The elevator to the penthouse of the Olympic Tower hit 4G on the ascent.

  My ears popped with a sharp crackle as the car shot past the fiftieth floor. The gold-plated doors hummed, trying to convince me that soaring a hundred stories into the smog-choked sky was luxury, not a death trap.

  “Altitude check,” Handy whispered in my ear. “Heart rate ninety. Tremors detected.”

  I’m fine, I thought, leaning my head against the cool mirrored wall. Just keep the comms clear. I’m entering the Parents Zone. No glitches.

  “Understood. Going dark.”

  The doors slid open with a whisper of hydraulics.

  Home.

  Or at least, the glossy, high-definition simulation of a home my parents had curated. The air didn't smell like air. It smelled like expensive soap and vacuum lines. It didn't smell like the city. It didn't smell like exhaust, or rain-soaked concrete, or the copper tang of fear I’d been inhaling all day. It smelled like a furniture catalog.

  I stepped onto the marble foyer, my sneakers squeaking—a rude, rubbery intrusion on the silence.

  “Nikki? Is that you?”

  Mom’s voice floated from the sunken living room, light and airy, like she was testing the acoustics.

  “No, it’s a werewolf here to ravage the fine china,” I muttered. Then, louder: “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

  I dropped my bag on the entry bench. It landed with a heavy thud, the portable taser inside clinking against the spare change and lip gloss. I nudged it with my toe, ensuring the device was buried deep under my biology textbook. You never know.

  I walked down the three steps into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Chicago’s skyline—a jagged jaw of steel and neon biting into the purple bruise of the evening sky. Pandora Corp’s tower loomed in the distance, a black monolith topped with a red beacon that pulsed like a slow, infected heartbeat.

  I looked away from it.

  Dad was sitting on the white leather sofa, scrolling through a holographic news feed projected from the coffee table. He looked tired, the blue light of the hologram deepening the lines around his eyes. He wore a crisp suit, tie loosened just enough to signal ‘off the clock’ but not enough to signal ‘relaxed’.

  Mom was adjusting a vase of flowers that probably cost more than a used hover-bike. They were real lilies, not synth-blooms. The pollen tickled my nose, sharp and sweet.

  “You’re late,” Dad said, not looking up from the floating text. “Traffic?”

  “Something like that,” I said, heading for the kitchen island. I needed water. “The tram was delayed. Someone tried to smuggle a cyborg iguana onto the red line.”

  “Again?” Mom sighed, stepping back to admire her arrangement. “The city is getting so loud. I told your father we should look at those condos in the sky cities. Above the smog line.”

  “And miss out on the local color?” I grabbed a glass bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. The condensation was cold against my palm. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Dad swiped the hologram away. The blue light vanished, leaving the room in the warm glow of the amber recessed lighting. He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

  “We got a notification from the school board,” he said.

  I froze, the bottle halfway to my mouth.

  Handy. Did they flag the biometric spike?

  Silence. Right. He was dark.

  “Oh?” I took a sip, the bubbles stinging my tongue. “Did I win an award for ‘Most Enthusiastic Spirit Fingers’?”

  “They mentioned a disturbance in the cafeteria,” Dad said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Something about a ‘mass projectile incident involving synthesized dairy products’.”

  I choked back a laugh. Only the school board could make a food fight sound like a terrorist attack.

  “Oh, that,” I waved. “It was Cody. You know how he gets it.”

  “Cody Miller?” Mom frowned, picking a dead leaf off a lily. “That nice boy who helped us program the smart-fridge?”

  “The very same. He was trying to impress some sophomores with a spoon trick. The ‘Gravity Hammer’. It… misfired.”

  “Misfired?” Dad raised an eyebrow.

  “Cody vs. The Varsity Linebacker. It ended in a diary.”

  Dad stared at me for a second, then a small snort escaped him. He covered it with a cough, but the smile was there, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “Is he okay?” Dad asked.

  “His pride is in critical condition. His sneakers are ruined. But he’ll live.”

  “I think Cody is cute.”

  The voice came from under the table.

  Jackie scrambled out from her fortress of pillows and blankets, her blonde hair a static-charged halo around her head. She was holding a datapad that was playing a cartoon about ghost-hunting cats.

  “Jackie,” Mom scolded gently. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was spying. It’s different.” She stood up, smoothing down her pajamas, which featured glowing pumpkins. “And I stand by my statement. Cody is cute. He has nice eyes. And his shoes light up.”

  I snorted, water nearly coming out of my nose. “You think he’s cute because he gave you a candy bar last time he was here. You’re easily bought, squirt.”

  “It was a king-size bar, Nikki. That’s an investment.” Jackie marched over to me, looking up with big blue eyes that were way too perceptive for an eight-year-old. “Did he get in trouble?”

  “He’s scrubbing floors with a toothbrush as we speak,” I lied.

  “Good,” Jackie nodded solemnly. “He needs discipline. Boys are loud.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I muttered, thinking of a different boy. One with eyes like a void and hands that moved faster than thought.

  “Nikki,” Mom said, her tone sharpening slightly. “We were worried. The alert said ‘security containment active’. We thought it might be…”

  She trailed off, glancing at the window, toward the Pandora building.

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  She didn't know about the wolf. She didn't know about the bite. But she knew uncle was dead, and she knew the official story—a lab accident—was full of holes. She worried about riots. She worried about gangs. She worried about the things she could name, unaware that the thing she should be most afraid of was drinking sparkling water in her kitchen.

  “It was just a food fight, Mom,” I said, softening my voice. “Nobody got hurt. Just some bruised egos and dry-cleaning bills. I promise.”

  I walked over and kissed her cheek. She smelled like expensive moisturizer and safety. It made my chest ache.

  I wiped my feet carefully on the rug, terrified I'd leave dirt on the white wool. I’m a predator playing house.

  “I’m gonna go shower,” I said, pulling away before the guilt could show on my face. “I smell like tater tots and fear.”

  “Dinner in thirty,” Dad called out, picking up the remote again. “We ordered Thai.”

  “Save me the spring rolls,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Only if Cody doesn’t break in and steal them!” Jackie yelled.

  I laughed, but it felt hollow. I grabbed my bag from the entryway and bolted for the stairs.

  *****

  My bedroom was the only place in the apartment that felt real.

  The heavy fabric of the shell top felt like armor peeling away. My skin was sensitive tonight, prickly and hot. The wolf was close to the surface, agitated by the day’s events.

  Danny Troy.

  His name wouldn't leave me alone.

  I walked into the bathroom, turning the shower handle all the way to the red. I needed heat. I needed to scald the confusion out of my system.

  The bathroom was all white marble and chrome. It looked cold enough to store meat. I hated it.

  I stepped under the spray. The water was hot enough to turn my skin pink instantly. I hissed, bracing my hands against the tiled wall, letting the water hammer against my neck.

  Steam billowed up, fogging the glass enclosure. I closed my eyes and let the sensory overload of the day drain away.

  The screech of the cafeteria. The smell of the locker room. The electric hum of Danny’s presence.

  Why did he catch it?

  A normal guy would have ducked. A normal guy would have let me take the hit. Self-preservation is the default setting for humans.

  But he stepped in. He moved toward the impact.

  Protective instinct? Or arrogance?

  Maybe he knew he wouldn't get hurt. Maybe his bones were reinforced with carbon fiber, or his reflexes were dialed up by a combat chip.

  “He’s like me,” I whispered to the wet tile.

  And that was the problem.

  If he was like me, he was a target. If he was like me, Pandora wanted him.

  And if Pandora wanted him, they would go through me to get to him. Or through him to get to me.

  I grabbed the bar of soap—lavender and oat milk—and scrubbed. I scrubbed my arms, my chest, my legs, and feet. I tried to wash off the phantom sensation of his gaze, the magnetic pull that had made my knees weak in the hallway.

  It wasn't romance. It couldn't be.

  Romance was for girls like Tessa, who worried about matching prom corsages. Romance was soft.

  I wasn't soft. I was fur and fangs and a ticking clock.

  I turned the water off. The sudden silence in the bathroom was heavy.

  I wrapped a fluffy white towel around myself and stepped out onto the bathmat. The air was thick with steam.

  I reached out to wipe the mirror.

  My hand hesitated.

  Don’t look, a voice in my head warned. You know who’s waiting.

  I wiped the glass.

  A squeak of friction, and a swath of clarity cut through the fog.

  I looked.

  At first, it was just me. Nikki Nova. Wet white hair plastered to my skull, purple eyes wide and bloodshot from the heat, skin flushed pink. A teenage girl.

  Then, I blinked.

  And she was there.

  The reflection didn't change, not really. But my brain overlaid the truth on top of the image.

  The eyes in the mirror burned yellow.

  The mouth elongated, the jaw cracking and stretching into a snout full of razor-wire teeth.

  The skin darkened, coarse white fur erupting from the pores.

  The reflection blinked. I didn't. Yellow eyes stared back. The lip curled, silent and wet, exposing the gum line.

  No, I whispered back. I am the hunter.

  I leaned closer, resting my forehead against the cool glass. The condensation dripped down like tears.

  I traced the line of my jaw. Beneath the skin, I could feel the tension in the masseter muscles, the strength that could snap a femur like a dry twig.

  I looked at my arm. The bite mark was there, a jagged starburst of scar tissue just below my shoulder. It pulsed faintly, a dull, rhythmic throb.

  Pandora's weapon did this, I thought. It turned me into another weapon.

  And weapons don't get boyfriends. Weapons don't get "meet cutes" at school.

  Weapons get stored in lockers until they’re needed to kill something.

  I thought about Danny again. The way he held that cheap plastic wolf charm like it mattered. The way he looked at me, not with fear, but with recognition.

  He saw me.

  For a second, in that hallway, I wasn't the freak. I wasn't the imposter in the penthouse. I was just… someone he knew.

  It was the most terrifying thing I had ever felt.

  “No,” I said aloud. My voice was raspy in the damp room.

  I couldn't afford to be seen. Being seen meant being tracked. Being tracked meant the lab.

  If I let him get close—if I let myself like him—I was signing his death warrant.

  Moldark would use him. He’d peel Danny apart just to see what made him tick, just to get leverage on me.

  I looked into my own purple eyes, forcing the wolf hallucination to fade.

  “You’re a monster, Nikki,” I told the mirror. “Act like one.”

  Monsters aren't nice. Monsters aren't polite. Monsters don't return smiles.

  I had to be the villain in Danny’s high school story. I had to be the icy, stuck-up cheerleader who thought she was too good for him. I had to make him hate me.

  Hate was safe. Hate keeps people away.

  If he hated me, he wouldn't look for me. If he hated me, he wouldn't notice when I slipped out at night to hunt vampires or cyborg gangsters. If he hated me, he’d stay in his lane, safe and sound with his fancy scrambler and his secrets.

  It was a noble plan.

  So why did it feel like I was eating a lemon rind? Bitter. Necessary.

  “Because you want him,” Handy said, breaking the silence. He must have reactivated when my heart rate spiked.

  “I don’t want him,” I snapped, turning away from the mirror. “I want to survive.”

  “Biological imperative suggests otherwise. Dopamine levels are—”

  “Delete the data, Handy.”

  “Nikki—”

  “Delete it.”

  I dropped the towel and pulled on my oversized sleep shirt—an old, faded thing that said INSC on the front. International Space Corp. I yanked on a pair of pink shorts.

  “I’m going to be the biggest jerk he’s ever met,” I vowed, pacing the small bathroom. “I’ll make the ‘Mean Girls’ look like grief counselors. I’ll be so cold he’ll need a thermal parka just to walk past my locker.”

  “Strategy noted,” Handy said dryly. “Strategy confirmed. Isolate and deflect. Though, I estimate a 75% chance that your sarcasm will just be interpreted as witty banter.”

  “Then I’ll stop being witty. I’ll be boring. I’ll talk about… I don’t know… the weather. Or tax reform.”

  “Now you’re just talking crazy.”

  I unlocked the door and stepped back into my bedroom. The city lights outside my window were brighter now, the smog reflecting the neon glow of the streets below.

  I walked to the window and pressed my hand against the glass.

  Down there, somewhere in the maze of concrete and fiber-optics, Danny Troy was probably sitting in a dark room, staring at a wall, being all mysterious and perfect.

  Maybe he was thinking about the cafeteria. Maybe he was thinking about the girl with the white hair and the secrets.

  Don’t think about me, Danny, I pleaded silently. Forget you saw me. Forget the spark.

  Just run away… Before the wolf eats you.

  My stomach growled. Loudly.

  “Thai food,” I said, rubbing my abdomen. “That’s what I’m feeling. Not love. Just hunger.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Handy muttered.

  “Shut up, Handy.”

  I turned my back on the window, on the city, and on the boy in the shadows. I marched downstairs to eat spring rolls and pretend, for just a little while longer, that I was just a girl who loved math and hated loud noises.

  But as I walked, I couldn't shake the image of the mirror. The wolf was still there, lurking behind my eyes, waiting for the moon.

  And it was smiling. Because it knew the truth.

  You can’t fight gravity. And you can’t fight hunger. But you can starve it.

  But I was sure as hell going to try.