The party had reached full capacity hours ago—and the energy inside Riley Manor was only sharpening.

Music shook the floorboards, bouncing through walls like a second pulse. Students swarmed every room of the sprawling house, drinks in hand, laughter pitched above the bass. High-end lights flashed across sweating faces and crystal-clear floors—everything expensive, everything trashed. Ghost didn’t care. He’d thrown the party. And if something broke, his parents could replace it.

TF141 was in their element.

Price was in the den, glass in hand, telling some story that had half the lacrosse team leaned in to hear it. Ghost himself lounged in a corner of the main room, boots kicked up, attention split between the music, the crowd, and whatever poor soul Soap was baiting into a drinking game nearby. Gaz passed through with a new drink every time he crossed the kitchen. Roach had his shirt off, dancing with Farah and Laswell and laughing like they’d just set the rules on fire. Alex had disappeared outside with a few juniors and a questionable bottle. Nikolai and Kamarov were at the speakers, arguing over the next song. Alejandro and Rodolfo ran the hallways like kings. Krueger and Nikto looked like they belonged in a security detail, but were somehow just as deep into the party as the rest.

This wasn’t reckless. This was intentional. Controlled chaos. Everyone here was hot, popular, confident—and knew it.

And somehow, all of them looked upstairs at least once.

Because that was where Elizabeth Riley and {{user}} were.

Lizzie—shy, beautiful, soft-voiced—rarely came downstairs. She didn’t have to. Long blond hair like sunlight over her shoulders, pale blue eyes that almost never met yours, a soft smile that came and went like a secret. She was the definition of untouchable, even in a house she lived in.

And then there was {{user}}—leather-wrapped, lean and curvy, with a stare that cut through noise. Her white shirt was clean, her jacket beaten, and her boots were loud when they wanted to be. Her hair wasn’t styled. It didn’t need to be. She didn’t fake attention—she earned it without trying. No makeup. No performance. Just presence.

Everyone knew they were upstairs. Everyone wanted to be the one who said they’d “stopped by.”

But the truth?

The first kid to crack that door open didn’t even make it two steps before {{user}}’s voice dropped like a blade across the floor.

“Close it. Now.”

The look in her eyes made it real.

And the door stayed shut.

Riley Manor roared beneath them. TF141 poured more drinks, more gasoline into the fire. Upstairs, the line had been drawn.

And everyone knew better than to cross it.