The lobby of the administrative building was suffocating.

Kaliyah stood near the marble pillars. She wore a faded, but clean, white button-down shirt and a plain black skirt. It was the only professional clothing she had that did not look like it belonged to an assassin.

She kept her head down. She stared at the cracked screen of her phone, reviewing a line of code.

A loud commotion erupted near the front entrance.

Kaliyah looked up. Three black Maybachs pulled up to the curb.

The university president, Thaddeus Cromwell, and the dean rushed toward the glass doors. Their faces were stretched into desperate, eager smiles.

The door of the lead car opened.

Bryton Lott stepped out. He wore a bespoke black suit that screamed power. Six massive bodyguards formed a wall around him.

The air in the lobby instantly vanished. The chatter of hundred students died. The sheer, oppressive weight of his presence pressed down on the room.

Kaliyah's breath caught in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She took a step back. She tried to slide behind the marble pillar, aiming for the shadows near the elevators.

Ding.

The VIP elevator doors slid open right behind her. The sound was deafening in the quiet lobby.

Bryton walked straight toward the sound. The president babbled nervously beside him.

Kaliyah pressed her back against the wall.

"Move," a gruff voice barked.

One of Bryton's bodyguards shoved his thick arm out to clear the path. His hand hit Kaliyah's shoulder hard.

The physical impact threw her off balance. Her fingers slipped. The cheap phone tumbled from her hand.

It hit the marble floor and slid directly into the path of Bryton's polished leather shoe.

Bryton stopped.

The entire lobby held its breath.

Bryton looked down at the old, cracked phone touching the toe of his shoe.

Kaliyah's stomach twisted into a painful knot. She gritted her teeth. She stepped forward and bent down to pick it up.

Just as her fingers brushed the plastic case, Bryton shifted his weight. The heavy leather sole of his shoe stepped directly onto the edge of her phone.

Kaliyah froze.

She slowly lifted her head.

Her eyes met Bryton's.

It was the first time they looked at each other in the light.

Bryton's dark, deep-set eyes stared down at her. His gaze was a physical weight. He scanned her faded shirt. He looked at her thick glasses. A look of absolute, freezing disgust settled on his face.

"A very cheap trick," Bryton said. His voice was low, but it carried perfectly in the silent room.

He thought she threw it on purpose. He thought she was a desperate student trying to get a billionaire's attention.

Laughter rippled through the crowd of students. The president turned red.

"Miss Acevedo!" the president hissed. "Step back immediately!"

Kaliyah did not blink. She did not defend herself. Speaking would only draw more attention.

She wrapped her fingers around her phone. She pulled hard. The device scraped out from under his shoe. The screen cracked further, a jagged line splitting the glass.

She stood up straight. She looked at his chest, refusing to meet his eyes again.

"Apologies for blocking your path," she said. Her voice was completely flat. Dead. She deliberately lowered her pitch, flattening her tone into a robotic, lifeless drawl that sounded nothing like the terrified, breathless whisper he might vaguely remember from the darkness. Bryton heard the dull, uninteresting voice and dismissed it instantly. It held none of the sharp, defiant edge that still haunted his chemically fractured memory.

She turned around and walked toward the stairwell. She kept her spine perfectly straight.

Bryton watched her walk away. His brow furrowed. A strange, physical itch crawled up the back of his neck. Something about the rigid way she held her shoulders felt familiar.

He pushed the thought away. He scoffed and stepped into the elevator.

Kaliyah pushed the heavy stairwell door open. It slammed shut behind her.

She leaned against the concrete wall. Cold sweat soaked the back of her shirt. She looked at her ruined phone. The disgust she felt for Bryton Lott deepened into pure hatred.

The mixer ended. The reception area was half-empty.

Kaliyah sat at a small table in the corner. She poked at the shattered screen of her phone, trying to read an email.

"Look at this. The beggar is still here."

Kaliyah did not look up. She recognized the shrill voice. Amber Vance.

Amber walked over. She held a steaming Starbucks cup in her hand. Three girls from her sorority trailed behind her like lapdogs.

Amber slammed her hand on Kaliyah's table. "Did you really think throwing your garbage phone at Mr. Lott would make him look at you?"

Kaliyah kept her eyes on her screen.

Amber's face turned red. "I saw you getting out of that old man's car last week. Everyone knows you sleep around to keep your scholarship. Kevin Porter said you begged him to pay your rent."

The students sitting nearby turned their heads. Whispers started.

Kaliyah finally locked her phone. She slowly raised her head. Her eyes were empty of any emotion.

"Does slandering a classmate violate your sorority's honor code, Amber?" Kaliyah asked. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise.

Amber gasped. Her pride was hit. Her fingers tightened around the hot coffee cup.

"Oops," Amber sneered.

She tilted her wrist. She aimed the boiling liquid directly at Kaliyah's face.

Kaliyah's operative instincts flared. Her muscles coiled like a spring. She calculated the trajectory. It would take exactly one second to grab Amber's wrist, twist it, and break the bone.

Her hand twitched upward.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black suit.

In a movement too fluid and subtle for the untrained eye to catch, she shifted her weight and slid her chair back exactly two inches. It was a calculated retreat, ensuring the boiling liquid would splash onto the table and her dark skirt, missing her face and exposed skin entirely. She kept her arms loosely at her sides, perfectly mimicking the shock of a helpless victim.

"Is this the standard of education at NYU? Washing faces with coffee?"

A cold, deep voice echoed through the open corridor.

Amber shrieked and jerked her hand back. The sudden movement splashed the boiling coffee all over her own expensive cashmere skirt.

She screamed in pain and started frantically wiping at the brown stain.

The crowd parted. Bryton stood a few feet away. The president was sweating profusely beside him.

"Miss Vance!" the president yelled. "My office. Now. You will be suspended for this."

Amber cried. She looked at Bryton, hoping for sympathy. Bryton did not even look at her.

His dark eyes bypassed the crying girl and locked onto Kaliyah sitting in the corner.

He had seen it. From his vantage point, he caught the unnatural, absolute stillness in her eyes a split second before the coffee fell. There was no panic, no flinching-only a cold, calculating readiness. He saw her subtle shift backward, a micro-adjustment that saved her face but perfectly framed her as the tragic target.

Bryton's lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"Your students have more talent for scheming than academics," Bryton said to the president.

He was talking about Amber, but his eyes never left Kaliyah. He was calling her a manipulator. He thought she played the victim on purpose.

Kaliyah understood the insult perfectly. She stared blankly at the table. She showed zero reaction.

Bryton felt a sudden, sharp irritation in his chest. It was like punching a wall of water. He turned on his heel and walked away.

The crowd scattered. Amber ran off crying.

Kaliyah picked up her backpack. As she lifted it, she saw a thick, cream-colored card sitting on the table.

Cassian had dropped it there while following Bryton.

It was a business card for the Apocalypse Corp Legal Department. On the back, handwritten in black ink: Call if you wish to pursue defamation charges.

Kaliyah stared at the card. Her jaw tightened.

Bryton stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in his private office. He rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers. The rough tobacco leaf scraped against his skin.

The office door opened. Cassian walked in. His breathing was slightly elevated.

"We found her," Cassian said.

Bryton stopped rolling the cigar. He turned around. His eyes locked onto his assistant.

"The hotel feeds were wiped," Cassian explained, pulling up a file on the tablet. "But we pulled the dashcam footage from a guest's car in the underground parking garage."

Cassian swiped the screen. An image projected onto the wall.

It was dark. The quality was terrible. A woman in an oversized coat was running toward the exit. She wore a black mask and large sunglasses.

"Look at her right hand," Cassian pointed.

Bryton narrowed his eyes. The woman's sleeve was pulled back slightly. A nasty, red scrape covered her wrist.

Bryton's mind flashed back to the hotel room. He remembered pinning the woman's wrists to the wall. He remembered her struggling. The scrape matched the physical trauma of a fall from a balcony.

"Run the facial recognition through the exposed jawline," Cassian said. "Cross-reference with the guest list."

A photo popped up next to the grainy footage.

It was Kianna Sosa. A B-list actress known for cheap reality shows.

"She was at the Elysium that night for a producer's party," Cassian read from the file. "Her manager posted a tweet at 3:00 AM complaining about Kianna falling and scraping her wrist."

Bryton stared at the photo of Kianna. She had heavy makeup, fake lips, and a vacant smile.

A heavy, uncomfortable feeling settled in Bryton's gut. His instincts screamed at him. The woman in his arms that night fought like a wildcat. She felt cold, sharp, and unyielding. This actress looked soft and desperate. He’d briefly considered the Acevedo girl at the university—the name was too coincidental to ignore—but she’d shown no signs of a struggle or a fresh injury. This woman, however, had the mark.

"Bring her to the private club," Bryton ordered. His voice was flat. He threw the unlit cigar into the trash can. "I want to see her myself."

An hour later, at a cheap movie set in Queens.

The director screamed at Kianna. She had missed her mark for the fifth time. Her manager, Morry, bowed and apologized profusely. Kianna rolled her eyes and chewed her gum.

Four men in black suits walked onto the set. The crew went dead silent.

Cassian stepped forward. He flashed a black badge. "Miss Sosa. You are coming with us."

Ten minutes later, Kianna and Morry sat in the back of a stretched Lincoln. The leather seats squeaked under them.

Cassian sat across from them. His face was carved from stone. He slid a thick non-disclosure agreement across the small table.

"Sign this," Cassian said. "Acknowledge what happened in the Elysium Hotel suite, and you will be compensated beyond your imagination."

Kianna stared at the paper. She opened her mouth to say she got drunk and fell down the stairs that night.

Under the table, Morry's heavy shoe kicked Kianna's shin hard.

Pain shot up her leg. Kianna snapped her mouth shut. She looked at Morry. His eyes were wide with frantic greed. He nodded slightly at the paper.

Kianna's heart started to pound. She did not know what happened in that suite. But she knew money.

Her hands shook. She picked up the pen and signed her name on the dotted line.