It clearly belonged in the same mental folder as “monster alley” and “winged lizard perched on Patrick’s shoulder.” Sharing the secret felt like a tiny betrayal of the school and the new friends I hope I’d make–but that folder already had a slot with Sketch’s name on it.

  So I left it wrapped. A present we were going to open together.

  By the time the cheap digital clock on my dresser blinked 7:02, my eyes were sliding off Latin declensions and my left leg had gone electric from sitting cross?legged too long.

  A knock sounded on the front door—two quick, one slow. Sketch’s pattern from when we were eight. I stood, blood prickling back into my foot, and padded down the hall.

  Mom had beaten me there. She opened the door with the chain already off; she must’ve been listening.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sinclair,” Sketch said, voice soft but steady. He’d taken off his sunglasses for Mom; his mismatched eyes catching the hall light.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Mom said, her face doing that little unwrinkling thing it only did for a few people. “Come on in.” She nodded at the mat.

  He toed off his sneakers. “Mom insisted I take you some cannoli for hosting me so often. She made them today,” he added, holding up a plastic container like a peace offering.

  “Tell her thank you when you get home,” she said, taking it with a smile. “Door open, please.”

  “Always,” I said, already backing toward my room. Sketch followed.

  Once inside, he stopped just past the threshold, taking everything in with one sweep: the neat stack of textbooks on the desk, the half?open Algebra on the bed, the backpack slumped against my pillow.

  “Fancy.” His gaze snagged on the wrapped bundle, its edge poking out the top. He didn’t say anything. Just filed it away, the way he always did, and turned his attention to me.

  “So,” he said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “You look…not dead. Good start.”

  “High praise,” I said. I sat on the bed, cross?legged again, and patted the quilt. He took the desk chair instead, spinning it once before planting his feet.

  “Hit me,” he said. “Day One at Monster U.”

  I exhaled, then started at the parts that wouldn’t make my head crack open.

  “Tests,” I said. “So many tests. Math, reading, science, then these logic puzzles that felt like somebody mashed up the LSAT and a D&D campaign. Mr. Adler proctored most of it. He’s a teacher—normal, I think. Or at least he fakes it really well. There was decent pizza. Real cheese. I may never eat cafeteria square again.”

  Sketch nodded solemnly. “Brain Olympics and pizza. Checks out.”

  “Then there was this guy, Vinh,” I added. “Upperclassman. Very…put together. Weird thing? He had a knife on his belt like that’s a totally normal fashion choice.”

  “Freaky. Was it like the others? You know, not metal?”

  “He kept it sheathed; I never saw the blade,” I said. “But my guess? Yeah. Same type. What kind of school lets a kid walk around with a knife?”

  He whistled under his breath. “Monster U. Okay. So combat electives are real.”

  I told him about the campus tour—how clean everything was, how the STEM building gleamed, how the pool looked like something broadcast networks paid to film.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “And my guides were these twins,” I said, shifting on the quilt. “Sera and Shara Torres. Ninth graders. You’ve seen them on TV. They’re those swim twins from the Olympic Trials highlights. My mom practically fainted.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Wait. The ones who did the synchronized victory?pose thing? With the matching caps?”

  “Those ones,” I said. “Apparently Northbridge collects prodigies like Pokémon.”

  “And they were…?”

  “Nice,” I said. “Like, aggressively nice. Talked in stereo, finished each other’s sentences, knew everyone. It should’ve been creepy, but it wasn’t. They felt—” I hunted for the word “—solid. Like they actually like people and the whole world doesn’t revolve around making others feel small.”

  “Not Montana 2.0,” he said.

  “Not even in the same solar system,” I said. “They’re more…if Montana is a black hole, they’re like twin suns. Warm, a little overwhelming, but not sucking your soul out.”

  He smiled, small and real. “I like them already.”

  “Of course you do. You don’t have to sit through cardio with them.”

  We let that sit a second. Then I felt the next part pressing, wanting out.

  “And then,” I said, “there was this boy.”

  Sketch made a face. “Of course there was a boy.”

  “Not like that,” I said automatically, which was only half true. “Remember the alley? The one with the frill?thing and the swords?”

  “Kind of my favorite nightmare now, yeah,” he said.

  “The boy with the black blade,” I said. “Shaggy hair, hoodie, took a hit on the arm.”

  “The one who got tail?whipped into the dumpster.”

  “Yeah. Him.” I picked at a loose thread in the quilt. “I saw him today. At school. Walking out of the humanities building like a normal ninth grader.”

  Sketch went very still in that way he does when he’s flipping to a fresh mental sketchbook page. “You sure it was the same guy?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Same face. Add on a blazer. He goes by Theo. The twins know him. They went all…sunflower around him as soon as he showed up.”

  “Sunflower,” he repeated, amused. “As in, turning to follow the light?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “They got pink. Both of them. He put an arm around each like a human bridge and they basically purred.”

  “Ouch,” Sketch said lightly, but there was a tiny pinch at the bridge of his nose.

  “He’s…cute,” I admitted grudgingly. “In that scruffy, ‘I rolled out of bed like this on purpose’ way. But the reaction was insane. Like he was Jacob Elordi walking off a Netflix set. And I wasn’t…feeling it. At all.”

  “Maybe you’re just immune to pretty,” Sketch said. “My condolences.”

  “It wasn’t just pretty,” I said. “It was…power. Same kind I felt with Ms. Cho when she turned on the ‘likable’ thing for my mom. Like the air gets thicker. With Cho it’s strong. With him it was softer, weaker. But definitely the same flavor.”

  His eyes sharpened. “Charm aura.”

  “Is that the technical term?” I asked.

  “It is now,” he said. “So: Data point one, Ms. Cho can do the room?tilt thing. Data point two, Alley Boy Theo does a smaller version. Data point three, everyone around them goes a little heart?eyes—except you.”

  I nodded. “It kind of slides off. Once I noticed it with Cho, I could feel it again with him. Like standing in a light beam but not getting warm.”

  “And he tried it on you?” Sketch asked.

  “Yeah.” I grimaced at the memory. “He did the whole smile?and?flirt voice, ‘Who’s your friend?’ thing. It was like he expected me to melt. I did not melt. He looked…confused for a second, then shifted gears. Dropped the flirty act, got…genuine, I guess.”

  “Interesting,” Sketch said slowly. “So his default setting didn’t work, and he actually had to work for it.”

  “Don’t make it sound romantic,” I warned.

  He held up both hands. “Trust me, control is not romantic. You are apparently Charm?Resistant Girl. Which, given that your mysterious recruiter lady and sword boy can both broadcast feels, sounds…useful.”

  “Or dangerous,” I said. “If that’s, like, rude in their world.”

  Sketch leaned back, chair creaking. “Either way, it makes you harder to manipulate,” he said. “Control freaks don’t love that.”

  We sat with that for a heartbeat. The apartment hummed around us—fridge, upstairs neighbor’s TV a faint murmur, the occasional car hiss outside.

  Sketch flicked a glance at the backpack again. “And the materials?” he asked, gently. “Are we at that part of the story yet?”

  I followed his look, feeling the shape of the parcel in my mind. YOUR EYES ONLY.