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.
