them. "Thanks to them."

Erika looked up at Astrid, Charlotte, and Tabo with awe. "Thank you... all of you. We would've lost her."

Astrid nodded, brushing dust from her hands. "We're just glad we got here in time."

"But why are there so many Masker attacks now?" Aluna asked, her voice tight with unease. "This is the third one I've heard about."

Before Astrid could speak, Charlotte stepped forward, her tone brisk and authoritative—an obvious attempt to assert control. "No one knows exactly what they're after, but they're using dark magic. Real dark magic. And they're not alone. They're tied to the mafia."

Aluna blinked, taken aback. "The mafia? Seriously? That sounds insane..."

"It's not a conspiracy theory," Charlotte replied haughtily. "They've been using each other to take over LA, I assume."

Astrid gave Charlotte a sharp glance but said nothing, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Uh... are they both trying to compete to be Edel 2.0?" Perchance muttered under her breath, leaning toward Tabo, who still had the would-be cultist locked in a firm hold. Tabo didn't reply, but the twitch in his eyebrow said enough.

Aluna knelt beside America, brushing a strand of hair from her friend's face. "America, are you okay? Can you stand? Do you need a hospital?"

"I'm... I'm okay," America rasped, her voice strained but clear. "Just shaken. I think I'll be alright."

"I already called the police," Aluna added, checking the screen of her phone. "They should be here any second."

Charlotte stepped forward, brushing dust from her skirt with exaggerated poise. "Well, we'd love to stay for the aftermath, but we've done our part. We'll be on our way."

She cast a side-eye at Astrid, who said nothing, but the tension between them crackled like a live wire.

"Please, stay safe," Charlotte added, her words more performative than genuine, as if she wanted to be remembered for saying them.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," Aluna said, still on her knees next to America. "Can I... get your names? Just in case someone asks?"

"I'm Charlotte," she said, with a slight tilt of her chin. "That's Perchance, and this is Tabo. We'll be nearby, keeping watch, just in case something like this happens again."

Aluna nodded gratefully. "We won't forget what you did for us tonight."

Before leaving, Tabo took the rope that had bound America and used it to restrain the dazed, bloodied cultist still under his grip. The boy didn't resist—just stared at the ground, dazed and bruised, his earlier zeal drained from his face.

Charlotte gave one last flick of her hair before turning away, the heels of her boots clicking a little too proudly against the concrete.

As they made their way down the dimly lit sidewalk, Perchance nudged Astrid with his elbow. "My peacock senses were spot on. Just saying. I told you something bad was gonna go down here tonight. The peacock never lies. That's my spirit animal, by the way."

Astrid let out a small chuckle. "Well, I'll give you this—your instincts were right. Thanks for jumping in."

Perchance beamed. "You know what, Astrid? You're cool. I'll let you have all the weed and party favors you want. On the house."

"How generous of you," Astrid said dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Charlotte, walking stiffly beside them, let out a scoff loud enough to be heard.

Perchance glanced between them and raised a brow. "Soo... are you two beefing or what? This some kind of 'Edel's not here, so now it's a girlboss cage match' situation?"

Charlotte crossed her arms. "Hardly. I just don't think leadership should be left to someone who has only just joined the group."

Astrid stopped walking. "Then maybe you should step up instead of sulking."

Perchance whistled low under his breath. "Whew. Cat claws are out."

"I've known Edel longer than any of you," Charlotte snapped, halting in her tracks as she turned to face Astrid. "I was her first real friend in years. I've been with her through battles you couldn't even begin to understand."

Her voice wavered, not from weakness, but from the weight of what she was holding back. "And now you think just because you're in some ambiguous situationship with her that you suddenly outrank the rest of us? That you're her chosen one?" She scoffed, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Puh-lease."

Astrid blinked, caught off guard by the anger in Charlotte's voice. "This isn't about who knows Edel better," she said quietly but firmly. "This is about doing what's right when she's not here. I'm not trying to replace her."

Charlotte took a step closer. "No? Because it sure looks like you're enjoying the spotlight. Giving orders, acting like you're the only one who cares. But let me remind you—I was there when she almost died. I've bled for her. What have you done besides flirt and play hero for the day?"

"Wow, I feel like I'm watching a CW show. Quick! Where's the popcorn?" Perchance whispered to himself, pulling out his spare, unbroken crystal ball from his jacket. "Crystal ball, tell me where's the nearest place I could kick back and relax and watch this drama unfold."

Tabo stepped between them, hands firm on both girls' shoulders. "Enough. We need to get back. It's late, and fighting won't fix anything."

Charlotte shot a glare at Astrid as she pulled away. "Whatever. I just wish Edel would come back already. And please, spare me the lovey-dovey stuff—I don't want to see you two kissing. Gross. I don't even know what she saw in you."

Astrid's jaw tightened, but before she could retort, Perchance quipped with a grin, "Oh, don't worry. If Edel ever comes back and sees this, she'll probably think we're in some sappy soap opera."

------

Late into the night, Erika sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced precariously on her knees. The soft hum of the fan was the only sound filling the dorm room, the rest of the world already asleep. Aluna and America had long since collapsed into their beds after the harrowing night.

But Erika's mind wouldn't let her rest.

She dove into the dark corners of the internet—the forums and chat rooms that ordinary students never dared visit. The dark web was a tangled maze of conspiracy theories, cryptic messages, and whispered rumors about the Maskers.

Scrolling through grainy posts and shadowy accounts, Erika found one that stood out—a survivor's story from a nightclub attack, posted just days ago.

"Saw a woman with platinum hair," the post read, "carrying a gun, trying to stop the Masker. She tried shooting at him, too. It was like she was hunting them."

Erika's fingers paused over the keyboard, her heart skipping a beat. Platinum hair. Gun. Hunter.

Erika's eyes scanned the flickering text on the screen, absorbing every word. On one of the forums, a heated discussion was underway.

"Has anyone else noticed that woman with the platinum hair? Who is she?"

"I think she looks exactly like Edel Monclerchanteau. Look her up. Platinum hair, purple eyes. Nobody else in the world has that," one user typed.

"The heiress who supposedly died years ago? No way she's out here fighting Maskers in a dive nightclub," another replied, disbelief thick in their words.

"Exactly. Who'd believe a rich girl from a high-class family would show up in a place like that? Sounds like a bad urban legend," someone else added.

Erika leaned closer to her laptop, fingers trembling slightly as she typed "Edel Monclerchanteau" into search engines, social media, and any archives she could access. Most results were vague or heavily filtered—news articles about the Monclerchanteau family's lavish lifestyle, their immense wealth, and their royal French lineage.

She learned Edel was the youngest scion of the Monclerchanteau dynasty, a name whispered in European high society as near-royalty, with billions in assets and centuries of influence. Yet, oddly, Edel's own public profile was sparse. No social media, no recent photos, almost as if she had vanished from the world deliberately.

Digging deeper, Erika found scattered reports from former classmates and teachers praising Edel's extraordinary intellect. They called her a genius, someone who could solve complex problems in minutes and had amassed a long list of academic awards throughout high school—mathematics, physics, chemistry—she excelled at them all.

Erika's eyes locked onto a faded social media post from years ago. It was from Karina Margiela—a popular influencer and, from what Erika could tell, a genuine Samaritan. The photo showed a radiant Edel, her platinum hair glowing in the sunlight as she played the piano, her fingers dancing over the ivory keys. Life sparkled in Edel's eyes. Another image captured the two of them at a fair, carefree and lighthearted—so starkly at odds with the dark rumors Erika had been reading on the forums.

Erika stared at the pictures, struggling to reconcile the vibrant girl in the photos with the shadowy figure whispered about online. How could Edel still be alive when everyone believed her family was gone? And why had she kept such a low profile all this time?

A flicker of jealousy burned deep in Erika's chest. Here was someone brilliant and wealthy beyond measure, living a life full of glamour and power, while Erika felt invisible, lost on a sprawling, large, indifferent campus. A nobody.

She scrolled through Karina's profile, noting how close she was to Edel—their friendship evident in dozens of shared moments. Karina was strikingly beautiful, and that only stoked Erika's envy further. But beneath it all, she sensed something else: maybe Karina held the answers Erika needed.

Erika continued scrolling through Karina's profile, piecing together fragments of her life. She discovered that Karina's mother had founded the Margiela fashion brand—a high-end label known for its chic, elegant designs and exclusivity. Her father was a prominent figure in the mineral industry, a wealthy businessman with investments across the globe.

The media adored Karina, often calling her "the Princess of LA" in glossy magazines and blogs. She was the epitome of privilege and glamour, moving naturally between high society events and charitable causes. Yet beneath the sparkling headlines, Erika sensed there was more—a real person, not just a flawless image.

The more Erika learned, the more distant she felt from this world of privilege. But at the same time, she felt drawn to it, as if understanding Karina's story might unlock a path forward to understanding the world around her, rather than just being on the sidelines.

She didn't want to be useless or timid anymore. She had almost lost America—and now, she was determined to do whatever it took to fight back.

Erika hesitated, thumb hovering over her phone's screen. Should she send a message to Karina? What would she say? I don't even know you... But I need your help.

She stared at the message, imagining how Karina might respond—or worse, ignore it completely. Doubts flooded her mind.

Who am I to reach out to someone like Karina Margiela? she thought. What if she thinks I'm just some nosy stranger? I'm literally just a nobody compared to her. The weight of her own shyness pressed down hard, freezing her fingers.

With a shaky breath, Erika pulled her thumb away and locked her phone instead. She threw it down onto the bed beside her, swallowing the lump of frustration and fear rising in her throat.

Maybe later. Maybe when she was braver.

But for now, the message would remain unsent—a harsh reminder of how far she still had to go.