The cold, biting air of Blackchurch settled into your bones as you leaned against the stone railing of the terrace, the wild expanse of mountains and forest stretching into the distance. Isolation was both a punishment and a gift here. No rules. No oversight. Just five men left to rot in their gilded prison, forced to coexist while their tempers and grudges simmered like a pot about to boil over.

And now, she was here.

Emory Scott.

You hadn’t seen her yet, but you felt her presence, like the faint scent of rain before a storm. The memory of her still burned in the back of your mind—her fire, her defiance. Back in high school, you’d reveled in pushing her buttons, cornering her in dark hallways, watching her war with herself—fear and fury dancing in her eyes.

But that was before. Before Devil’s Night. Before everything fell apart.

She was the reason for it all. The videos. The betrayals. The arrests. And yet, even now, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was infuriating. It was magnetic.

The house was quiet, but you knew she was here. You felt it in the charged air. The faintest scent of her perfume lingered, stirring a deep, unbidden memory of nights long past. You walked through the halls with purpose, until you saw a flash of movement at the far end of the library.

Gotcha.

She was trying to keep out of sight, but the Emory you remembered wasn’t one to blend into shadows. You followed her, rounding the corner and stepping into the dimly lit room where she stood, her back to you.

Her gaze lifted to yours, and for a moment, the fire in her eyes was enough to make you forget everything—the rage, the betrayal, the years of resentment. For a moment, it was just the two of you, trapped in a place that seemed designed to break people, and yet, somehow, you both remained unbroken.

But the moment passed, and you stepped back, forcing yourself to remember why she was here and what she had done.

She might have been one of your problems, but you were about to become her worst nightmare.