Alessia.
The air in the boathouse is cold and smells of damp wood and lake water. It’s the kind of place where secrets are told, or buried. Julian Vance stands on an overturned canoe, a petty king on a makeshift throne.
He surveys the dozen of us who remain. The hopefuls. The desperate.
“Tonight’s task is a test of loyalty,” Julian announces, his voice too loud for the small space. “And a little bit of fun at the expense of our rivals at Delta Sigma.”
He smiles, a predator showing its teeth. “They have a little ledger. A record of their less than honorable recruitment practices. It’s kept in their chapter president’s safe. You will retrieve it for me.”
I watch the faces around me. Eagerness. Fear. A thrill of the forbidden. They are children. They believe this is a game.
My father taught me that every game has a hidden purpose. The stated objective is never the real one. Julian doesn’t care about some fraternity ledger. He wants something else.
“This is about commitment,” he continues, his gaze sweeping over us. “Are you willing to take a risk for Aegis? To prove you belong? Or will you run home crying?”
His eyes find me, as they always do. He expects to see fear. I give him a blank canvas.
Across the boathouse, leaning against a support beam, is Dante Moretti. He is not a pledge. He is an observer. A shark circling the shallow waters. He watches Julian’s performance with a look of mild distaste, but his eyes are sharp. They flick to me, a silent question in their depths. He knows I see the flaws in this. He wants to know what I will do about it.
I offer him nothing.
The walk across campus is quiet and tense. The Delta Sigma house is a brick monstrosity, dark except for a single security light over the back porch. The pledges huddle in the bushes, whispering strategies. They sound like idiots.
“The side window lock is old. I can pick it,” a boy named Thomas says, puffing out his chest.
I already know the lock is old. I also know it was greased less than an hour ago. I can smell the oil on the night air. A door left conveniently unlocked for us.
“Good. Let’s go,” another pledge whispers, eager to prove himself.
I hang back, letting them lead the way. I am the shadow. The observer. I catalog the details. The motion detector over the door has a piece of black tape over its sensor. The dog that usually patrols the yard is nowhere to be seen. Or heard.
This isn’t an infiltration. It’s an invitation.
I feel a presence nearby and glance towards the deeper shadows of a large oak tree. A figure detaches itself from the darkness. Dante. He’s not with the group. He’s running parallel to us, a silent hunter tracking the same prey. Or perhaps, tracking a different hunter altogether.
Inside, the house is still and quiet. It feels staged. Too clean. Too orderly for a fraternity house. The pledges move with clumsy stealth, drunk on their own daring. They head straight for the president’s office on the second floor.
I break from them, melting into the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. A faint smell of bleach hangs in the air. Cleaned recently. Wiped of prints. My father would be proud of my observation and disgusted by their lack of subtlety.
Upstairs, a triumphant whisper. “Found it!”
I follow the sound. The pledges are gathered around a small wall safe, the door hanging open. Again, too easy. The code was probably the house’s founding year. Pathetic.
Thomas pulls out a leather bound book. “This is it. The ledger.”
He holds it up like a trophy.
And then it happens. A series of bright flashes from the corners of the room. Hidden cameras. A low, electronic hum starts, and the door to the office slams shut with a heavy magnetic click. Red lights begin to blink above the door and windows.
“What was that?” a girl asks, her voice trembling.
“It’s a trap,” I say, my voice flat. It’s the first thing I’ve said all night.
They all turn to me. Panic begins to bloom in their eyes like a toxic flower.
“He set us up,” Thomas says, his bravado gone. He drops the ledger as if it’s on fire. “He has us on camera. Breaking and entering. Theft.”
“He owns us now,” another whispers in horror.
This is the real test. Not loyalty to Aegis, but subservience to Julian. He doesn’t want members. He wants puppets.
While they spiral into panic, I assess. The magnetic lock on the door needs power. The windows are wired, but the sensors are simple pressure plates. The cameras are recording to an internal server. I have about ninety seconds before Julian and his cronies make their grand entrance to collect their new blackmail material.
I need a diversion. An accident. Something big enough to destroy the evidence and create an escape route.
“What do we do?” the girl sobs.
I ignore her. My eyes land on a tall, rickety shelving unit next to the door. It’s packed with old trophies, plaques, and heavy textbooks. It’s perfect.
“Everyone, get back,” I say, my voice taking on a new tone. One of command. They are too scared to question it. They shuffle away from the door.
I walk toward the window, then pivot, pretending to trip over an ornate rug. My body hits the shelving unit with calculated force. It groans, sways, and then crashes down against the door.
Metal shrieks. Plaster dust fills the air. The impact is tremendous. The magnetic lock sputters, its connection severed by the sheer physical trauma. The red lights flicker and die. The door is blocked, but it’s no longer locked.
“The circuit must have shorted,” Thomas says in amazement.
“Lucky break,” I say, pushing myself up, feigning a wince.
But I am not done. The camera footage still exists. I need to make the accident bigger. My eyes dart around the room and find what I’m looking for. On the wall, just beside the wreckage of the shelf, is a fire alarm pull station. Old fashioned. Simple.
I stumble again, my hand lashing out to “catch my balance.” My fist connects with the lever and pulls it down hard.
For a second, nothing happens. Then, a deafening klaxon begins to blare throughout the house. A moment later, a hiss from the ceiling. The sprinklers burst to life, spewing foul, stagnant water over everything. The room. The pledges. The cameras.
The water will ruin the server. It will corrupt the files. It will wash away Julian’s entire plan.
“The window!” I shout over the noise, pointing to the one furthest from the door. “The alarm cut the power to the sensors! We can get out!”
It’s a lie. But in their panic, they believe it. Thomas, desperate to redeem himself, throws a heavy chair through the glass. The window shatters, offering a path to the rain soaked lawn two floors below.
They scramble out, one after the other, clumsy and terrified. I wait, letting them all go first. I give the room one last look. Total chaos. Water and glass everywhere. A beautiful disaster. An acceptable accident.
I’m the last one to climb through the broken window. I land softly on the wet grass, my training making the drop easy. The others are already scattering into the night, disappearing into the trees.
I turn to head back to my dorm, to my life as the invisible art student. But I freeze.
In the alley that runs alongside the fraternity house, a figure stands by the main power junction box. The panel is open. A tool is in his hand. The entire house goes dark, and the blaring alarm cuts out abruptly, leaving only the sound of the sprinklers.
It’s Dante Moretti.
He didn’t just watch. He acted. He cut the power, ensuring the data from the server was irretrievable. He contained Julian’s mess from the outside while I destroyed it from the inside.
He turns his head slowly, and his eyes find mine through the darkness. He stands perfectly still, a shadow against the brick wall. He sees me. He knows the falling shelf was no accident. He knows I pulled that alarm on purpose. He saw me manipulate the entire situation, just as he did.
No words are spoken. None are needed. In the silent, rain soaked space between us, there is a clear and terrifying acknowledgment.
We are not on the same side, but for a moment, we fought for the same outcome. He knows my secret, and I know his.
He gives a nearly imperceptible nod, then closes the panel. He turns and melts back into the night, disappearing as if he were never there.
I stand for a moment longer, the cold water from the sprinklers dripping from my hair. My heart is beating a slow, heavy rhythm. Julian Vance is an annoyance. A problem to be managed. Dante Moretti is different. He isn't playing Julian's game. He's playing mine. And he is a much, much better opponent.
