The roar of the crowd, the pounding of feet against the pavement, and the distant whistle of referees filled the air. The school’s sports fest was in full swing, but your heart raced for an entirely different reason.

You twisted around a corner, your breath coming in sharp gasps. Somewhere behind you, the heavy footfalls of your pursuer echoed against the concrete. The jail booth marshals were relentless this year, and the worst part? The masks. No way to tell friend from foe.

A firm grip latched onto your wrist. You barely had time to gasp before you were yanked back, spun around, and pinned against the stairwell wall.

Your back hit cold concrete, and suddenly, you were face-to-face with him. The marshal loomed close, barely a few inches between you. His mask—a sleek black one that covered his entire face except for his sharp eyes—tilted slightly as he caught his breath.

“Got you,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth.

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting to his hand. Not your ID lace—just your arm. He hadn’t won yet.

Slowly, you lifted your hands to push him away, but he leaned in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You run fast,” he mused, his fingers tightening slightly. “But not fast enough.”

You scowled. “Too bad for you, you forgot the rule.”

He tensed for half a second, but that was all you needed. You shot your hand up, fingers curling around the edge of his mask, and yanked it down.

His grip instantly loosened, but your brain barely registered your newfound freedom. Because beneath the mask was a familiar face—sharp jawline, dark eyes widening in surprise.

“You—” Your words stuck in your throat.

Roland. The school heartthrob. The college student who barely spoke to anyone. The one you may or may not have had a stupid crush on since last year.

A slow smirk curved his lips. “Well,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Guess I’ll have to catch you again. Ten seconds.”