Averi walked into the grand foyer, adjusting the strap of her heavy backpack.

Brennan Chavez was leaning against the marble pillar near the front doors. He was spinning a silver key fob around his index finger. He wore a tailored navy blazer and a perfectly practiced, gentle smile.

"Morning, Averi," Brennan said smoothly. "Grandfather's orders. We have to 'bond.' I'm your chauffeur today."

Averi didn't argue. She nodded meekly and followed him out the massive front doors.

A sleek, black Rolls Royce Phantom sat in the driveway. Brennan opened the passenger door for her. Averi climbed in, her cheap sneakers sinking into the lambswool floor mats.

As Brennan steered the massive car onto the streets of Manhattan, he glanced at her.

"So," Brennan said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Tell me about Ohio. Must have been tough growing up out there."

Averi stared out the window. "It was okay. Lots of corn. My grandma liked to knit."

She kept her answers painfully dull, using short, ungrammatical sentences. She played the idiot perfectly. Brennan probed for twenty minutes, trying to find a crack in her story, but hit a solid brick wall of manufactured stupidity.

The Rolls Royce pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Manhattan Elite Academy.

It was a sea of designer uniforms, luxury cars, and generational wealth.

Averi pushed the heavy car door open. She stepped onto the sidewalk. Her oversized brown sweater and scuffed sneakers made her look like a stain on a priceless painting.

Dozens of eyes immediately snapped toward her. Whispers erupted like a sudden gust of wind.

Brennan rolled down the passenger window. He leaned over, his gentle smile widening into something cruel.

"Have a wonderful first day, Averi!" Brennan shouted, making sure his voice carried over the courtyard.

He rolled the window up and drove away, leaving her completely exposed to the wolves.

Averi ignored the burning stares. She kept her head down and walked straight into the main academic building.

She found her locker in the crowded hallway. She reached out to spin the combination dial.

A hand slammed flat against the metal door, right next to her face.

Averi didn't flinch. She slowly turned her head.

Tinsley Vance stood there. She was the undisputed queen of the school, wearing a custom-tailored blazer and a sneer that mirrored Holt's. Two girls stood right behind her, acting as her shadow.

"You're the charity case," Tinsley said loudly. The hallway went quiet. Everyone was watching. "You smell like a literal dumpster. Are you sure you're not lost?"

Averi stared at Tinsley's perfectly manicured nails pressing against the locker. She didn't say a word. She just stepped back, intending to walk around them.

Tinsley's eyes flashed with fury at being ignored.

She grabbed the large iced coffee from her friend's hand and hurled the dark liquid straight at Averi's chest.

Averi's reflexes fired. She shifted her weight and slid a half-step backward.

The coffee splashed violently against the metal locker door, raining down onto the floor. Not a single drop touched Averi's sweater.

Tinsley gasped, her face turning red.

Averi didn't even blink. She turned and walked down the hall toward her first class.

At noon, the cafeteria was deafening. Averi skipped lunch. She walked into the girls' bathroom on the second floor. It was empty.

She walked over to the sink and turned on the water.

The sound of the heavy bathroom door locking echoed off the tile walls.

Averi looked up into the mirror.

Tinsley stood by the door, her hand still on the deadbolt. Her two friends flanked her. They blocked the only exit.

Tinsley rolled up the sleeves of her blazer. She marched toward Averi, her face twisted in ugly rage.

"You think you can embarrass me?" Tinsley shrieked. "I'm going to teach you exactly where you belong, you piece of trash."

Tinsley raised her right hand high, aiming a vicious slap directly at Averi's face.

The pathetic, hunched posture vanished from Averi's body.

Her eyes turned into chips of black ice.

Averi's left hand shot up like a striking snake. She caught Tinsley's wrist mid-air. Her fingers clamped down on the bone with the crushing force of a steel vice.

Tinsley's eyes bulged. A piercing scream ripped from her throat as the bones in her wrist ground together.

Averi didn't hesitate. She pivoted on her left foot, driving her right leg forward in a brutal, sweeping arc.

Her shin slammed into the back of Tinsley's knees.

Tinsley's legs flew out from under her. She crashed hard onto the unforgiving ceramic tile floor. The breath exploded from her lungs in a violent gasp.

The two friends screamed and lunged forward.

Averi dropped Tinsley's wrist. She spun, using the momentum to deliver a flawless, lightning-fast roundhouse kick. Her heel connected squarely with the first girl's stomach. The girl folded in half and flew backward, crashing into the metal stall door.

The second girl froze in terror.

Averi grabbed her by the lapels of her expensive blazer. She lifted her onto her toes and slammed her backward against the mirrors above the sinks.

The heavy glass shuddered violently, threatening to shatter.

Averi pinned the girl there, her forearm pressing against the girl's collarbone, cutting off her air.

Ten seconds. The fight was over.

The bathroom was filled with the sound of wheezing and quiet sobbing.

Averi released the girl against the mirror. She stepped over Tinsley, who was curled in a fetal position on the wet floor, clutching her wrist.

Averi crouched down. She grabbed a fistful of Tinsley's blonde hair and yanked her head back.

"Listen to me very carefully," Averi whispered. Her voice was dead calm, devoid of any emotion. "If you dare come near me again, I'll break your arm. Do you understand?"

Tinsley stared into Averi's eyes. She saw pure, unfiltered violence. Tinsley sobbed hysterically, nodding her head as fast as she could.

Averi let go of her hair. She stood up.

She walked over to the sink, turned on the water, and washed her hands. She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, dried her fingers, and tossed it perfectly into the trash can.

She unlocked the bathroom door and walked out into the hallway. The shrill lunch bell shrieked through the halls at that exact moment, its harsh sound perfectly covering the last of the whimpers from inside and sending the few lingering students scattering toward their next class. Her face returning to a mask of dull indifference.

Averi stepped out of the girls' bathroom. The hallway was relatively quiet, most students still in the cafeteria.

She had barely taken ten steps when the heavy wooden door of the boys' bathroom across the hall swung open.

Holt Chavez walked out. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, a piece of gum snapping loudly in his mouth.

He spotted Averi immediately. His upper lip curled into his signature sneer. He opened his mouth, the insult already forming on his tongue.

Before he could speak, the door to the girls' bathroom cracked open.

Tinsley Vance stumbled out. Her designer blazer was wrinkled and covered in dirty water from the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess, and mascara ran down her cheeks in thick black rivers. She was hyperventilating.

Tinsley looked up. She saw Averi's back.

A high-pitched squeak of pure terror escaped Tinsley's throat. She scrambled backward, almost tripping over her own feet, and ran down the opposite end of the hallway as fast as she could.

Holt stopped chewing his gum.

His gaze darted back and forth between the terrified school beauty and Averi.

He wasn't an idiot. He recognized the look in Tinsley's eyes. It wasn't embarrassment. It was primal, physical fear.

Holt closed the distance between them in three long strides. He stepped directly into Averi's path, blocking her way.

"What the hell did you just do in there?" Holt demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Averi stopped. She looked down at her shoes. She pushed her thick glasses up her nose.

"I don't know what you mean," Averi said, her voice trembling with the fake Rust Belt accent. "I think she slipped on some water near the sinks."

Holt let out a harsh, barking laugh. He took a step closer, invading her personal space.

"Cut the crap," Holt hissed. "I don't buy this little innocent bunny act for a second. What are you hiding?"

Averi slowly raised her head.

She stopped trembling. She dropped the hunched posture.

She looked Holt dead in the eyes.

The thick lenses of her glasses couldn't hide the sudden, terrifying shift in her gaze. It was the look of a predator staring at a very loud, very annoying piece of meat. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

Holt's breath hitched. A strange chill ran down his spine. His body reacted before his brain did-he instinctively took a half-step backward. What the hell was that? For a second, she didn't look like a scared rabbit... she looked like a wolf. He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought with an angry scowl.

Averi held his gaze for one more second. Then, she blinked. The terrifying aura vanished. She hunched her shoulders, sidestepped his frozen body, and continued down the hall.

Later that afternoon, Averi sat alone on a wooden bench at the edge of the campus.

She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized sweater. She pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It wasn't the cheap flip phone the Chavez family had given her. It was heavily encrypted.

The screen lit up with a single text message from Finn Emerson.

Boss. Abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn tonight. Big stakes. We need a closer.

Averi's thumbs flew across the digital keyboard.

She slipped the encrypted phone away and pulled out the cheap flip phone. She typed a message to Brennan.

Going to the library to work on a project. Don't need a ride. I'll take the bus later.

Brennan replied almost instantly. Stay safe. Don't stay out too late.

Averi snapped the phone shut, her face expressionless.

She stood up and walked toward the back of the school. She bypassed the security cameras with practiced ease, slipping through a known gap in the rusted chain-link fence.

She navigated the labyrinth of Manhattan alleys until she reached a nondescript brick building. She walked down a flight of concrete stairs to a heavy steel door.

She punched a sixteen-digit code into the keypad. The deadbolt clicked.

Averi stepped into the underground safe house and hit the lights.

She immediately stripped off the hideous brown sweater and the baggy jeans. She walked into the small bathroom and used a harsh chemical solvent to strip the yellow foundation and thick eyebrows from her face.

She walked back into the main room. She pulled open a metal locker.

She stepped into a skin-tight, reinforced black leather racing suit. The material hugged every curve of her body, acting as a second skin. She zipped it up to her collarbone.

She reached to the top shelf and pulled down a matte black, carbon-fiber motorcycle helmet. The visor was tinted pitch black.

Averi walked to the back of the room and yanked a heavy canvas tarp off the floor.

Beneath it sat a heavily modified, matte black Ducati Panigale V4. It was a monster of a machine, built for pure, terrifying speed.

Averi swung her leg over the seat. She slid the key into the ignition and turned it.

The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the concrete floor and up her spine.

She pulled the helmet over her head and snapped the chin strap. She reached up and pulled the dark visor down, completely obscuring her face.

The underground garage door rolled up. Spectre twisted the throttle, shooting out into the neon-lit New York night like a bullet fired from a gun.

The abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn was alive with chaos.

Hundreds of people crowded the cracked asphalt. The air was thick with the smell of burning rubber, cheap beer, and high-octane fuel. Bass-heavy music pounded from the open trunks of modified cars.

A deafening roar echoed down the access road.

The crowd instantly parted like the Red Sea.

Averi rode the black Ducati into the center of the arena. She didn't rev the engine for show. She just let the deep, menacing idle of the bike speak for itself.

Finn Emerson jogged out of the crowd. He wore a worn leather jacket, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

Averi killed the engine. She planted one heavy leather boot on the asphalt to stabilize the bike. She didn't take off her helmet. She just gave Finn a single, sharp nod through the dark visor.

Finn leaned in close, resting his hand on the Ducati's tank.

"Boss, you made it," Finn muttered, his voice barely carrying over the noise. "We got a problem. Some rich kid rolled in an hour ago. Dropped a massive bag of cash and challenged the whole yard. He's been smoking everyone."

Averi turned her helmeted head. She followed Finn's gaze through the crowd.

Parked under the harsh glare of a halogen floodlight was a silver Aston Martin Valkyrie. It was a multi-million-dollar hypercar, a street-legal spaceship. It had no license plates, a deliberate choice to obscure the owner's identity in this illicit playground, but everyone knew exactly who it belonged to.

The driver's side door swung upward.

Clarke Chavez stepped out.

He wasn't wearing his usual stiff boardroom attire. He wore a tailored charcoal blazer over a black t-shirt. He wore a dark baseball cap pulled low over his brow, a rare concession to anonymity, though his commanding presence was unmistakable. His face was a mask of cold, arrogant boredom.

Averi's hands tightened on the handlebars. The thick leather of her gloves creaked. Her nominal fiancé was standing fifty feet away, slumming it in the underground racing scene.

Clarke's eyes scanned the crowd. They stopped dead when they landed on the rider in the black leather suit sitting on the Ducati.

He pushed off the side of his car and walked straight toward her. The crowd scrambled to get out of his way.

Clarke stopped three feet from the front tire of Averi's bike. His eyes dragged over the sleek lines of the motorcycle, then up the tight leather suit, lingering on the dark visor of her helmet. His gaze was heavy with raw, unfiltered conquest.

"They say you're the best here," Clarke said. His voice was smooth, commanding, and laced with absolute certainty. "I want a race. Name your price."

Averi stared at him through the tinted plastic. She didn't speak. Her voice would give her away instantly.

She slowly raised her right hand. She extended a single finger.

One lap. Winner takes all.

Clarke's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Done."

The Aston Martin and the Ducati rolled up to the starting line. The engines revved, screaming against each other, shaking the ground beneath them.

A girl in a ripped tank top walked between the two machines. She raised a checkered flag high above her head.

Averi gripped the clutch. She leaned her chest against the gas tank, becoming one with the machine.

The flag dropped.

Clarke launched the Aston Martin. The hypercar's all-wheel-drive system gripped the pavement, rocketing him forward with explosive force. He took an immediate lead.

Averi didn't panic. She twisted the throttle, the Ducati screaming as she chased the silver blur.

The track was a dangerous loop around the abandoned warehouses, filled with sharp turns and debris.

They approached the first hairpin turn. Clarke hit the brakes perfectly, the Aston Martin sliding into the apex of the corner with clinical precision.

Averi didn't brake.

She threw her body weight to the side, forcing the motorcycle into a terrifyingly steep lean. Her knee slider scraped against the rough asphalt.

Screeeech!

A shower of bright orange sparks exploded from beneath her footpeg. She hugged the inside line, inches from the concrete barrier, carrying impossible speed through the corner.

She shot past the Aston Martin on the exit.

Inside the car, Clarke's eyes widened in shock. He watched the black shadow tear past his window. A surge of pure adrenaline and fierce competitiveness exploded in his chest.

They hit the final straightaway.

Clarke slammed his hand onto the nitrous button. The Aston Martin surged forward with terrifying violence, the engine howling as it closed the gap.

Averi tucked her head behind the small windshield. She flattened her body completely, reducing her aerodynamic drag to zero. She pinned the throttle to the absolute limit.

The Ducati shrieked.

They crossed the finish line side by side.

The crowd erupted.

Averi hit the brakes and threw the bike into a violent, sliding stop, the rear tire smoking as she spun around to face the track.

She had won by half a wheel.

Clarke slammed his car into park. He threw the door open and marched toward her. His chest was heaving. His jaw was locked tight. It was the first time in his life he had been utterly, completely defeated.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a checkbook, and ripped out a blank check.

"Again," Clarke demanded, holding the check out toward her. "Right now."

Averi looked at the check. Then she looked up at his face.

She let out a low, muffled scoff from behind the helmet.

She kicked the Ducati into gear. She twisted the throttle hard. The front wheel lifted off the ground in a massive wheelie.

The bike surged forward. The spinning front tire missed Clarke's chest by inches, the wind of its passing whipping his blazer open.

Averi dropped the wheel and tore off into the darkness, leaving Clarke standing in the middle of the track.

Clarke didn't move. He watched the red taillight disappear into the night. His fists slowly clenched at his sides. His eyes burned with a dark, obsessive fire.