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.

Dallas burst into Room 302. Empty. Thank God.

She threw the ice pack onto Whitney's bed. She dropped to her knees beside her own bed and reached into the hidden compartment she had taped to the underside of the frame.

She pulled out the black laptop.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping the lid open. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. No mouse. Just command lines.

The screen illuminated her face in a ghostly green glow. Her eyes shifted. Gone was the bored, sleepy girl. In her place was a predator.

"The study hall terminals are the only access point," she muttered to herself. "But until I get there, I have to defend from the outside."

Accessing St. Jude's Root Directory... Bypass authorized...

She saw the battle in real-time. Black Eagle was tearing through Lance's defenses like they were tissue paper. He was ninety percent through the encryption.

Not on my watch, Dallas whispered.

She didn't patch the firewall. That would take too long.

Instead, she wrote a script. A honeypot.

She created a fake directory. Labeled it Donor_List_Platinum. She left it slightly unguarded.

Black Eagle took the bait. The attack stream diverted, hungry for the prize.

Got you, she hissed.

She executed the Counter-Strike command.

The moment Black Eagle's code touched her fake file, a virus uploaded back up the stream. It was a logic bomb designed to fuse the BIOS chip on his motherboard. It wouldn't just shut him down; it would permanently brick his hardware and simultaneously broadcast his precise GPS coordinates to every open port within a ten-mile radius.

On the screen, the red alert bars turned green. Traffic normalized.

Threat Neutralized.

Dallas exhaled. A long, shaky breath. She quickly wiped her logs. She disguised her entry as a system auto-update.

She heard the key in the lock.

Snap.

She slammed the laptop shut. She shoved it under her pillow. She grabbed a Vogue magazine from Whitney's desk and flopped onto her back on the bed.

The door opened. Sloan walked in, followed by a girl Dallas hadn't met. Penny Moon. Penny was small, nervous, looking at the floor.

Hey, Sloan said. Whitney is looking for you. She wants her ice.

Dallas pointed to Whitney's bed without looking up from the magazine. It's melting.

Penny looked at Dallas. Her eyes lingered on the pillow where the laptop was hidden. There was a spark of recognition there. Fear? Or something else?

Dallas's phone buzzed.

Aunt Nora: Dinner tonight. 7 PM. Your mother is coming. Don't be late.

Dallas groaned. She let the magazine fall over her face.

The victory against Black Eagle tasted like ash now.

She stood up. I have to go out.

Be careful, Sloan said softly. Curfew is at ten.

Dallas grabbed her hoodie. She walked out into the hallway. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her cold and empty.

She took the bus to the wealthy side of town. The ride was forty minutes of stop-and-go motion that made her stomach churn. She watched the houses get bigger, the fences get higher.

She arrived at Aunt Nora's house. It was a modest mansion compared to the Bentley estate, but it still screamed money.

She stood on the porch. She took a deep breath, putting on her armor. The mask of indifference.

She rang the bell.

The door opened. It wasn't Nora.

It was Inger Bentley. Her mother.

Inger was wearing Chanel. She looked perfect. And she looked at Dallas like she was a stain on the carpet.

You're late, Inger said. Her voice was ice.

Hello, Mother, Dallas said.

Inger stepped back, wrinkling her nose. You smell like public transportation. Go wash your hands before you touch anything.