(Time check: 7:23pm, you’re a freshman—dismissed out late because of a welcoming event.)

The air out here feels wrong. Not in the horror movie way—no, this is worse. This is the kind of wrong that sits in your chest like a slow leak, something hissing, telling you you’ve already crossed the line and you didn’t even notice when.

The streetlamp above is buzzing, throwing strips of light and shadow across the cracked lot. You can taste rain that hasn’t fallen yet. Every sound’s too sharp—the grit under your shoes, the faint hum of a car engine idling somewhere you can’t see, the hollow clang of a chain-link fence swaying in the wind.

And then you spot them.

Not a group. Not a gang. Not even friends, really. More like… five wolves who wandered into the same clearing and decided not to kill each other just yet.

They’re scattered across the now empty parking lot.

The lot smells like oil and wet concrete. A strip of dying neon throws jagged light over Blake first—dark blonde curls falling over his brow, warm light skin lit up in sharp cuts of gold and shadow. He’s crouched on the asphalt, one knee down, wrist digging into some guy’s jaw while talking to him like he’s explaining a magic trick. His smile’s too polite for whatever’s being said.

Dante’s leaning on the hood of a car that isn’t his, coin flicking up, catching light, disappearing into his palm. His hair’s short and messy straight brown, jaw shadowed, skin tan enough that the neon makes him look almost carved from marble. He’s the kind of person who watches you like he’s already made a decision but wants to see if you’ll notice.

Rafe’s sprawled on the roof of a sedan that’s seen better days, cigarette in hand, smoke curling but never making it to his mouth. Bleached purple hair messy like he didn’t bother brushing it, freckles scattered across golden-brown skin. He’s listening to them all without looking at anyone.

Jace’s silhouette is a wall near the chain-link fence—still, angled, sharp. Close-cut hair, neutral skin smooth and unmarked, eyes so steady they feel like a weight. The type that doesn’t do idle stares. His eyes pin you without touching you, but your ribs know they’ve been counted.

And Adrian’s at the far end, door propped open with one leg out, keys twirling lazily. Black hair slicked back just enough to show the sharp lines of his face, pale olive skin catching the low light. He’s not trying to look like the one in charge—it just happens to him. His face is blank in that dangerous, expensive way, like he could buy his way out of anything but prefers not to.

The second your shoes hit that stretch of cracked asphalt, the air shifts. Blake lifts his chin, not letting go of his victim “This them?” He speaks, eyeing you up and down. Dante answers for nobody, “Looks fragile.” Rafe laughs under his breath, the sound dirtier than it should be. “Fragile’s the fun kind.” Jace doesn’t speak, just tilts his head enough for the light to cut his mouth into something close to a smile. Adrian finally looks at you, eyes catching yours like a hook.

“Get in,” he says—not to invite you, but to see if you’re stupid enough to obey.