I ducked as a football whizzed past my head, missing me by millimetres, only to

slam into Derek Jackson’s unsuspecting face. The sound it made—an

unceremonious thud—echoed through the hall, followed by a chorus of gasps
and laughter. I smirked to myself, the corner of my mouth quirking upward, and
continued weaving my way through the chaotic, ever-dangerous hallways of
Mayfield High. Dodging concussions here was practically a survival skill, one I
had reluctantly mastered over the years.

"Move, Indigo!" someone barked from behind me, lugging an oversized tuba
case through the crowd. I rolled my eyes and swept my unruly brown locks out
of my face. Mayfield High wasn’t just a school; it was a circus, with me as the
reluctant trapeze artist, dodging falling objects and flying egos at every turn.

After what felt like an eternity of shoulder-checks and near-misses, I finally

arrived at my locker. Five minutes to spare before class. Great. Just great. My
stomach churned at the thought of having to rush. Hastily, I spun the
combination on my blue locker, the chipped paint flaking under my fingers. I
was just about to yank it open when—bang! —it slammed shut.

I jumped back, heart pounding, a strangled yelp escaping my throat. My hand

flew to my chest as I turned to see the culprit. Of course.

“Ryle!” I groaned, breathless, as my annoying friend doubled over with

laughter.

“Man, you scare too easy, Indigo,” Ryle Rossi said between chuckles, his arm
draped casually around Celine Chevalier’s shoulders. His smirk was infuriating,
as always.

I glared at him, though my expression softened as my gaze flickered to Celine.

Her eyes were locked on me, sharp and piercing, like twin daggers aiming for
my throat. She wasn’t laughing.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” I grumbled, batting Ryle’s hand away when he
reached out to ruffle my hair.

“Relax,” he said, still grinning. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

Celine tightened her grip on his arm, her knuckles turning white. I offered her a
sheepish smile, but she didn’t return it. Instead, her glare deepened, as if my
mere existence offended her.

Celine had always been... territorial. Even before she and Ryle officially
became a thing, she’d acted like she owned him. It was toxic, sure, but who was

1
I to judge? If I’d spent two years pining after a guy as clueless as Ryle, only to
finally get him, I’d probably be possessive too. Still, it made things... awkward.

“Anyway,” I said, forcing a bright, sisterly tone, “I’d love to stay and chat, but
you know how Mr. Collins gets when I’m late.”

Ryle smirked, giving me a mock salute as I opened my locker again, grabbed

my books, and stuffed them into my bag. Celine’s gaze bore into my back the
entire time, making my skin crawl. I waved awkwardly at them before speed-
walking away, eager to escape the tension.

The hallways were just as chaotic as before—papers flying, couples arguing,

someone’s lunch spilling onto the floor. In my eleven years at Mayfield High,
I’d mastered the art of navigating this minefield without ending up with a black
eye or worse. Barely.

By the time I slipped into classroom 10-B, the bell was seconds away from
ringing. Mr. Collins strode in behind me, shutting the door with a dramatic
flourish. I exhaled in relief and quickly made my way to my usual seat between
Maryanne Matthews and Valerie Schnapp.

“You’re late,” Maryanne whispered, her sharp green eyes narrowing.

“I was held back,” I muttered, dropping my bag on the floor with a sigh.

As Mr. Collins droned on with the attendance, I pulled out my Physics books
and absentmindedly began observing my surroundings. Valerie was already
holding up her compact mirror, carefully applying yet another layer of lip gloss.
That girl had more shades of gloss than I had socks. She was the queen of
makeup—and gossip.

“Ugh, Raya’s outfit today is so last season,” Valerie hissed, nudging me with
her elbow.

I glanced toward the front of the room where Raya Dawson sat, her perfectly
manicured hand intertwined with Derek Jackson’s. He looked smug, his bruised
face somehow failing to diminish his pride. Raya, as always, looked flawless—
her petite frame draped in an outfit that, while stylish, probably cost more than
my entire wardrobe.

“She’s so fake,” Valerie added with a dramatic eye roll.

“Maybe,” I whispered back, “but she’s hot, and you know it.”

2
Valerie stifled a laugh, but it was true. Raya was the epitome of Mayfield’s
social hierarchy—beautiful, wealthy, and untouchable. Derek looked like a kid
who’d won the lottery just by sitting next to her.

But I didn’t miss the way Raya kept catching Kim Jae’s eye, or how halfway
through Mr. Collins droning on about the properties of light and sound waves,
she winked at Kiara Micheals, who blushed at the gesture. I’d known Raya
since we were kids, and I knew the type of girl she was, so once we were in 5th
grade, I had decided to avoid her and hang out in the company of Maryanne
instead.

Valerie joined us when we were in high school, and I kind of felt uneasy around
her, but I didn’t show it, because- once again- who was I to judge?

As Mr. Collins began his lecture on sound waves, I couldn’t help but feel like
my own life was stuck in a constant state of freefall. Mayfield High was its own
chaotic universe, and I was just trying to survive it.

***

The next lesson we had to endure was English with our homeroom teacher, Ms.
Jacqueline (though we all called her Jackie). She was one of those rare,
mythical creatures—a teacher who didn’t mind if we whispered to our friends,
as long as we kept it at a respectable "library rebellion" volume. But, of course,
some people just had to push their luck.

Halfway through class, Ryle Rossi and Celine Chevalier, the school’s resident
will-they-won’t-they couple (spoiler: they always did), decided that conjugating
verbs wasn’t nearly as interesting as conjugating their lips at the back of the
class. Ms. Jacqueline, who had the patience of a saint but the eyes of a hawk,
shut it down immediately.

“Seats. Now.”

Ryle was sent to sit next to me, while Celine got exiled to the seat beside
Malcolm Smith—the human embodiment of an expensive cologne ad. Malcolm
was rich, bored, and had a permanent smirk that suggested he’d just been
handed the keys to his dad’s yacht. He eyed Celine like she was the next
investment opportunity, and I swear I saw him give a knowing, half-smirk nod.

3
Ryle, however, was blissfully unaware of this stock market shift in his
relationship. Instead, he was hunched over a scrap of paper, scribbling
furiously. Curious, I peeked over and immediately had to fight a grin.

F.L.A.M.E.S.

Oh, this was gold.

“You still play that, huh?” I murmured.

Ryle flinched, nearly swallowing the paper in his panic. “Play what?” he asked,
voice a little too high.

I gave him a look. “Ryle. I literally saw you writing the letters. You can’t
gaslight me about F.L.A.M.E.S.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “It’s—it’s just a dumb game. A
kids’ thing. I wasn’t really playing, I was just—”

I smirked. “Were you testing out ‘Ryle and Celine Rossi’ again?”

His ears turned red. “It’s statistically significant research.”

I burst out laughing. “Right. And I suppose Malcolm over there is conducting
market analysis on Celine, huh?”

Ryle finally glanced toward Celine and Malcolm, who were deep in
conversation—well, Malcolm was talking, and Celine was doing that polite,
nodding laugh thing girls do when they’re trying to be nice but also mildly
regret their life choices. Ryle blinked.

Then he turned back to me and sighed dramatically. “I’m doomed, aren’t I?”

I patted his shoulder. “Yeah, buddy. But at least you have F.L.A.M.E.S to tell
you exactly how doomed you are.”

He exhaled, then gave me a small, sheepish smile. “Thanks, Indi.”

I grinned. “Anytime. Now, let’s see if I’m destined for ‘Marriage’ or ‘Enemy’
with my own crush.”

And just like that, English class wasn’t so unbearable anymore.

***

4
The library was quiet, except for the faint rustling of pages and the occasional
creak of a chair. Fifth period was always my favourite time of the day. While
most of my classmates were crammed into stuffy biology labs, dissecting frogs
or labelling diagrams, I had this blissful solitude. No biology for me—just an
hour to breathe, think, and, today, catch up on my art project.

I sat at a corner table by the tall windows, where the winter sunlight spilled
across the wooden surface like liquid gold. My sketchbook lay open in front of
me, its pages filled with half-finished ideas and smudges of charcoal. Mr.
O’Brien’s assignment had been tormenting me for days: "Emotions—capture
three distinct feelings in your sketches." It sounded simple, but every time I
pressed pencil to paper, I froze. How could I distil something so complex into a
few lines and shadows?

With a sigh, I picked up my charcoal pencil and began to draw. The rough
texture of the paper met the tip of my pencil as I sketched soft, tentative lines,
trying to coax an image out of my restless mind. Frustration bubbled beneath
my skin, but I forced myself to focus. The room seemed to fade around me as I
worked, my strokes becoming bolder, sharper.

And then I felt it—a presence behind me.

My hand stilled, and my heart skipped. Someone was standing just close enough
that I could sense their warmth, even through the cool January air that clung to
my sweater. Before I could turn around, a faint, familiar scent drifted over me—
a mix of cedarwood and something else, something intoxicating. My stomach
fluttered, and I gripped my pencil tighter to keep from visibly shivering.

I knew that cologne.

“Hey, Indigo,” a deep voice murmured, rich and smooth like honey.

I froze.

He stepped closer, and my breath hitched as his shadow fell over my

sketchbook. “What are you drawing?”

I barely managed to stifle a squeak, my heart pounding in my chest. Forcing

myself to breathe, I discreetly straightened up and turned in my chair, offering a
nervous smile to none other than Dylan Chen.

Dylan Chen.

5
The moment I met his stormy grey eyes, I felt my heart lurch in a way that was
both thrilling and unsettling. Those eyes had a way of making you feel like you
were the only person in the world, and right now, they were locked on me. His
thick, wavy hair fell in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, as if he’d just
stepped out of a magazine. Standing at around 6’2, he had the kind of presence
that seemed to make the air around him hum.

Dylan wasn’t just some ordinary high schooler—he was the Dylan Chen. A
senior. The star of Mayfield High’s basketball team. The guy who could play
every instrument under the sun, except the trumpet (not that it mattered—he
probably didn’t need it). His light, clear complexion practically glowed, and I
couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. No pimples, no blackheads—how was
that even fair? Everything about him seemed impossibly flawless, like he’d
walked out of some unattainable dream.

And now, he was here, sitting next to me.

“Nothing much,” I mumbled hastily, snapping my sketchbook shut as casually

as I could manage. My fingers fumbled over the edges, betraying my nerves.

To my surprise—and my utter dismay—Dylan didn’t move away. Instead, he

plopped down in the seat beside me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating
from him. Then he turned those ridiculously perfect grey eyes on me and gave
me a look that could melt glaciers—wide, pleading, almost childlike.

“Please, Indigo?” he said, his voice dipping into a playful beg. “Let me see. I’ll
let you listen to my new song!”

That stopped me in my tracks. I blinked at him, my curiosity instantly piqued.

“Your new song? You compose?”

Dylan’s expression faltered, as if he hadn’t meant to let that slip. A faint blush
crept across his cheeks, and he scratched the back of his neck, avoiding my
gaze. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, his voice softer now.

I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “You have to show me!”

His blush deepened, spreading up to the tips of his ears, but then—just as
quickly—he flashed me a smirk, that infamous Dylan Chen smirk that made
half the school swoon. “I will,” he said, his voice dropping into a teasing tone,
“but only if you show me your art.”

6
I hesitated, clutching my sketchbook tightly against my chest. The thought of
him seeing my half-finished work, of him judging it, made my stomach twist.
But his smirk didn’t waver, and those grey eyes were relentless.

“Fine,” I huffed, finally giving in. “I’ll show you.”

Reluctantly, I handed over my sketchbook, my fingers trembling slightly as I

passed it to him. I immediately looked away, my cheeks burning. I couldn’t bear
to watch his reaction, couldn’t bring myself to face whatever expression might
cross his face as he flipped through the pages.

The silence stretched between us, and every second felt like an eternity.

Dylan finally put the book down, staring at me like I’d just revealed I was
secretly a billionaire or an undercover spy. His expression was so solemn I
started to panic.

“What?” I blinked.

Then he whined. Loudly.

“God, you’re so good, it’s unfair! How come you never told me you sketch?
And, more importantly, why have you never sketched me?”

I stared at him. “Wait, what?”

“Indigo, those sketches are epic! You have to teach me.”

Before I could even process what was happening, a very angry librarian
materialized like a vengeful ghost. Ms. Layla. The gatekeeper of silence. The
executioner of noise violations. The reason this library felt less like a safe haven
and more like a silent battlefield.

“This,” she whispered—furiously—“is a library.”

I swallowed. I’d faced some terrifying things in my life—pop quizzes, gym

class, my mother when I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer—but Ms.
Layla’s glare ranked high on the list.

I offered a sheepish smile. Dylan, meanwhile, just sat there like a bored prince
awaiting his court summons.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ll keep it down, I promise.”

7
Dylan shot me a questioning look, but I deliberately avoided his gaze,
apologizing again to Ms. Layla, who delivered one final soul-piercing glare
before storming off to probably shush another poor soul into oblivion.

The moment she was gone, Dylan turned to me, utterly baffled.

“Why did you do that?”

I frowned. “Do what?”

He exhaled like I was the world’s most exhausting riddle. “Why did you take
that blow for me? You didn’t do anything wrong, but you apologized. Why?”

I blinked. “Because you would’ve gotten in trouble? I saved your ass,

dunderhead.”

He went quiet, and my stomach did an anxious somersault. Oh god, what if he

didn’t like that? What if he thought I was weird? What if he decided to never
talk to me again and moved to another country just to avoid me?

Then he sighed and mumbled, “Thanks, Indigo.”

And just like that, my heart decided to pull a triple backflip.

I swallowed, ignoring the weird, fluttery feeling creeping up my throat. “It’s

cool. We’re friends, right?”

Dylan tilted his head, like the thought had never crossed his mind before. Then,
slowly, he smirked. “Yeah… we’re friends…”

I smiled, feeling oddly victorious, and opened my sketchbook again. I was

trying to capture the perfect expression of pure, bone-chilling terror, but no
matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the eyes right.

I sighed, looking up at Dylan, who was now immersed in his laptop, earphones
in. I hesitated before reluctantly tapping his shoulder.

“Hey, Dylan, can you do me a favour?”

He pulled out an earphone and looked at me. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I’m trying to draw a terrified expression. Can you, uh… make a scared face?”

Dylan blinked. Then, slowly, his mischievous grin spread.

8
“Oh, so you want me to be your muse?”

I rolled my eyes but grinned. “Exactly.”

So I started sketching him while we listened to the music he composed together,

and for some reason, my heart lurched every time his elbow grazed along mine,
or when I heard a particular good part in his music. But none of these compared
to when I heard an awesome voice singing through the earphones. I knit my
brows and took out the earphone.

‘That was you?” I asked, my heart racing.

He smiled sheepishly and nodded, “Yeah, that was me...”

I blinked, flabbergasted, then swallowed, “you have a good voice,” but my tone
didn’t capture how awed I was by his voice.

***

So, okay. I might have had a little crush on Dylan.

No big deal.

I could like whoever I wanted, right? Right?

That’s what I thought—until Tuesday morning.

I was walking down the hallway with Maryanne and Valerie, on our way to
meet the van Maarsen twins in the lab, when we passed by Dylan.

He caught my eye and shot me his signature grin—the kind that had probably
gotten him out of trouble more times than he deserved. Instinctively, my mouth
twitched into a smile before I could stop it. And, because the universe liked to
humble me, the butterflies in my stomach went absolutely feral.

Oh my god, he actually acknowledged me!

Then—

“Oh god… Indigo, I think I just met my prom date!”

9
Valerie grabbed my sweater sleeve and squealed, her eyes practically sparkling.

I blinked, trying to shake off my daydreams. “Huh? Who?”

She subtly—not subtly at all—jerked her head toward none other than Dylan
Cheng, who was currently unlocking his locker, stuffing books inside like he
was late for a meeting with destiny.

My eyes widened in horror—the exact emotion I’d spent two days trying to
capture in my sketch. If I had a mirror right now, I’d finally be able to draw it
perfectly.

“Dylan?” I asked, attempting to sound nonchalant, like my soul hadn’t just left
my body. “Why him? He’s kind of a playboy. You deserve better, Val.”

Was I being a bit unfair when I told her that lie? Probably. But I couldn’t just
register that she liked Dylan of all people. There were about 500 people at
Mayfield high, but why did she have to like the one person I have a crush on?

Relax, Indigo... he’s not yours. Anyone can like him. Even if it’s your best
friend... and it’s against girl code...

Valerie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s charming. And fun. And gorgeous.”

Maryanne, meanwhile, was watching me. Closely.

Too closely.

Like she knew.

Then she looked over at Dylan, and—oh no. No, no, no. He smiled at her. She
smiled back. They knew each other?

An ugly pang of jealousy shot through me, but I shoved it down like an
embarrassing secret.

I cleared my throat, eager to escape this fresh hell. “Tanya and Trevor will be
waiting for us,” I reminded them, walking ahead.

As we neared the chemistry lab, I skilfully dodged a well-aimed crumpled paper

ball—years of hallway survival instincts kicking in. But before we could enter,
a loud commotion made us stop in our tracks.

And, knowing this school, it was probably drama.

10
Oh boy.

I was about to say I didn’t give a damn, but then I heard him.

Ryle Rossi’s voice cut through the chaos, raw and furious. “Bastard!” he roared,
and then came the unmistakable sound of knuckles colliding with flesh.

My stomach dropped.

I shoved through the crowd, my pulse hammering. Students whispered, eyes

locked on the brawl like moths drawn to a flame. The clearing ahead revealed
Ryle—my best friend—swinging wildly at Malcolm Smith, who stumbled back,
barely able to defend himself. Against the lockers, Celine Chevalier stood
frozen, her hands clamped over her mouth, eyes shimmering with tears. But
beneath the fear, I caught something else—a flicker of something almost...
eager? No. That had to be my imagination.

“What’s happening?” I demanded, breathless, as I reached Kim Jae. He was

pale, his hands balled into fists.

“Smith tried to touch Celine,” he muttered. “Ryle lost it.”

I exhaled sharply. Stupid, Malcolm. Everyone knew better than to mess with
Celine, not with Ryle around. He was kind, sure, but when it came to her, his
patience burned quick and bright.

Ryle wasn’t stopping. His punches landed, each one heavier than the last. I had
to step in before he got himself suspended—or worse. Just as I took a step
forward, a blur of movement shot past me.

Derek Jackson.

He grabbed Ryle by the collar and wrenched him away from Malcolm. The
moment of pause shattered as Derek’s fist snapped forward, slamming into
Ryle’s jaw with a sickening crack.

My stomach lurched.

Celine screamed.

Raya darted in, half-heartedly tugging at Derek, her manicured nails carefully
avoiding the brawl. But Derek was out for blood. And Ryle—Ryle wasn’t
moving. He swayed on his feet, dazed, blood streaking from his split lip.

Where the hell are the teachers?!

11
My heart pounded. Ryle looked like he was about to collapse. I could barely
breathe seeing him like that—broken, hurt. I hesitated, caught between fear and
instinct, my brain warring with my gut. Then instinct won.

Screw it.

I lunged forward, grabbing Derek’s arm, yanking him back with everything I
had.

A mistake.

His fist came out of nowhere.

The impact exploded through my face. A brutal crack rang in my ears as pain
shot through my skull. My vision blurred, the world tilting sideways. A sharp,
metallic tang filled my mouth—blood? Definitely blood.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Derek’s face drained of colour, his chest
heaving. “Indigo—I—I didn’t mean—”

I tried to speak, to say I was fine, but only a strangled groan came out. My body
felt disconnected, my limbs sluggish. Then—hands on my shoulders, firm yet
careful. Dylan Chen’s face swam into view, concern tightening his features.

If I wasn’t half-conscious, I’d have noticed how my heart stumbled over itself.

Dylan turned, his expression darkening. Silence stretched—a loaded, volatile

pause. Then, without a word, he drove his fist into Derek’s stomach.

All hell broke loose.

Kim Jae lunged in, trying to wedge himself between them—only to take an
elbow to the ribs. Someone screamed. Someone else laughed. The circle of
onlookers tightened, feeding off the violence like a fire starved for air.

I tried to move, tried to stop it, but my head swam. Dylan was still swinging.
Derek was still fighting back. And somewhere in the madness, Ryle was on the
ground, blood smeared across his cheek.

I needed to get up. I needed to stop this. But my body wasn’t listening.

And the fight raged on.

A full-blown school fight.

12
At some point, my friend Maryanne rushed over, her face a mask of panic as her
wide eyes darted through the chaos. When she finally spotted me, she let out a
breath of relief and grabbed my wrist, yanking me away from the flurry of fists
and kicks. My head was still spinning from the hit, my vision slightly blurred,
and my thoughts scattered. But one question remained, looping endlessly in my
mind—where were the teachers?

Maryanne half-dragged me down the hallway, her grip tight as I winced,

pressing a shaky hand to my nose. A sharp jolt of pain shot through my skull.
Yep. Definitely broken. Warm, sticky blood coated my fingers, and I swallowed
hard against the metallic taste lingering in my mouth.

We slipped into a dimly lit alcove beneath the stairs, right next to the chemistry
lab. The shouts and crashes echoed down the corridor, muffled but still chaotic.
Maryanne wasted no time, immediately rummaging through her bag with an
urgency that made my stomach twist.

“Hold still,” she ordered, pulling out a pack of antibacterial wipes. Her hands
were trembling slightly as she tore one free and dabbed at the blood trickling
from my nose.

I hissed at the sting, and she huffed in frustration. “Why did you have to
interfere? Now you’re hurt! And even Dylan got involved because of you!”

There it was again—that awful, unshakable pang of jealousy whenever she

mentioned Dylan. It was irrational, stupid even, but it twisted in my chest all the
same. I forced it down, shaking my head as I mumbled, “I’m sorry... Ryle was
in trouble, and I couldn’t just stand there.”

Maryanne sighed, exasperation clear in her voice, but instead of scolding me

further, she pulled me into a tight hug. “I know you love him like a brother,”
she murmured, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “But you got hurt. What if
it was worse?”

I sank into the hug, my body finally registering how exhausted I was. She was
right. I’d acted without thinking, and now Dylan was in the middle of this mess
because of me. Guilt curled in my stomach, heavy and unrelenting. But it was
too late now.

Suddenly, a loud, piercing noise cut through the chaos outside. At first, I
thought it was a fire alarm, but then I recognized it—the screech of a
loudspeaker being switched on. My heart lurched as the booming voice of our
principal, Ms. Z, rang through the halls.

13
“EVERYONE STOP!”

The noise outside didn’t die immediately, but there was a noticeable shift. The
shouting dulled, the violent crashes slowed, and within moments, an eerie quiet
settled over the hallway.

I pulled away from Maryanne, meeting her concerned gaze before she sighed,
“Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, we stepped out from our hiding spot and surveyed the aftermath.
It was almost painful how disastrous the halls looked—far worse than their
usual disorganized state. Papers were scattered everywhere, lockers hung open,
and a few students lay sprawled on the floor, either groaning in pain or too
stunned to move.

I spotted Raya standing off to the side, phone in hand, recording the entire scene
—probably live-streaming it. Kiara Michaels was beside her, gripping her hand
protectively, her expression tight with concern. I wasn’t sure if she was
watching the fight or watching Raya, but the way her fingers curled around
Raya’s own suggested she cared more about the latter.

As we wove through the wreckage, my heart thudded against my ribs when I

spotted Ryle. He was leaning against a locker, dazed, his lip split and bruises
already forming along his jaw. Dylan stood a few feet away, breathing hard, his
knuckles red and raw. Derek was on the ground, holding his stomach, and
Malcolm… well, he didn’t look much better.

Finally, just outside the library, we saw her—Ms. Z. Her grip on the
loudspeaker was tight, her face drawn with barely concealed frustration and
concern. She lowered the speaker slightly, scanning the crowd, before raising it
once more.

“Everybody. Calm down,” she said, her voice firm but slightly shaky. No doubt,
she was just as overwhelmed as the rest of us.

The silence was absolute now. Even Raya had stopped recording.

Ms. Z inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “Now,” she continued, “will
someone please tell me what is going on?”

No one spoke.

14
The tension was thick, suffocating. My pulse pounded in my ears as my gaze
flickered toward Ryle, Dylan, and the others. Someone had to say something.
But who? And what could possibly explain this chaos?

A movement caught my eye—Ryle shifting slightly, wiping the blood from his
mouth as he met my gaze. His expression was unreadable, but I knew one thing
for certain.

This wasn’t over yet.

Everyone was quiet. Nobody said anything. Then, Malcolm grit his teeth and
spoke, his voice hoarse, “It was Rossi’s fault, Ms...”

My eyes widened and I immediately opened my mouth to speak, but before I

could, Ryle spoke up, “Indigo, are you okay?”

I blinked, surprised by the worry laced in his voice. “I’ll be fine...” I muttered.

Whispers and mumbled voices broke out again as people started whispering
about why Ryle was so worried about me. I swallowed and looked at Ms. Z,
“excuse me Miss? It wasn’t Ryle

15