Friday, April 28th

  Location: Wolfpack Hallway

  Operation: None

  Time: 13:00

  I thought I had made it.

  Like, genuinely—made it. Jamal hadn’t tried anything or even approached me in the last two days. No shadowy tail in the hallway. No cryptic countdown with his fingers. No ambushes blooming out of thin air. The quiet had felt suspicious, sure, but it was also the first breath of peace I’d had in what felt like forever. And with Mage Football only a couple of weeks away, everything else seemed to be sliding into place—maybe not smoothly, but at least forward.

  I had filled Greg in on the fiasco, and the guy was practically glowing with relief. Yesterday he’d summed up his brand of support perfectly: “Now try to keep your drama away from me. I have my own things to deal with.” Classic Greg—thrilled I’d survived, allergic to the aftershocks. For someone who constantly complained that the FMA was boring, he’d been running his own conspiracy network ever since I mentioned the mole. Half the time, he cross-examined me about hallway sightings; the other half, he constructed elaborate flowcharts involving people neither of us had ever met. If the drama wouldn’t come to him, he built it from spare parts.

  And then, when I handed him actual drama? He clutched his pearls and told me to keep it to myself. His loss.

  Even now, he hadn’t stopped. As we walked, he was bursting with new theories like a kid with gossip on sale. He pivoted toward me, eyes bright.

  Probably thought it was gonna be something different, huh?

  “So, remember Leslie? Yeah, that Leslie—the justice-driven, delusional cafeteria warden who guards the napkins like they’re state secrets? She just got suspended from the FMA for three weeks. If she even graduates after that. But here’s the thing—before she got suspended, I noticed her name everywhere yesterday. People were saying it, like she’d suddenly become the protagonist of the day," Greg proposed.

  “Mhm.”

  “From what I could piece together from about fifty inconsistent storylines,” he continued, “she allegedly had a night out with a BMO agent.”

  I stopped just short of tripping over my own disbelief. “A BMO agent? Why hasn't she been apprehended yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Greg said, shrugging like a newscaster reading off teleprompter chaos. “Maybe they’re trying to retire her quietly before she pulls more intel out of the FMA.”

  “Why doesn’t the YMPA—or literally any EMO organization—know this?” I asked.

  “How come they don’t know about your situation?” he countered.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “...That actually makes sense.”

  “No organization wants to admit they’ve got a mole,” Greg said, warming to his theme. “Soon as you do that, the superintendent’s credibility is toast and everybody’s career smells like smoke. These are jobs, man. Nobody volunteers to be fired.”

  “Still,” I said, “the suspension timeline feels fishy. Are you sure this isn’t just rumor stew?”

  “It’s odd,” Greg admitted. “Apparently, the ‘night out’ was three days ago, but nothing happened for two. Then boom—rumors everywhere, followed by suspension. First the whispers, then the hammer.”

  “Because you think there’s a mole,” I said.

  Greg grinned like a man who’d just been proven right. “You are a man of great deduction. Exactly. Why would a woman who worships rules suddenly hop the fence to date a BMO agent? Total character override. Must’ve been a character at work.”

  “So EMO’s being infiltrated by MSTO moles now,” I said. “Great. Our security’s doing jumping jacks.”

  “Hey, that’s what we’re here for,” Greg said proudly. “And I’m going above and beyond. I deserve an award.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I warned, giving him the stern older-brother look I’d perfected despite not actually being older.

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  He groaned. “Let a man dream for once,” he muttered. “Anyway—am I getting ambushed today or what?”

  “No,” I said. “Jamal’s been silent since I told Nikki. Honestly, it was in his best interest.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Didn’t I tell you how Nikki responded?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not at all. You said you told her, said we were in the clear, and that was that. I still don’t trust you, though.”

  “Your loss,” I said. “Because what happened next was—how do I put this—Nikki used a lot of words.”

  Greg’s eyebrows lifted. “Care to elaborate?”

  So I did. I walked him through the scene—Jamal’s solemn approach, Nikki’s laughter detonating like a string of fireworks, the part where she told him what he could do with his wand. I didn’t even exaggerate. Didn’t have to.

  Greg howled. Howled. It was the kind of laugh that deserved an audience and a paramedic on standby. His face turned so red he could’ve transferred schools under a new ethnicity. No tears—just sheer, breathless, unbelieving joy. “Oh—oh my—” he wheezed, and then he was laughing again. If I hadn’t needed him for advice, I could’ve rented him out as a cardio class.

  When I portaled back into the YMPA later that evening, two men in navy suits were stationed at the entrance. Not our usual guards. They looked like ceremonial sentinels from another world—stiff, spotless, and way too observant. Their white caps gleamed beneath the lights, and their eyes tracked me from the staircase to the doorway as if I were a late delivery marked fragile.

  Curious eyes, not hostile ones. But curiosity was only one step away from suspicion—and inside these walls, suspicion traveled faster than a spell.

  By the time I reached the main hall, I felt the shift. Heads turned. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Students who’d never once cared that I existed were now watching me like a new broadcast had just aired. Not a glance—stares. Lingering. People pivoted to follow me with their eyes. A few pointed. A whisper spread, soft at first, then multiplying.

  My skin prickled. The air felt wrong.

  Was I hallucinating?

  Maybe it was the fear of Jamal still, or something along those lines.

  But I was wrong. So, so wrong.

  Two girls with matching ponytails slowed as they passed, raised their phones, and snapped pictures. Not subtle. No flash, but the motion was unmistakable. Click. Giggle. Gone.

  What in the world is happening?

  I was still scanning the hall when Malachi stepped out from a side corridor, flanked by two of his regulars. He flicked his hand, and they peeled away like well-trained shadows. One of them muttered, “Careful, Malachi,” as if he were stepping into a live wire.

  He came straight toward me, his expression unreadable. “Follow me.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  We crossed the hall. I caught Nikki and Tisiah near the stairs—first curious, then concerned. Great. A whole audience for whatever this was.

  Malachi waited for two guys to exit the bathroom, then slipped inside. I followed. He pulled his wand and frosted the latch, sealing the door in ice. Instant privacy.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “About what?” I said, nerves already crawling up my spine. “People have been staring at me, taking pictures. You’re asking what happened like I missed a memo. I have no idea.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pictures? Congrats. You’ve probably reached a quarter of my fame.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much,” I muttered.

  He smirked. “You managed to get the entire school talking about you.”

  “About what?”

  His amusement darkened into something more serious. “About you trying to kill an agent here. With one of the MP weapons. And someone snitched to Principal Renner yesterday.”

  The floor fell out from under me.

  Two days of quiet. Two days of peace. And now this—this explosion of chaos. My first thought was obvious: Mari. But only three parties knew what happened in that bunker.

  Mari.

  Jamal—and, by extension, Maddie and Elf.

  And us—me, Nikki, and Tisiah.

  I would’ve bet my wand that Nikki and Tisiah hadn’t said a word. That left Mari or Jamal. And given that Nikki had publicly dismantled Jamal’s pride in front of half the cafeteria, the timing fit too well. He must have gone straight to vengeance.

  “It had to be Jamal,” I said under my breath. “Even after I did him a favor…”

  “And now,” Malachi said, “they’re starting to think you’re an informant.”

  My head snapped up. “What? No!”

  He studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “Should’ve known.”

  “Also,” I shot back, “why would I tell you if I was an informant?”

  “Because you’re scared of me,” he said with a faint smile.

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. He noticed, of course. His smirk widened.

  “Listen,” he said, lowering his tone. “I’ll make you a deal. Remember Mage Football?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the only thing people care about besides my supposed attempted murder.”

  “Apparently, you need B’s or higher to participate,” he said. “Renner’s rule. My grades are… not cooperating. So here’s the deal: I clear your name, you do my homework. We both get to play.”

  I blinked. “Mage Football isn’t exactly my top priority right now.”

  “Emphasis on exactly,” he replied. “It’s still a priority, isn’t it?”

  He wasn’t wrong. Mage Football was my one visible shot—my chance to prove something, maybe even reach September. If I lost that, I’d lose everything else with it.

  “Fine,” I said quietly.

  He grinned. “Good. Let’s get out of here before they start accusing me too.”

  He melted the ice with a flick of his wand, swung the door open, and stepped out. But barely two strides later, he froze.

  Around the corner marched four security guards and Principal Renner herself. The hallway went dead silent—every sound sucked out of the air. The guards’ boots struck the floor like drumbeats.

  Principal Renner’s eyes locked onto me. Ice. Controlled fury. She didn’t blink.

  When she reached us, the guards positioned themselves in a tight formation—two at her sides, two behind me.

  Her voice was calm, deadly. “Apprehend Connor, please.”