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.

The dining room was a study in tension. The chandelier was too bright. The silverware clinked too loudly against the china.

Aunt Nora was trying. She was fluttering around, serving roast beef, smiling too much.

So, Dallas, Nora said, her voice high and brittle. How is the first week?

Fine, Dallas said. She focused on cutting her meat. Precision cuts. One inch by one inch.

Inger took a sip of red wine. Fine? I heard you got a zero on your placement exam. A zero, Dallas. Do you know how hard it is to get a zero? You have to actively try to be that stupid.

Erika was sitting across from Dallas. She was smiling into her water glass.

Maybe she just froze, Erika said sweetly. It happens to people who aren't... prepared.

Mason, Nora's son, was sitting next to Dallas. He was twelve, a quiet kid with glasses. He kicked Dallas gently under the table. A signal of solidarity.

I didn't freeze, Dallas said without looking up.

Then what? Inger snapped. You're just lazy? You're trying to embarrass me? The Bentleys paid for your tuition, Dallas. Do you have any idea what that cost?

I didn't ask you to, Dallas said.

Inger slammed her wine glass down. Wine sloshed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth red like blood.

Ungrateful, Inger hissed. You are exactly like your father. Useless. A waste of space.

The air left the room.

Nora gasped. Inger!

Dallas stopped cutting. Her knife screeched against the plate.

She looked up. Her eyes were dark, bottomless pits.

My father, Dallas said, her voice dangerously low, was a kind man.

He was a drunk! Inger shouted. And he died broke! Just like you will!

Erika chimed in. Mom, don't upset yourself. Dallas can always go to community college. They have... vocational programs.

Miley, Nora's daughter, giggled. Like plumbing?

Dallas looked at them. The perfect family. The perfect facade.

She felt a burning in her chest. It wasn't tears. It was fire.

She stood up. Her chair scraped back.

I'm not hungry, Dallas said.

Sit down! Inger commanded.

No, Dallas said.

She walked out of the dining room. She grabbed her backpack from the hall.

Nora ran after her. Dallas! Wait!

She caught Dallas on the porch. Nora's eyes were wet. She shoved a roll of cash into Dallas's hand.

Take this, Nora whispered. Please. Buy yourself something nice. Don't listen to her.

Dallas looked at the money. It was a few hundred dollars. Pity money.

I don't need it, Aunt Nora, Dallas said. She tried to give it back.

Take it! Nora insisted, shoving it into Dallas's pocket.

Dallas let her. She hugged her aunt briefly. A stiff, awkward embrace.

She walked down the driveway into the dark.

Once she was around the corner, she reached into the hidden lining of her backpack and pulled out a cheap, battered burner phone. She powered it on.

A single encrypted text message waited for her.

Notification: Escrow Release Authorized. Balance Update: +$50,000.00.

It was the payment for the Black Eagle defense. A bounty from the underground.

Dallas touched the crumpled bills in her pocket from her aunt. Then she looked at the number on her screen.

She laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. She popped the battery out of the burner phone and shoved it back into the hidden lining.