The silent challenge in Dasia's eyes made Carlton freeze. The muscles in his jaw tightened.

Before he could speak, his personal assistant, Alex Vance, shoved past the bodyguards. Alex threw his arms out, shielding Carlton like Dasia was holding a loaded gun.

"Are you out of your mind?" Alex barked, pointing a manicured finger at Dasia's face. "You do not touch him. I will have you sued for harassment so fast your head will spin."

Felix scrambled forward, his face pale and slick with sweat. He grabbed Dasia's wrist with trembling fingers.

"Apologize!" Felix hissed, his voice cracking. "Get on your knees and apologize right now before you ruin us both!"

Dasia's stomach twisted with revulsion at the physical contact. She ripped her arm out of Felix's grip. The violent motion sent Felix stumbling backward.

She turned her gaze to Alex.

"Get lost," Dasia said.

Her voice was low, raspy, and completely devoid of emotion. The single word sliced through the noise of the station.

The fans went feral. A neon green glow stick flew over the security line and slammed into Dasia's shoulder blade. It bounced off with a dull thud.

Dasia didn't blink. She didn't even rub her shoulder.

Carlton watched her. His blue eyes narrowed. The boy's spine was perfectly straight. There was no trembling, no frantic apologies. Just a cold, dead stare.

Alex's face turned purple. He waved frantically at the station security guards standing nearby.

"Get this psycho out of here!" Alex yelled.

Three massive security guards pushed through the crowd. They unclipped their radios, forming a tight circle around Dasia and Felix.

Felix dropped to a crouch, burying his face in his hands. He was hyperventilating.

One of the guards reached out a thick hand to grab Dasia's shoulder.

Dasia's eyes went pitch black. Her left foot slid back half an inch against the tile. Her weight shifted. Her muscles coiled tight, preparing to snap the guard's wrist the second he made contact.

"Stop."

The word was spoken quietly, but it carried absolute authority.

Carlton raised one hand. His long index finger twitched in the air.

Alex immediately grabbed the security guard's arm, pulling him back. The guards stepped away, waiting for the billionaire captain's orders.

Carlton took a slow step forward. His leather shoes clicked sharply against the tile. He stopped less than two feet from Dasia.

The sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming. Dasia had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. The scent of mint and cedar grew stronger, suffocating her.

Carlton leaned down slightly. He studied the dark, violent eyes glaring back at him over the black mask.

"Whoever paid you to put on this little show," Carlton said, his voice a low, mocking rumble, "tell them your acting is pathetic."

A tiny, humorless laugh escaped Dasia's throat.

She raised her right hand. She pressed her index finger directly against the center of Carlton's chest, right on the expensive fabric of his coat.

She shoved. Hard.

Carlton hadn't expected the strike. His body rocked backward on his heels. A flash of pure shock widened his eyes.

"Keep your dogs on a leash," Dasia said. Her voice was like crushed ice. "Before they bite the wrong person."

The entire station went dead silent. Alex stopped breathing.

Carlton looked down at his chest, then back up at Dasia. A dark, dangerous smile slowly curved his lips.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vintage silver Zippo lighter. His thumb flicked the lid open. Clink. He snapped it shut. Clink.

The metallic sound was sharp and rhythmic.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the station intercom crackled to life. A loud voice announced the final boarding call for the express train to Boston.

Alex checked his watch, panic replacing his anger. "King, we have to go. Now. Don't waste time on this trash."

Carlton's thumb rested on the lighter. He stared at Dasia for three long seconds, burning her eyes into his memory.

He turned around without another word. The bodyguards formed a wedge, and the Blackflame team disappeared down the VIP corridor.

The crowd slowly dispersed, muttering insults. Felix collapsed onto a wooden bench, gasping for air like a dying fish.

Dasia adjusted the collar of her hoodie. She looked down at the floor.

A glossy poster of Carlton Gordon lay on the dirty tiles, dropped by a fleeing fan. Dasia stared at his arrogant, printed face.

Dasia looked at the poster by her boots. The corner of her mouth twitched under the mask.

She bent down. Her long fingers pinched the edge of the glossy paper. She lifted it off the filthy floor.

Fifty feet away, Alex glanced over his shoulder. He saw Dasia holding the poster. A smug, victorious sneer stretched across his face.

"Look at that," Alex said loudly, making sure Carlton heard him. "I told you he was just a psycho fan. Acting tough, and now he's picking up your trash like a good little dog."

Carlton stopped walking. He turned his head slightly. His blue eyes locked onto Dasia through the thinning crowd.

Felix groaned from the bench. "Are you crazy? Drop that!"

Dasia didn't look at Felix. She didn't look at Carlton.

Her hands moved in a blur. She crushed the thick, expensive poster into a tight, jagged ball. The sound of tearing paper echoed sharply.

She raised her arm. With a flick of her wrist, she launched the paper ball through the air.

It sailed over the heads of two passing commuters and dropped perfectly into the center of a hazardous waste bin three meters away.

"Trash belongs in the trash," Dasia said. Her tone was flat, stating a simple fact.

Alex's face flushed a violent, angry red. He looked like he had been slapped across the face.

Carlton's grip on his silver lighter tightened until his knuckles turned white. The disgust in his eyes ignited into a predatory, burning anger.

Dasia shoved her hands back into her pockets. She turned her back on the King of e-sports and walked toward the exit doors.

Felix shrieked, scrambling off the bench and sprinting after her.

The taxi ride to the Upper East Side was a nightmare.

Felix screamed until his voice gave out. He slammed his hands against the back of the driver's seat, accusing Dasia of destroying her brother's life and his own career. "And why the hell are we going to this preppy high school? !" Felix shrieked. "You are a disgraced pro now! You should be hiding!" Dasia kept her eyes on the window. She had made a promise to Gerald. She would finish his senior year and secure the diploma he had worked so hard for, maintaining his cover no matter how much she loathed the place.

Dasia pulled a pair of cheap wired earphones from her pocket. She shoved them into her ears and cranked the volume on her phone to the maximum.

Heavy metal guitars screamed against her eardrums. She closed her eyes.

The image of her twin brother, Gerald, flashed behind her eyelids. She saw his hands covered in blood, his face pale as his team threw him out into the rain.

Her hands, hidden inside her sleeves, curled into tight fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms until the skin broke. The sharp pain grounded her, keeping the violent rage from boiling over.

Thirty minutes later, the taxi jerked to a stop outside a massive wrought-iron gate.

Dasia ripped the earphones out. She pushed the door open. The bright afternoon sun made her squint.

Felix rolled down the window. "Listen to me! This prep school is full of rich kids. Keep your head down. Do not cause trouble!"

Dasia slammed the door shut in his face. She adjusted the strap of her keyboard bag and walked onto the campus.

The hallways of the prep school were crowded. The moment Dasia stepped inside, the chatter died down.

Students stared at the dark, brooding boy in the oversized hoodie. A group of bullies who used to shove Gerald into lockers froze, intimidated by the cold, murderous aura radiating from her. They stepped aside, clearing a path.

Dasia found Gerald's locker. She spun the combination dial from memory. Click. The metal door swung open.

"Holy crap! Gerald? Is that you, bro?"

A loud, obnoxious voice echoed behind her.

Dasia turned her head. A boy with bleached blonde hair stood there, his jaw hanging open. Cody Brogan. Gerald's only friend in this hellhole.

Cody circled her, his eyes wide. He reached out to touch her chopped hair.

Dasia shot him a look so cold his hand snapped back to his side.

"Did you go dark after getting kicked off the team?" Cody whispered, vibrating with excitement. "Because it looks badass. Good timing, too. We have a massive fight in the parking lot after school."

Dasia shoved a textbook into the locker and slammed the door shut. The metal banged loudly.

She looked at Cody. A dark, bloodthirsty smile curved her lips.

"A fight?" Dasia said softly. "Perfect."

The afternoon sun baked the classroom, casting long shadows across Dasia's desk.

She rested her chin on her hand, spinning a yellow pencil between her fingers. The history teacher droned on about the Industrial Revolution.

Cody sat at the next desk, sweating. He slid a crumpled piece of paper onto Dasia's notebook. It was a crude drawing of the parking lot with stick figures showing their "strategy."

Dasia glanced at the childish scribbles. She picked up the paper, crumpled it into a tight ball, and flicked it with her thumb. It bounced off the wall and landed perfectly in the trash can in the corner.

Cody panicked. He leaned over, his voice a frantic hiss. "Dude, the guys we're fighting are from the vocational school. They bring weapons. They fight dirty."

Dasia let out a slow, bored yawn.

Cody sank back into his chair, groaning. He thought his friend had lost his mind.

The shrill scream of the final bell pierced the air.

Dasia dropped the pencil into her bag. She slung the strap over her shoulder and stood up. Her movements were fluid and completely relaxed.

She walked down the hallway with Cody trailing behind her. Girls whispered as she passed, and boys glared, but no one stepped in her way.

They pushed through the heavy metal fire doors at the back of the school.

The cold wind hit her face, carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and old asphalt. In the far corner of the parking lot, ten guys in leather jackets and ripped jeans were waiting.

The leader, a massive guy with a shaved head, slapped an aluminum baseball bat against his palm. When he saw Cody and Dasia, he threw his head back and laughed.

Cody swallowed hard. His knees shook, but he stepped in front of Dasia, raising his hands to talk them down.

The leader pointed the tip of the bat right at Dasia's face.

"Well, look who it is," the leader sneered. "The trash that got kicked out of Glory. What's wrong, Gerald? Your right hand is crippled, so now your brain is broken too?"

The air around Dasia dropped ten degrees.

The mention of her brother's ruined hand triggered something dark inside her. A physical, suffocating pressure radiated from her body.

She reached out her left hand and pushed Cody aside. She dropped her heavy bag onto the concrete. It hit with a loud thud.

"Who did you call trash?" Dasia asked. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried a terrifying, icy weight.

The leader's face flushed with anger. He gripped the bat with both hands, raised it high, and swung it directly at Dasia's skull. The metal whistled through the air.

Cody squeezed his eyes shut and screamed.

Dasia didn't blink. She tilted her head a fraction of an inch. The bat sliced through the empty air, ruffling the edge of her hood.

Before the leader could pull the bat back, Dasia exploded forward.

Her left hand shot out like a viper. She clamped her fingers around the leader's wrist and twisted violently.

A sickening crack echoed across the lot. The leader dropped the bat and let out a high-pitched shriek of agony.

Dasia caught the bat with her left hand before it hit the ground. In the same fluid motion, she pivoted on her left foot and drove her right heel into the man's stomach.

The impact lifted the two-hundred-pound guy off his feet. He flew backward and crashed onto the hood of a sedan.

The remaining nine guys froze in shock. Then, they roared and rushed her all at once.

Dasia moved like a ghost. She vaulted onto the hood of a Ford pickup truck, using the high ground.

As two guys lunged at her legs, she didn't jump. The tight bandages binding her chest restricted her breathing and core flexibility, making flashy aerial moves impossible. Instead, she dropped her center of gravity, planting her hands on the hood, and swept her right leg in a brutal, grounded arc that shattered their kneecaps. They collapsed, gasping for air.

She landed lightly on the concrete. A guy swung a pipe at her back. She ducked, spun, and drove her left elbow straight into his solar plexus. He dropped like a stone, vomiting onto the asphalt.

It took exactly three minutes.

Ten bodies littered the parking lot, groaning and writhing in pain.

Dasia stood in the center of the carnage. Her breathing was perfectly even. She tossed the aluminum bat. It clattered loudly against the pavement near the leader's face.

Cody was pressed against a car door, his jaw hanging open. He stared at her like she was an alien.

Dasia bent down and picked up her bag. She brushed a speck of dirt off her sleeve.

She looked at the bleeding guys on the ground.

"Scram," she commanded.