The Art Building was a glass and steel monstrosity that looked like it had crashed into the classic brick architecture of the rest of the campus. It was named the Bentley Center for the Arts, a constant, looming reminder of who owned this school. Who owned this town.

Dallas walked across the manicured lawn, the grass so green it looked painted. She needed to cut through the building to get to the dorms without being seen by the administration.

She heard the violin before she opened the door.

It was fast. Aggressive. Paganini's Caprice No. 24. A piece that required fingers to move like spiders on caffeine.

But something was wrong.

The notes were there, technically. But the rhythm was jagged. It sounded frantic, breathless. It sounded like someone running for their life, not someone making music.

Dallas slipped inside. The hallway was cool and smelled of turpentine and clay. The music was coming from the main recital hall. The double doors were cracked open just an inch.

Dallas stopped. She peered through the gap.

Erika Bentley stood center stage. She was wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than Dallas's entire wardrobe. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She was sweating. Beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. Her bow arm was sawing back and forth violently.

She missed a shift to third position. The note screamed-a sharp, ugly sound that echoed in the empty hall.

Dammit! Erika shrieked.

She pulled her arm back, her face contorted in a silent scream of frustration. For a second, it looked like she would smash the expensive instrument, but the socialite in her took over. Instead of breaking the bow, she swung her empty left hand and violently swept the heavy binder of sheet music off the metal stand. The pages scattered across the floor like dead birds.

Erika stood there, chest heaving, her violin clutched in her right hand like a weapon. Her face was twisted in a mask of pure, unfiltered rage. It was ugly. It was the face she never showed the cameras or the donors.

Dallas watched, impassive. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe.

Erika spun around, sensing the presence. When she saw Dallas, the rage instantly evaporated, replaced by a smooth, plastic mask of condescension. It was terrifying how fast she switched.

Dallas, Erika said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetener. You're not supposed to be here. This is for honor students.

Dallas pushed the door open and stepped inside. She didn't look at Erika. She looked at the fallen music sheets.

You were sharp on the ascending run, Dallas said. And your bow hold is too tight. You're choking the sound.

Erika's eyes widened. A flash of genuine hatred cut through the plastic mask.

Excuse me? Erika laughed, a high, brittle sound. What would you know about Paganini? You can't even pass a math test. Go back to your dorm, Dallas. Before I call security.

Dallas looked at her stepsister. Really looked at her. She saw the trembling in Erika's hands. The fear behind the eyes.

Pick up your music, Erika, Dallas said quietly. It looks messy.

She turned and walked out, leaving Erika standing alone in the silence. Behind her, the violin started again, louder, angrier, and even more desperate.

Room 302 in the girls' dormitory was small, cramped, and currently smelled like an explosion in a floral shop.

Dallas pushed the door open. Her roommate, Whitney, was sitting at her vanity, spraying something pink and noxious into the air. Sloan, the other roommate, was sitting on her bed, looking uncomfortable.

Oh god, Whitney said, waving her hand in front of her nose. The smell of public school just walked in.

Sloan looked down at her hands. Whitney, stop.

Dallas ignored them. She walked to her bed-the one by the window, the one with the thin, scratchy blanket. She dropped her bag.

I heard you got a zero, Whitney sneered, turning around. She was applying lip gloss, her mouth making a popping sound. My dad says people like you lower the property value of the school just by existing.

Dallas sat on her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked at Whitney.

And people like you raise the collective narcissism index, Dallas said. It's a delicate ecosystem.

Whitney blinked. Her mouth hung open slightly. What?

Dallas reached into her bag and pulled out her headphones. Large, noise-canceling, battered. She put them on. The world went silent.

She pressed a button on the side. Static hissed, then cleared.

...Black Eagle is scanning the nodes... Sector 4 is vulnerable...

The voice in her ear was synthesized, distorted. It was the voice of the underground. Dallas closed her eyes, letting the data wash over her.

Whitney was still talking, her mouth moving, her hands gesturing. She looked like a silent movie actor overacting a scene. She stood up, stomped her foot, and grabbed Sloan's arm. They stormed out of the room, presumably to go complain to someone who cared.

The door slammed.

Dallas opened her eyes. The room was empty.

She reached under her pillow. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of her laptop. It wasn't the clunky school-issued device. It was a matte black beast, customized with processors she had salvaged and soldered herself.

She opened it. The screen glowed with a terminal prompt. Green text on black.

WARNING: External IP detected probing St. Jude's Mainframe.

Dallas stared at the cursor blinking.

Black Eagle.

He was here. In her school.

She shouldn't get involved. She was supposed to be the idiot. The sleeper.

Her stomach growled, a painful, hollow twist. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

Dallas closed the laptop. Not yet.

She pulled a squashed energy bar from her pocket. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the quiet room. She took a bite. It tasted like sawdust and chemicals. She chewed slowly, staring out the window at the campus lights below. They looked like stars, cold and distant.

The cafeteria at St. Jude's was a study in social stratification. The athletes claimed the round tables in the center. The socialites took the booths by the windows. The academics huddled near the kitchen doors.

And the outcasts... they floated.

Dallas held her tray. It was light. A bowl of wilted lettuce, an apple that looked bruised, and a glass of water. She moved through the aisles, her eyes scanning for a gap, a space where she could disappear.

She was passing the table where the football team sat. Jett Sterling was there. He was the son of a billionaire tech mogul, loud, brash, and currently leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out into the walkway.

Dallas saw the leg. She knew he saw her coming.

She didn't stop. She didn't walk around.

She kept her pace steady. Just as her boot was about to make contact with his shin, Jett shifted his foot, trying to trip her.

It was a clumsy move. Amateur.

Dallas didn't trip. She adjusted her center of gravity in mid-stride. She brought her heavy combat boot down. Hard.

Right on the toe of his limited edition Air Jordans.

Gah! Jett yelped. He jerked his leg back, nearly tipping his chair over. He grabbed his foot, his face twisting in pain.

The cafeteria went silent. The chatter died instantly.

Whitney, who was sitting next to him, jumped up. Are you blind? You just stepped on Sterling! Do you know how much those shoes cost?

Dallas stopped. She turned slowly. She looked down at Jett, who was rubbing his sneaker.

Apologies, Dallas said. Her voice was flat. Your legs were obstructing the flow of traffic. I assumed they were detachable, given how little you seem to use the brain connected to them.

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.

Jett looked up. His eyes were wide. Shock replaced the pain.

Did you just call me stupid? he asked. He sounded genuinely baffled.

I called you anatomically inefficient, Dallas corrected.

Whitney shrieked. You little freak!

She lunged. It was a telegraphed move. Whitney reached for Dallas's tray, intending to flip it onto her.

Dallas didn't dodge. She simply rotated her wrist. A subtle, fluid motion.

As Whitney's hand hit the edge of the tray, the glass of ice water didn't fall toward Dallas. It launched forward. A perfect arc.

Splash.

The water hit Whitney square in the chest. It soaked her white blouse instantly, rendering it transparent. The ice cubes slid down into her cleavage.

Whitney screamed. It was a sound that shattered glass. She looked down at herself, horrified.

My hand slipped, Dallas said.

Jett Sterling stared at Dallas. He looked at Whitney, dripping wet and hysterical. Then he looked back at Dallas.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Damn, Jett said. He let out a low whistle.

Boone Faulkner was watching from the table over. He had a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. He looked at Erika, who was sitting beside him, her face pale with embarrassment.

Your sister has aim, Boone murmured.

She's an animal, Erika hissed, gripping her fork until her knuckles turned white. A feral animal.

Mr. Henderson, the Dean of Discipline, came running. What is going on here? Ruiz!

Whitney was sobbing now, pointing a shaking finger at Dallas. She threw water on me! She attacked Jett!

Henderson turned on Dallas, his face purple. Is this true?

Jett stood up. He towered over Dallas. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers. He was looking for fear. He found none.

Actually, Sir, Jett drawled. Whitney bumped into her. It was an accident. Gravity, you know?

Whitney stopped crying. She stared at Jett, betrayed.

Dallas didn't say thank you. She held Jett's gaze for a second longer, her expression unreadable.

Dean Henderson looked confused. Well... clean this up. Ruiz, go to the nurse's office and get an ice pack for Miss Whitney. Now.

It was a punishment disguised as an errand.

Dallas put her tray down on the nearest table. She turned and walked out of the cafeteria.

As she passed Jett, he leaned in.

Nice vocabulary, trash, he whispered.

Dallas didn't break stride.

The nurse's office was an oasis of air-conditioning and silence. It smelled of antiseptic and... freshly ground espresso beans?

Dallas pushed the frosted glass door open.

There was no matronly nurse in a white cap. Instead, a man was sitting behind the reception desk. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. He wore a white lab coat over a black t-shirt. His feet were up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. A medical journal was tented over his face.

Dallas tapped her knuckles on the counter. Hard.

Ice, she said.

The man didn't jump. He slowly lifted the journal.

Fielding Pickett had eyes the color of storm clouds. He looked exhausted. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He had a days-old stubble that looked more like a fashion statement than neglect.

Self-service, kid, Fielding mumbled. Freezer.

He dropped the journal and picked up a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip, grimacing.

Dallas walked to the mini-fridge in the corner. She yanked the door open. She reached in for an ice pack. As she did, her hoodie sleeve rode up her arm.

Just for a second.

Exposing the inside of her left wrist. There was a small, flesh-colored patch there, meant to blend with her skin. But the heat of the day had loosened the adhesive. The corner had peeled back, revealing a sliver of black ink underneath.

A geometric shape-part of a Mobius strip.

Fielding's eyes snapped to her wrist. The laziness vanished. He sat up straight, the motion fluid and predatory.

Nice ink, he said. His voice dropped an octave.

Dallas froze. She yanked her sleeve down, pressing the fabric against the peeling patch to re-stick it.

"It's a temporary tattoo," she lied smoothly, not turning around immediately. "A dare. It's peeling off."

She turned around, clutching the ice pack.

Fielding was watching her. Really watching her. He wasn't looking at a student anymore. He was looking at a variable.

"Temporary tattoos don't usually have such perfect topological precision," he noted.

Before Dallas could answer, the door to the inner office banged open.

Lance Jagger, the school's IT administrator, stumbled out. He was clutching a laptop, his face slick with sweat. He looked frantic, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on Fielding.

"Fielding! You have to help!" Lance yelled, slamming the laptop onto the counter. "The external security team is locked out! You're the only one here who knows the legacy architecture from the old server migration!"

Fielding sighed. He rubbed his temples. "Lance, I'm the school nurse. I hand out aspirin."

"Don't give me that! You fixed the routing table last semester when the district server crashed! It's bypassing the firewall! It's Black Eagle! He's going for the donor financial records!"

Lance was hyperventilating. The screen of his laptop was flashing red. Lines of script were cascading down the terminal like a waterfall of blood.

Dallas stood by the door. She should leave. She should walk out.

But the name stopped her. Black Eagle.

She looked at the screen. She saw the attack vector. It was brute force, clumsy but effective. He was hammering the main port.

He's not using the VPN tunnel, Dallas said. The words slipped out before she could stop them. He's routing through Port 443. It looks like SSL traffic. You have to kill the mirror server, not the firewall.

Silence.

Lance stopped typing. He looked up at Dallas, his mouth agape.

Fielding turned his head slowly. He looked at Dallas. Then he looked at the screen. Then back at Dallas.

His eyes narrowed.

What? Lance asked.

Dallas felt the trap snap shut. She gripped the ice pack until her fingers burned.

I saw it in a movie, she said quickly. The Matrix. Or something.

She turned and shoved the door open.

Wait! Lance yelled.

Dallas didn't wait. She walked fast, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Fielding Pickett didn't call after her. He just watched the door swing shut. He picked up his pen and tapped it against the desk. A slow, rhythmic beat.