Blood continues to leak down his jaw, dotting the smooth gray floor. My body reacts accordingly—heart pumping, veins rushing hot in my bloodstream, my breath hitches, the corners of my vision begin to pulse and redden.
Cerena shoots up from her chair and rushes to her beloved student. She scans the cluttered pieces of the velm on the floor, a type B velm. They’re not supposed to break even when a hammer falls from the sky and hits your head. Then she studies my arm, the one that’s supposedly broken, and still manages to launch the blow across Raze’s face.
Shit. How will I explain this?
As I worry about that, everyone else is more concerned with Raze, who remains on the ground, an arm propping him up. They surround him, coddling him, murmuring about his well-being. Viper attempts to take the rest of his velm off his head.
“Gently,” Raven mutters and tries on the opposite side.
With some tackling, they peel it off his head, revealing the bloody smear all over his right face, a deep cut at the high of his cheek. A metal splinter from the velm lodged through the layers of his skin.
The red makes my skin crawl.
“My goodness, you’ll need stitches,” Viper says.
Raze finds my gaze across the lobby floor, his breath heavy and haggard. They all stare at me.
“You can’t take your anger out on him just because you lost,” someone says.
Oh, no, I can’t? Did I ruin his beautiful face you all love so much? Piss off. Raze fucking deserves it. But I remain silent.
Raze wipes the blood from his chin and glances at the back of his hand. His glare sharpens on me, then a condescending smirk curves on his lips. “If this makes you feel better,” he starts. “I’ll let you do it again.”
My fists crumble by my side, my jaw clenches so hard it might lock. But I force myself to release it at once. What’s done is done, and I’ll suffer the consequences later—a report, suspension from school, or a fine. I have bigger worries right now as blood rushes to my head, my vision begins to tunnel right at the cut on his face, and the rest of the world simmers.
I stand at once and storm into the lady’s room; the door locks behind me. The faucet runs cold, filling the sink with cold water. I furl my velm, and dunk my face under and scream. Bubbles rush up the surface, water spills over the edge, soaking my hems and splattering over my boots. I scream until my lungs run out of air. My hands are careful not to break the fragile porcelain sink; I’ve broken enough things today.
When I catch my breath, I do it again and again until my vision brightens up, the rush in my bloodstream slows and cools, and I finally regain control of my bearings.
I back into the wall and slump down to the tile floor, watching the overflowing sink stream into the drain. The weight of the events today is slowly sinking in. I’m twenty-five points behind now. No doubt I’ll have more chances to catch up, but the gap is too far for comfort. I bury my head between my arms, only focusing on the air entering and leaving my lungs. About ten minutes pass when someone knocks on the door.
The only people I imagine behind the doors are the security, detaining me for assaulting the young master of this facility. I’m in Lotus HQ after all, Raze’s territory.
The door raps again.
“I got some ice for you,” Raven says. “For your arm.”
Oh. Even if it’s not security, Raven’s the last person I want to see. She’d been pulling my weight this entire drill, and all I’ve done is cry about my wound. I can’t summon the pride or courage to face her; Can you please piss off?
Regardless, I get up and meet her at the door. There’s still some unfinished conversation between us.
I crack open the door. The lobby has cleared into the food hall. I take the plastic pack of ice and nurse it on my said injured area, and mutter a weak thanks.
Raven sees the running faucet and comes inside to shut the tap. “Have you been letting this run the whole time?”
I shut the door and lock it behind her. “Water’s free.”
“Doesn’t mean you should waste it.” She freezes now, realizing her exit is body-blocked by me. Her gaze lifts to me. “What’s the meaning of this?”
After all the hectic events today, I haven’t had time to plan this conversation, only that once it’s brought up, I can’t just drop it and pretend she doesn’t know.
“How did you know?” I ask.
She doesn’t need any more clarifications, nor will she play dumb with me. “What? That you’re dirt poor?” She crosses her arms. “I didn’t. Just a hunch I had a few years ago. But thanks for confirming it, genius.”
I should tear her throat out right now. I remain unmoved, regardless.
“A hunch?” I say in disbelief. “Like I’d buy that.”
“I live frugally. My neighbors live frugally. Every small bit is counted, nothing is spared. You don’t think I’d recognize the same patterns from you?”
Mother fucking stalker. My cheeks warm. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“Oh, please. No one’s more obsessed with you than yourself.”
“So you don’t have any substantial proof,” I reckon. No photos. No documents. Nothing but her sharp intuition. “Just a jealous poor girl’s word against mine.”
Raven scoffs. “What, are you scared I have something over you? That I run my mouth all over school that you’re nothing but a poor girl in a rich girl facade? That you actually own nothing of value? That you have nothing in your pockets to get through your day?”
I rush to her with a clenched fist. She doesn’t cower away.
“As if that’s anything to be mocked for,” she exclaims. I yield; she stalks forward. “As if working your ass off to put food on the table is such a demeaning matter. Saving up to afford a thicker coat for colder days. Reserving energy so the lights will last another few days before the bill is due. Tell me, Qonni, why do you look down on that?”
A lump forms in my throat. There’s plenty wrong. I don’t want to end up like her, for one. Her ugly and low-maintenance wolf cut, clear she trimmed herself; Her naked, non-cosmetic face, some makeup won’t hurt. Every inch of her screams dirt poor. I’d rather jump off a bridge and die the way I am now, before I succumb to her class.
I open my jaw to spit my venom, but my tongue sits heavy in my mouth. The words are stuck at the top of my throat. I try to blurt out a single word, only to look like an idiot. With deadpan eyes, Raven waits patiently for nothing she hasn’t already heard. I clamp my mouth shut and shamefully back away.
I’m not at my best performance today, I’ll accept that.
The door isn’t blocked, so Raven proceeds to walk out.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “For the lost, I mean. I know how much you wanted to win.”
Raven spins on her heels. “You mean you wanted to win. I’m not the one who stayed despite breaking an arm.”
“A sprain,” I correct. That’s the story I’m sticking with.
“Well, the system says you broke an ulna.”
I wave my arm up and down. “Then it must’ve made a mistake.”
She rolls her eyes. “And is that all you’re sorry for?”
I think about it. “There’s nothing else I feel bad about.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll feel bad about it soon enough,” she laughs. “There’s a chance you’ll be served.”
“Raze is suing me?” I exclaim. As if I should be surprised. The last I saw, his face was pretty fucked up.
“He didn’t say that,” Raven says. “The others were suggesting it, though. And what do you think will happen when his family sees his face? For your financial benefit, I suggest you go and start kissing his ass.”
- ??
I follow Cerena’s directions and end up wandering on a dark floor inside another building, lost.
Not that I’ll find my way back alone, I tread deeper down the dark hall that opens into a larger room. It’s nothing like the busy space full of machines and specialists on the other levels. Nothing but the backup lights at the base of the floor, glowing my path. Silhouettes of buckets, crates, and pipe bars stacked in an unordered manner. The place is clearly under construction.
What the hell am I doing here?
At last, I reach the end of the level in front of what I assume is an office. Faint lights flood under the door with the fresh aroma of eucalyptus—someone’s home.
I knock hard. Footsteps thud their way toward me. The door swings open. The fresh steam greets me first, then a naked Raze. Naked from the waist up. His hair’s damp, dons beige sweatpants, barefoot. Fresh out of the shower.
For a second, he’s thrilled to open the door, but when he sees me, his expression drops. “Oh, it’s you.”
He doesn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about his bare skin. Why would he? He’s lean with defined muscles. I knew he had a large frame, but this is the first time I laid eyes on what he’s made of.
I peel away. “Expecting someone else?”
Raze remains by the door frame, a hand on the door, ready to slam it on me. “My great uncle.”
I spare a glance back at his face. The cut under his eyes is stitched up, still raw and swollen, showing hints of blood between each break. I avert my gaze again.
“Your uncle?” I ask in disgust. “Why?”
“Maybe he heard the tragedy that happened after my drill and came to check on me.”
Weird. But not the weirdest thing right now. There are so many questions spawning and clashing in my head that I have no idea where to start.
An awkward silence drags between us.
“Will you put something on?” I finally say.
“Why?” He folds his arms over his defined chest, his biceps and forearms swell, and the veins beneath his skin pop up. “Afraid you’re gonna like it?”
“Whore,” I mumble. Why are men so prone to showing off their build?
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
He scoffs. “What are you doing here?”
“Cerena didn’t tell you?” His wristlet’s gone, the pure golden bangle with a dragon sculpture he always has on since his fifteenth birthday, probably took it off for his shower. “I came down to make an apology.”
“About time.” He leans onto the frame. “Let’s hear it.”
I sneer and cross my arms the same as him. “I’m sorry you’re a motherfucker who likes to fuck around and suffered the consequences.”
He stands tall again, fingers on the doorknob. “If that’s what you came here to say, you might as well have stayed up there.” The hinges squeak. “Apology not accepted.”
I wedge a boot between the door before it slams shut. “No, I need you—I need your chip to take me back. The portals and elevators don’t activate with my chip.”
“Take the stairs,” he says, and tries to push me out.
“I’m not climbing two hundred flights of stairs!”
We push and pull until it’s evident he can’t shut the door unless I’m willing. Eventually, he violently swings it open, takes a step out, and lowers his face towards mine until his cut is inches from my nose.
“Look at this,” he exclaims. “Look at what you did to my face, and tell me I don't at least deserve an apology.”
You got what you deserve.
In the midst of his outburst, the stitches tugged against his flesh, blood seeping through the cracks. My back shudders, blood rushing to my head. Reflexively, I shut my eyes and pinch between them, a hand in front of me.
“You’re bleeding,” is all I can manage to gasp.
“Again?” He grunts and heads into what I assume is a bathroom from the fog of steam, leaving me at the doorway. “You and your blood phobia.”
I steal a glimpse inside, revealing a low bed at the end of the room surrounded by wardrobes, a tiny kitchen in the corner—a small counter, a two-stove top, a mini fridge—a single couch with a desk on the opposite side, then a desk stacked with the familiar textbooks we use for class.
I take a step inside. He lives here?
Besides the furniture, he has a few personal trinkets, floating plants, photo frames from when he was younger, and a pile of his dirty laundry by the bathroom door.
Raze is in the mirror, patching up his stitches. A first-aid kit opens on the sink counter, accompanied by bloody tissues and bungled bandages from failed attempts. His impatient eyes find me in the reflection.
His frown deepens. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“Thanks, I will.”
I enter the kitchen to open the fridge, hoping for bottles of water, but he only has cans of energy drinks and takeout boxes. I take a SEM pill and wash it down with tap water. Cerena won’t even let me get a drink unless I’ve apologized to Raze. Maybe I’ll just quickly vomit a half-assed apology and leave it at that.
Raze continues to rip new pieces and spray more disinfectant onto his face.
He cranks his head to me. “Don’t touch anything.”
I surrender my hands up, but my feet drag me across the room to his workplace. Framed certificates of his achievements hang across the wall, trophies and medals on shelves. He has another bookshelf filled with books. I recognize a few classic novels I’ve also read, memoirs, and nonfiction, but the majority of the books are business books, all written by none other than his great-uncle, Lavoran Vik Son. The spines of his books are cracked to the point some words fade, pages are heavily crinkled and annotated, thoroughly studied.
Fanboy.
After reviewing his unimpressive room, I examine his aiding techniques.
“You’re putting too much ointment,” I tell him.
His brows furrow. “That’s how much I need for what you’ve done to me. And the tape won’t stick.”
“You’re in a steamed room,” I point out.
“It’s the only mirror I have.”
I sigh heavily. “Come out. I’ll fix it up for you.”
I thoroughly wash my hands. It’s been ages since I’ve fixed up a wound, but this shouldn’t be too hard. Raze sits on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide, arms behind, propping himself up. His gaze follows me as I close the gap between us, standing between his thighs.
He smells fresh and clean, like the ocean breeze. From all the sweat I soaked up, I’m probably not so pleasant around his olfactory sense, but Raze doesn’t seem bothered by it.
I start by lifting his chin. The lights in his room are dim, meant for late-night ambiences rather than the sterile ones in clinics, so his stitches are more like tied-up meatloaf than an actual flesh wound. Still, the dribbling blood isn’t easy to ignore.
“I thought your arm was broken,” he says.
“Sprained. And I walked it off, unlike some pussy.”
Gingerly, I dab away at his openings with saline. Raze shrinks his hands into fists, stifling his breathing, his chest rising up and down, enduring the pain.
I bite down on my lips, refraining from smiling.
“What’s so funny?” he asks. “Do you enjoy inflicting pain upon others?”
“Just you.” I swap the material and return with a cotton swab and an ounce of prescribed ointment. I hold his jaw in place. “This might hurt.”
He sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes. He’s been beating around the wound to avoid the sting. I tap the tip of my finger onto his stitches. He coils forward, his thighs tense and squeezing me between them.
“Stop squirming,” I harshly whisper. He freezes in this position, lungs slowing as he draws air. I’m not able to nudge at all. “You and your low pain tolerance.”
I roll the swab across the deep cut, evening it out. His face twists, and I almost feel sorry for him. Lotus has the best doctors and MDs in the world, so I doubt they’ll let him walk around with a scar. It’s not like I ruined anything else. Not his structured bones, high nose bridge, or his defined jaw.
His irises fall up and down, brushing along my features as I’ve done his. My reflection shows in his dilated pupil. I’m too close. I blink away and set the swab aside.
“You can keep staring,” he says, releasing the tension in his thighs. “I remember how much you liked them.”
I peel off a tape and seize his chin again, pulling him close until our noses are an inch apart, letting the autumn colors fill my view. “Why do you think I didn’t aim higher?”
With a thumb, I tape the bandage over his cut. I scoot away and place another over it, double patching it up.
“You shouldn’t have showered with a fresh stitch open,” I add. “No water near it for the next forty-eight hours. Then clean it with saline twice a day afterward. Take some antibiotics. No working out or high-intensity sports either.”
When I get out of his proximity, he squeezes his legs again, trapping me in between before I can leave. “You’re leaving without my apology?”
“That secured bandage on your face is my apology,” I retort and slap his shoulders. “You would’ve bled out without my help.”
“I’m bleeding out because of you!” He grabs my wrist to stop, but I keep fighting it. Eventually, I lose my balance and topple over. He falls onto his back, taking me with him. My cheek lands on his rigid chest, his heartbeat in my ears. My hands are on his shoulders. His eyes are on me. I send a knee between his legs, on the ischium, just inches from his testicles.
He pushes me away immediately. I stand up tall, sweeping my fringes from my face.
He cautiously brushes along his upper thigh, his expression grave like a car almost missing him on the highway. “You almost—”
“I could’ve,” I correct. “Don’t pull that shit on me. I’m not one of your little girlfriends to fuck around with.”
You’ll never see him holding hands with a girl side by side down the schoolway halls, but according to the whispers in the locker rooms, he’s slept with at least a quarter of the girls in our grade, maybe even a professor or two. I always hear their sobs an aisle over, how Raze used them and dumped them—disgusting behavior. I’ll never be one of his victims.
“Is this where you bring them?” I ask. “No wonder it smells like cheap perfume and semen.”
“I wasn’t trying to pull anything.” He grabs a shirt and loops it over his head and arms, still vexed with me. “Is it so wrong of me to ask for an apology?” He makes his way to the mini fridge and pops open a can of energy drink. “And no, I don’t bring girls down here. Or anyone. You’re the only person who’s seen this place. Thanks for barging in like that. I have to mop the floors now.”
I realize I’m still in my boots. Being so comfortable with my home habits, I tracked dirt inside his house. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t know it was your room.”
“Yeah, keep this information to yourself.”
Questions flood in again. I lean against the counter, facing him. “Are you being punished?”
“What?”
“Did you do something so horrendous that your family banished you here?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He drops the can on the counter. “I want to be here.”
“Over your chateau?” I raise a brow. “Why?”
“I have a job here. I test new weapons. Guns.” He says the word as if it’ll frighten me.
“And they need you here at all times?”
“No, I’m here in case my uncle needs me.”
Vikson has over 100,000 employees. I doubt he needs a teenager on call.
“You’re oddly close with your uncle.”
Raze nods as if it’s something impressive. “Our bond is something not everyone can comprehend.”
“Does he touch you?”
He chokes on his following words. On second thought, I add, “Do you like it?”
“That’s it. Get out of my room.” Raze crushes the empty can and tosses it away, then pushes me out the door.
“I won’t tell anyone!” I snort.
“I’m suing, by the way.”
I stop at the door. “What? I was joking!”
He puts on a pair of beige slippers that match his outfit.
“Still haven’t heard an apology.” He pushes open the door and nudges me out with him. The lock clicks behind us. He starts maneuvering out of the dark and dim floor, knowing the shortcuts by memory, and I follow.
“Fine, I’ll apologize,” I say. “But I want to hear one from you first.”
He gives me a weird pause. “And what is it, exactly, am I apologizing for?”
My jaw clenches. For picking me up like a ragdoll, taunting me, humiliating me. “You know what you did! Sue me all you want, but you got what you deserved.”
He scoffs. “Seriously, do you want me to kick you while you’re down?”
“It would’ve been better than what you’ve done.”
By the elevator, Raze scans his chip, and the machine begins descending.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Next time I’ll just break every bone in your body instead of hurting your pride.”
“That’s not an apology.”
He crosses his arms and bites the inside of his cheeks. “You’re insane if you think I’m sorry for that.”
I mirror his arms. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
We head inside the elevator. For half the ride, we’re silent, standing on opposite sides.
I shut my eyes and try to even my breaths. If he does sue, I’m fucked. I can’t afford a lawyer, let alone pay for the damages. Would it be better just to mutter the word? No, he won’t accept it, not with just a single word, no matter how genuine.
“You’re too proud,” he says, rupturing the silence. “I know it’s literally going to kill you if you admit your own mistakes.”
“It wasn’t a mistake. It was intentional. The same way you picked me up and talked all that trash. Was that a mistake?”
“Fine, we’re both in the wrong. But I doubt that’s how everyone will see it.” He shrugs and puts his hands inside his pockets. “Since you did patch me up, I’ll drop the case…under one condition.”
I crank my neck towards him. “What?”
“Simple. Make the pain go away.”
I raise a brow. “Are you asking me for drugs or do you want me to knock you out?”
He returns my expression, then points to his bandaged face. “This hurts, you know. I heard if you kiss it, the pain goes away.”
All my nerves flare up. My cheeks flush. “What are you, five?”
He laughs at my reaction. That’s what he wants, to get under my skin, a joke at my expense.
I remain on my side. I spot a camera up on the corner. If it’s the same one they use at school, it’s recording our conversation.
“Then I’ll see you in court,” he douses fuel on fire. “Since I already have enough money…Oh, I know. I’ll ask the court to give me your precious Govon bag for damages. It’ll carry my protein bars to the gym just fine.”
I let out an audible sigh and push myself off the wall. Seconds before we come to a stop, I close the gap between us. I take his face into my hands, one tugging on his hair, the other on his good cheek, and lift myself on my toes and plant my lips right under the bandaged skin. His ocean breeze shampoo grazes under my nose, a whiff of herbal ointment, and a hint of his bodily odor.
My heart skips a beat. I finally did it. With the camera recording, it’ll be enough evidence to drop the case if he reneges on his word.
Raze squares his shoulders as I step back. All the hair on his neck spikes up. He wipes the part my lips touched with the back of his hands. His face pinks, eyes widen as if offended. “I wasn’t serious,” he says. “About any of it. Can you imagine what the press would say if I took a girl to court because she punched me?”
“Yeah, you’ll look like a little bitch.” I chuckle. “And how was I supposed to know if you’re joking?”
Our stop dings, the doors split open.
“That was stupid,” he says. “Don’t ever kiss me again.”
“Why?” I scoff and step out. “Afraid you’ll like it?”