Smoke & Mirrors

by tonishalifoestakis

Summary:

The club was supposed to be safe.
Then the story broke.
A sealed record. A missing friend. A photo that shouldn’t exist.
Now Toni and Shelby are caught in the blast radius.
Fatin and Leah are watching each other burn.
This is the one where love gets weaponized.
Where survival isn’t enough.
And nobody walks out clean

Notes:

PREFACE

In this version of things, Toni, Leah, Fatin, and Martha all grew up in Minnesota. They went to high school together. All four of them — plus Dot, a sharp-edged transfer from Texas — ended up at the same college.

 

There was never an island.
But that doesn’t mean the story ended.

 

Three years later, the consequences have caught up to our girls in California.

 

This fic grew from a simple frustration: Toni’s anger was never given space. Shelby’s coming out was never hers. And the rest of the girls — Fatin, Leah, Martha, Dot — carried things that never got named, let alone healed.

 

So this is that story.
The one where they don’t just survive.
They reckon.

 

There are new faces here — some original characters, some unexpected allies. But the bones of canon still hold. Everything pre-island is almost as you remember it. What’s changed is what happens when no one’s watching.

 

Anger. Love. Betrayal. Recovery.
None of them made it out untouched.
But maybe, this time, they don’t have to do it alone.

Chapter 1: prologue

everything but the exit

THREE YEARS AGO – MINNESOTA STATE – SENIOR YEAR – REGAN'S CAR

The silence in Regan’s grandma’s car was heavy enough to suffocate. For six days, it had been Toni’s only companion, and now, it was a prelude to the end. She stared out the window, refusing to look at Regan, but she could feel the weight of her own reflection in the glass. The messy brown hair she never bothered to tame, the thin lips pressed into a hard line.

A muscle in her jaw jumped—a habit she couldn't break when unspoken words were clawing up her throat.

A message from Regan had finally shattered the quiet, and now every one of Toni’s vibrant, sharp edges felt like a liability.

When she finally turned to face her, the perpetual skepticism in her dark eyes was gone, replaced by a haunting sadness Regan knew all too well.

“I'm so sorry,” Toni’s voice trembled, the words barely escaping. “I never meant for you to get hurt.”

Regan sighed deeply. “I know, Toni. But that’s the problem. Your temper… it’s what I love and fear about you.”

“What do you mean? Because I stand up for what’s right?” Regan shook her head. “No, babe.”

Toni flinched at the word. “I love your passion,” Regan continued, “but sometimes it goes too far. You lost control, and I got caught up in the chaos.”

Toni’s chest tightened.

They had been together since high school. Now, standing on the edge of their senior year, the thought of doing it without Regan felt impossible.

Toni’s chest tightened. “Are you breaking up with me over one mistake? After everything?”

“It’s not just one mistake,” Regan countered. “It’s a pattern. Your reckless behavior drains me. I can’t live in fear of your outbursts.”

“So you’re giving up?” Toni’s voice cracked, rising in disbelief. “Just like that? On us?”

Regan’s eyes glimmered with tears. “I’m trying to save myself. I love you, but I have to love myself too. Right now, I don’t know how to be with you.”

A tear rolled down Toni’s cheek. She turned away, unable to face Regan’s pain. “I understand. Just… take me back to the dorms, please.”

Silence filled the car as they drove on. Upon arriving at the dorm, Toni exited without a word, slamming the door behind her. Regan remained in the car, and Toni stood, alone feeling the wave of abandonment wash over

Rage became a physical thing, a coil of hot wire in her gut.

It found its release in her fist.

The world narrowed to the passenger-side window of a nearby parked car, and then, a sickening crack that spiderwebbed into a shatter.

The sting in her knuckles was a distant, clean pain—nothing compared to the roaring chaos inside.

She opened her mouth to scream, but only a sob tore from her throat, a raw sound that shook her to her core as her vision blurred.

---

first aid and aftershocks

SAME NIGHT – NOT HER DORMITORY – LATER THAT NIGHT

Fatin’s dorm hallway seemed longer than usual, stretching out like a cruel metaphor. Toni’s hand throbbed, wrapped tightly in a white shirt from the laundry pile in her empty dorm room. Blood had already seeped through.

She chose not to seek medical attention, determined to avoid drawing attention to the issue and reliving her high school experiences. She couldn’t call Martha, who had plans to spend the night with her new boyfriend from another college.

Toni needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions or try to fix her, or worse, forgive her. She needed Fatin.

The air outside Fatin’s door carried a faint scent of coconut lotion and weed. How the RAs never reported her was beyond Toni. The familiar smell offered a strange comfort, a reminder that not everything in her life was a disaster. Regan’s words echoed in her mind: “I love you, but I have to love myself too.”

Toni wasn’t angry anymore; she felt hollow and raw, as if someone had emptied her and left only the skin behind. This wasn’t supposed to matter so much, but it did.

She knocked on Fatin’s door. When Fatin opened it, her eyes half-lidded in her usual annoyed yet alluring manner, a song by Clairo played softly in the background. Toni held up her bloodied, bandaged hand, shaking.

Fatin's gaze traveled, slow and unimpressed, from the bloody hand to Toni's face. A single, deliberate blink. “Seriously?”

Toni stepped inside without waiting. “Nice mood lighting,” she said flatly, sinking into the chair by the desk.

Fatin closed the door with a soft click and crossed her arms. “It’s called ambiance. You’d know that if you didn’t live in chaos and Orange Gatorade bottles.”

Toni snorted, nodding toward the phone. “Sad lesbian music again? Who hurt you this time?”

Fatin rolled her eyes. “It’s Clairo. And she’s a vibe, not a cry for help.”

“You sure? Because it sounds like someone just got ghosted after an emotionally intimate thumb war.”

Fatin grabbed a bottle of tequila from under her bed and poured a shot. “Oh my god, you’re such a bitch.”

Toni smirked, noticing the matching shot glass they had acquired during a spontaneous road trip to California. Her hand throbbed again.

Fatin noticed and muttered, “Let me clean that before you get gangrene or whatever,” as she headed to her dresser.

She continued talking casually, as if she hadn’t just opened the door to a bloodied and emotionally distraught Toni at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. “Anyway, you’re lucky you caught me tonight. This guy I’ve been seeing was supposed to come over. But apparently, he wants to ‘connect emotionally first.’ I swear, if one more man tries to open up before going down on me, I’m gonna lose it.”

Toni chuckled under her breath, grateful for Fatin’s change of topic. “You sound like a walking romance novel.”

Fatin grinned without looking up. “With a very specific target audience.”

Toni’s fingers curled in her lap, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t seeking sympathy; she wasn’t even sure why she was there. Fatin was just… easier than most people.

“And yet,” Fatin added casually, glancing over her shoulder, “you’re here.”

Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. Toni didn’t look away this time. It wasn’t an invitation or a promise; it was just… quiet.

Toni exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pulling at her chest. “Yeah, well… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Fatin didn’t respond right away. She just studied Toni’s face—eyes lingering a little too long on the places grief tends to pool.

“So…” she said, voice light like bait, “this a bad day kind of bleeding, or a fuck-it-all, I snapped again kind?”

Toni’s mouth twitched. “Does it matter?”

Fatin shrugged, nonchalant. “Not to me. But it might later.”

Toni didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Fatin tossed the bloodied rag aside and cocked her head, studying Toni as if she were a complex new drug she was considering trying.

“You know,” Fatin said, her voice laced with casual venom, “I’ve had people show up at my door drunk, high, crying, covered in glitter, and once, literally wearing only a trench coat and optimism. But you? Bleeding and brooding? That’s a new one.”

Toni didn’t meet her gaze. “Glad I could add to your collection.”

Fatin snorted. “You’re not a part of a collection. You’re an exception… Slightly more interesting than the usual emotionally unavailable fuckboy.”

Toni’s head tilted. “Didn’t know I was competing with frat guys named Chad.”

Fatin grinned, walking closer, her robe swaying. “Please. Chad wouldn’t survive five minutes with me. He’d cry after I asked him to find the clit.”

Toni choked on a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insane.”

“And you like it,” Fatin fired back, standing in front of her. “You pretend you don’t, but that’s why you’re here, right? You like that I don’t ask what’s wrong. I don’t try to ‘fix’ you. I just make you forget.”

Toni finally looked up, her eyes sharp. “What makes you think I want to forget?”

“Because if you didn’t,” Fatin said, stepping closer, "you’d have gone to someone who wants your damage. Who wants to unpack it. Talk about it. Cry with you.’ Fatin leaned in, her voice a whisper. “But not me, right?”

Toni’s breath caught, and her lips parted as if to argue, but there were no words that mattered in that room, in that moment.

Fatin tilted her head. “You want this to mean something?”

Toni didn’t flinch. “No.”

“Good,” Fatin murmured, brushing her fingers lightly over Toni’s bandaged hand. “Because I already promised my therapist I’d stop hooking up with guys who cry after orgasms.”

Toni’s mouth twitched. “You’re such a bitch.”

Fatin smiled as if it were a compliment. “You like that too.”

Without warning, they kissed. It was a collision of teeth and tongue and heat, Toni pressing Fatin back against the dresser as if trying to silence the world. Fatin kissed her back with practiced ease, her lips slick with confidence and mischief, one hand already reaching for the hem of Toni’s shirt.

The kiss was urgent, sharp, and hungry, not meant to be sweet. Toni didn’t resist as her back hit the bed, and Fatin climbed over her, her skin hot and satin robe slipping aside.

Fatin undressed her without care, not in reverence but with impatience and practiced ease. Clothes were discarded in silence, revealing bare skin. Toni barely noticed the cold air as Fatin’s hands roamed with purpose, each touch a dare, each inhale a challenge.

Toni responded, running her fingers through Fatin’s hair and pulling her closer. “You’re not the one who gets to take control,” she whispered, her voice a mix of challenge and desire. She tugged Fatin’s head up and kissed her deeply, her tongue exploring Fatin’s mouth with newfound assertiveness. Fatin moaned into the kiss, her hands moving to Toni’s waist, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans.

With a wicked glint in her eye, Fatin peeled off Toni’s jeans, revealing her long, toned legs. Toni lifted her hips to assist, eagerly kicking away the jeans. Fatin drank in the sight of Toni, clad only in simple cotton panties, already damp with arousal. She licked her lips before hooking her fingers under the waistband of Toni’s underwear.

“You’re sexy, Toni,” Fatin purred, slowly dragging the panties down, exposing Toni’s sex. “I bet you taste even better than you look.”

Toni’s breath hitched as Fatin pushed her back onto the bed, settling between her spread thighs. “Show me,” Toni dared.

Fatin leaned in close, her warm breath washing over Toni’s aching sex. Her tongue flicked out. Toni bucked against Fatin’s mouth, a strangled moan escaping at the first electrifying touch. Fatin hummed in approval, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through Toni’s core.

Fatin continued, her tongue delving deep into Toni’s dripping sex. She flicked and swirled her tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, toying with Toni’s clit until she was writhing beneath her. Toni fisted her hands in Fatin’s hair, holding her close as the pressure built within her.

As Toni’s orgasm approached, she reached down and gently pulled Fatin up, her eyes burning with passion and control. “I want to feel you, too,” she commanded in a low whisper. Fatin complied, crawling up Toni’s body, their lips meeting in another searing kiss. She trailed her fingers down Fatin’s back, feeling the smooth skin and curves of her body.

Fatin broke the kiss, a wicked grin on her face, and unhooked her bra, letting it fall away, baring her breasts to Toni’s hungry gaze. Toni’s hands roamed over Fatin’s body, her touch both gentle and possessive.

“Fuck, Fatin, you’re so hot,” Toni whispered, pulling Fatin closer by her hips. Fatin straddled Toni’s waist, her own arousal evident as she ground her hips against Toni’s. Toni’s hands moved to Fatin’s panties, slowly dragging them down her legs. Fatin lifted her hips to help, soon standing bare before Toni. Toni’s hands moved lower, her fingers finding Fatin’s slick heat. She parted the folds gently but firmly, stroking the sensitive flesh.

Fatin moaned into the kiss, her body responding to Toni’s touch. “Oh fuck yes,” she whispered, her voice a mix of pleasure and need. Toni’s fingers worked their magic, her thumb circling Fatin’s clit while her other fingers delved deeper, exploring and teasing.

Fatin’s hips moved in rhythm with Toni’s touch, her body arching and trembling with each stroke.

The tension between them grew, the air thick with their combined desire. Toni’s own arousal was overwhelming, but she focused on Fatin, determined to bring her to the edge. Fatin’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her body tensing as pleasure built. Toni’s fingers moved faster, her thumb applying just the right pressure to send Fatin over the edge.

Fatin’s body convulsed, her cry of release muffled by Toni’s mouth as they kissed deeply. Toni held her close.

This wasn’t about feelings; it was about control, escape, and the need for someone to quiet the storm she couldn’t outrun.

Fatin didn’t ask if she was okay; she never did. That was part of their unspoken agreement.

Afterward, they remained still, the air buzzing with something nameless. Toni stared at the ceiling, while Fatin lit a joint.

There was no cuddling, no promises, and no talk of what any of it meant.

Just the dull throb of Toni’s still-bleeding hand and the ache of something deeper she couldn’t name.

Whatever this was—it wasn’t love.

But it was something.

---

Chapter 2: ghosts live here

Summary:

Three years after the breakup: Toni arrives at Noć and is called to Marco’s office, where she finds him unusually shaken and haunted by something from his past. He reveals that the danger they’re facing is not a ghost, but Dave Goodkind, a name Toni recognizes all too well.

Notes:

The Slavic word for "night," noć, is pronounced with the "n" sound followed by a short "o" sound like "o" in "go," and then the "ch" sound, which is like the "ch" in "church," but softer and more forward in the mouth

 

Marco Reyes played by Shalim Ortiz, no question. Puerto Rican perfection with just the right intensity.

ghosts live here

NOĆ NIGHT CLUB - DOWNTOWN LA ARTS DISTRICT - 3 YEARS AFTER 

 

Toni stepped into Noć, the night air still clinging to her skin as the physical weight of the bass swallowed all other sound, pressing in on her like a heavy, welcome hush. The shift was immediate—like crossing from daylight into a world built on shadows and whispers. The air was dense with conversation, smelling of spilled gin, clean sweat, and the faint, sweet trace of fog machine smoke. The low thrum of bass reverberated through the floorboards, a second heartbeat that synced with her own.

As she moved, the sharp shoulders of her oversized black blazer cut a clean line through the low light. Beneath it, a simple white ribbed tank was tucked into loose black trousers, the cuffs breaking just over her sleek leather ankle boots. Her presence did the work; she didn’t need to announce herself. She wasn't there to be seen. She was there to remind people she belonged. This place, this hollowed-out basement turned sanctuary, was the one thing she’dhelped build that hadn't tried to break her. It felt safe, even if the foundation was literally cracked and the wiring sometimes sparked with a will of its own. The peace here was real, but she knew, on some level, it was fragile.

Slipping through clusters of half-lit strangers, she felt the familiar calm settle in. A few layered gold chains rested against her collarbone, catching the club's rotating lights along with the heavy rings on her fingers. She wasn’t here for the chaos of the nearby dance floor, with its pulsing neon reds and blues that painted faces in fleeting, dramatic strokes. She was here for the quiet beneath it, the steady anchor in the storm of her own life.

Noć had a rhythm all its own, a tension between comfort and danger. Along the edges of the room, heavy velvet curtains swayed slightly over the booths, offering the illusion of privacy in a place where secrets were currency. It was a place you could disappear in—if you wanted to. Toni had wanted to many times.

Her fingers tightened on the slick rim of her glass. A flash of movement in her periphery pulled her focus—sharp, clipped, intentional. Dot.

Shoulders tense. Jaw set. Not her usual unflappable cool. Something was wrong.

Toni’s shoulders subtly squared, a reflexive tightening of her posture she’d perfected over years of anticipating a fight. She approached. “Hey,” Dot said, voice low but firm. “Marco needs to see you.”

Toni raised an eyebrow, the casual gesture a shield for the sudden knot in her stomach. “Another fire to put out?”

Dot shook her head, mouth tight. “It’s not about the lineup. He’s in his office. Said it’s urgent.” A beat stretched, thick with unspoken warning. “And, uh… he looked—”

“Nervous,” Toni finished.

That was all she needed to hear. Dot didn’t rattle easy. She was the calm center of their dysfunctional orbit. And Marco never pulled Toni in without warning unless the ground was already crumbling beneath his feet.

Shit.

Toni let the breath out slow, holding it for an extra beat in her chest, a useless delay. “Alright,” she muttered, peeling herself away from the bar like gravity was suddenly heavier. “Let’s see what this is.”

They walked in silence, moving deeper into the club’s pulsing heart. Past the booths where stories were traded in whispers. Past the old murals Toni had helped paint over when Noć first opened, their vibrant colors now muted by the gloom. Each step away from the bass felt like stepping further out of orbit, into a silence that was growing louder.

Dot kept glancing back. Not just checking if Toni was behind her—but measuring her. Gauging her reaction to a crisis she hadn't even heard yet. It was a look Toni knew well—the quiet check-in Dot gave her whenever the world seemed to be closing in, a silent question that asked 'how bad is it?' without needing the words.

They didn’t talk much about Minnesota these days. It felt like another life—late-night drives, dorm room debates, cheap coffee, and even cheaper promises. They all left with more baggage than they arrived with, but they winded up in the same place. That had counted for something.

California was supposed to be a reset. For some of them, it was.

Dot had found her rhythm. Fatin burned fast and bright, like always. Leah drifted into the journalism scene with fucking ease. Toni stayed close to the ground and kept moving. Marco had been the one steady thing in all of it. He'd hired her on the spot, no questions asked about the scholarship she'd lost or the anger that clung to her like a second skin. He never made her feel like a liability. He just saw her, and for the first time, that felt like enough. Until now.

And now Dot—steady, solid Dot—was delivering a warning wrapped in a summons.

“Hey,” Toni said, her voice dropping as she caught Dot’s arm just before they reached the office door. “You gonna tell me what this is? Or am I walking in blind?”

Dot paused. Fully paused, her body language a closed door. Then she shook her head. “I really have no idea, and it’s not my place,” she said. “Just… brace yourself.”

Toni’s jaw clenched.

I hate when people say that. Like bracing ever helps.

Dot knocked once, then opened the door.

Inside, Marco sat at his desk. He was handsome in a way that felt earned, not given—sharp jaw, tired lines around his dark eyes. A black-inked script tattoo curled up from the collar of his shirt, the letters looped and sharp, disappearing behind his ear. He had his elbows planted, hands clasped together so tightly it looked like he was trying to hold something in place that wanted to break.

Toni froze in the doorway. Dot gave her a quick, sympathetic glance before her footsteps faded, leaving the space between Toni and Marco empty and charged.

One look at his face told her everything. This wasn’t the Marco she knew, the one who commanded a room with a look. This was someone else. This wasn’t club business—no broken equipment, no licensing headaches. This was personal. Heavy. Gut-wrenching.

She’d seen that tight, haunted look before. It was the same hollowed-out expression he’d worn the night a regular overdosed in the back booth.

It had been her find. The stillness of the body, the smell of bleach and something sickly sweet, had dragged her straight back to being nine years old, watching her mom snort something and tell her it was just for allergies. 

Marco had found her afterward the regular overdosed, tucked into a corner of the sound booth, shaking and silent.

He hadn't just apologized; he'd carried that death like a personal failure, the guilt in his eyes then a mirror of what she saw now.

But this was different. That had been grief. This was guilt. Deeper. Older. A ghost he thought he’d outrun, now sitting in his chair.

The office felt unnervingly quiet. No music. No chatter. Just the oppressive buzz of the overhead light and the weight of Toni’s breath as it caught in her chest.

She stepped inside, slow, deliberate.

Marco Reyes looked smaller than he should, swallowed by his own leather chair. His usual sharpness was gone—his dark eyes clouded, his jaw slack, his posture sagging. The man who usually held himself with such easy authority was dissolving in real time.

She stayed standing, arms crossed, a shield of her own. “Alright,” she said, her voice cool as ice. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we gonna do the whole awkward silence routine?”

Marco didn’t answer. He just stared at her, as if seeing a version of her he wasn’t ready to confront. His eyes shifted, not focused on her, but somewhere beyond, trying to find an anchor in the storm-tossed room.

“You ever feel like…” Marco began, a little too theatrical for Toni’s taste. His voice was rough, the edges of his Puerto Rican accent fraying with the strain as he rubbed his hands together. “…you had to be someone’s puppet just to keep the rug from getting pulled out from under you? Like your strings were tangled up in something so old you forgot they were even there?” Toni’s jaw tightened. She knew all about strings—the kind tied to foster care paperwork, to scholarships, to the unspoken rules of being a guest in someone else’s life. She didn’t need a metaphor for it.

Toni’s arms tightened, but she didn’t speak. Let him unravel.

He continued, the words scraping their way out. “When I got out, I thought I was done. Cut every string. Swore I wouldn't owe anyone another favor, wouldn't have to look over my shoulder again. But sometimes the past… it finds ways. Power. Money. Leverage you didn’t know still existed. It finds the people you tried to protect. It builds a cage around you and calls it a foundation.”

Toni’s face shifted slightly, her mind clicking into a different gear—guarded, calculating, already mapping the threat.

Marco finally met her eyes, and the air in the room thickened, becoming real enough to taste. “I didn’t tell you before,” he said, the words rough and heavy, “because telling you would have made it real. I chose to believe it was done. Buried. That it couldn’t touch this place. But you can't bury something that's still breathing.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now it’s not just knocking on our front door. It’s trying to kick it down.”

Toni’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against her arm. “Knocking on our front door?” she repeated, the words laced with ice. “Sounds like it’s been parked on your porch for a while.”

Marco flinched. Toni stepped closer—calm but unmovable, taking up the space he was surrendering.

“Stop talking in metaphors,” she said, her voice cutting through the gloom. “I’m not a priest and this isn’t a confessional. What the hell is going on, Marco?”

No metaphors. No smoke.

Marco leaned in, his own hands clenched on the desk, knuckles white with pressure. “It’s not a ghost,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It’s a man. A devil you already know by name.”

Toni froze, the blood turning to ice in her veins.

Marco’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Dave Goodkind.”

---

Chapter 3: before the fire / after the punch

Summary:

[ the punch / the polaroid / the car window / Martha’s silence / Fatin, upside-down, pretending not to care / blood on Toni’s hand / Regan, gone / and California already calling ]

cracked glass, ghosted echoes

SENIOR YEAR – MINNESOTA STATE – FATIN’S POV3 YEARS BEFORE CURRENT DAY 

The rumor was that Toni Shalifoe got kicked off the basketball team a few days after she slept with Fatin. The truth was, she’d already lost the fight before she even showed up at Fatin’s door. That week had sharp edges and no clear beginning, a blur of slammed doors and the lingering scent of tequila on Toni’s breath. Everyone assumed it was about Regan, a breakup so catastrophic it had sent her spiraling, but Toni wouldn’t talk to anyone long enough for them to find out.

 

The coach cited “aggression issues.” Which, okay. Fair. Maybe too fair. Fatin didn’t ask questions—not then. She wasn’t a journalism major like Leah, who started cataloging every slight. But she’d noticed the small things: Leah pointed out the new bruises that bloomed dark and angry on Toni’s knuckles, the long silences that felt heavier than arguments, the way Toni checked doorframes like she expected them to betray her.

 

In the days that followed, whatever had broken in her that night just kept splintering. It was the beginning of senior year, and suddenly, she ghosted everyone. Not just Regan. Everyone. She stopped answering texts from Dot, dodged Leah’s interrogations in the dining hall, and even blew off Martha—no answers, flatline. That one was different. A betrayal that felt deeper than just silence. It was a level of self-destruction Fatin hadn’t seen before. Then she stopped showing up to classes altogether. By October, the only thing left of her was a rumor that she’d already moved to California.

 

Fatin had known it was more than just basketball. The way Toni had shown up that night—hand wrapped in a blood-soaked t-shirt, eyes that were flat and empty, like she’d burned her whole world down and was just staring at the ash—that wasn’t about a game. That was about a war.

 

One month later, in the suffocating quiet of late spring, everything came to light.

 

It was a soft, too-quiet night in what used to be Toni and Martha’s dorm room. Now it was just Martha’s, and the emptiness felt like a judgment. The air smelled of cardboard boxes and the faint, sweet scent of something ending. The bed, half of it still covered in the kind of black sheets only Toni would own, looked like it had been left in a hurry.

 

Leah had a cult documentary playing on her laptop, pausing it every few minutes to argue with the narrator under her breath. Dot sat cross-legged on the floor, lazily packing a bowl with her usual deadpan concentration, the scent of weed a small, fragrant protest against the room’s sterile grief. Fatin was upside-down on the couch, legs draped over the back, scrolling through her phone. She was pretending not to care, but her eyes flicked to Martha every time she moved, tracking the slow, deliberate rhythm of her sorrow.

 

Martha was the only one not pretending. She was taking the Polaroids down from the wall with a kind of clinical detachment, as if dismantling a precious thing piece by piece might make it less painful to look at. Fatin knew it wasn’t just about Regan. It was about Toni gutting their own history, and Martha was the one left to clean up the wreckage. That friendship wasn’t just ending; it was being erased.

 

Fatin reached over, snatching one of the photos from the pile. It was old—sun-faded, edges curled. Regan on Toni’s shoulders after a home game, both of them grinning like they owned the world. Toni, sweaty and triumphant in her high school varsity jersey; Regan in a spare one, clinging to her like a promise. Fatin’s stomach turned. That was the same look Toni wore the night she’d shown up at her door, only then it was hollowed out, the light behind her eyes switched off.

 

Most of the Polaroids were of Toni and Regan. Some of the whole group, but more just of Regan, her perfect smile a constant, painful counterpoint to the room’s mood. One had a heart scrawled on the back that read  Mi amor para siempre  .

 

Fatin blinked. One, she wanted to gag, because couples were disgusting. Two, why the fuck did Toni know Spanish? They’d taken Japanese together in high school. Three, who the hell was she trying to be, writing that? It felt like a costume, another layer of performance Fatin hadn’t been allowed to see.

 

“Hold up.” Fatin flipped upright, a sharp grin spreading across her face as she broke the fragile peace. “What’s with the memory purge? Is Regan getting the full Soviet erasure, or just a slow fade-out? Damn, how bad was this breakup?”

 

Leah shot her a pointed look—one of those  please don’t, not now  stares that always felt less about protecting Martha and more about policing Fatin’s proximity to Toni’s drama. It was a look that laid a subtle, proprietary claim over the room’s grief, and Fatin had seen it before. Prodding at the edges of pain was easier than sitting with her own.

 

Martha’s hands paused their work, just for a second. “I’m just sorting things.”

 

Dot raised an eyebrow. “Sorting? You only ‘sort’ when you’re spiraling. Or when your mom’s about to visit.”

 

“I’m fine,” Martha muttered. The word was an empty shell.

 

Fatin scoffed. “Yeah, you’re fine. Totally. You’ve just developed a sudden, passionate interest in emotional repression.”

 

Leah finally looked up from her laptop, brow furrowed. “We know whatever happened with Regan was bad. But Toni won’t talk to any of us. We don’t even know if she’s okay.”

 

Martha stared down at a Polaroid in her hand, her thumb brushing over the glossy image as if it might confess something new. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

 

“She wasn’t even the one to tell me what happened,” she whispered finally, her breath shaky. “Regan called me after she dumped her. She wanted   me   to check on Toni, and I didn’t even know why.”

 

She looked up, her eyes dark with a story that wasn’t hers to tell. “I guess a week earlier — they were at the movies. Walking back to Regan’s car. Some drunk guys started hitting on Regan. One of them got too close to Regan.”

 

Dot let out a low sigh, the sound of someone who knew exactly where this story was headed. “Of course.”

 

“Toni told him to back off. He didn’t. Called her a dyke. Did that disgusting tongue-between-the-fingers thing…”

 

“Lovely,” Fatin muttered, her gaze hardening. She flinched—not at the slur, but at how easy it was to picture it. Toni, all teeth and fury, a cornered animal swinging wild. Wanting to hurt something because something else inside her already had.

 

Martha’s voice dropped, stripped of its usual warmth. “She swung at him. A couple of times. Then… Regan tried to hold her back.” She paused, like the next words were physically painful to say. “And Toni hit her. It was an accident—she didn’t even see her. Just… caught her lip. The guys ran.”

 

“Jesus,” Leah whispered, recoiling as if she’d been struck herself.

 

“A week later,” Martha went on, “Regan broke up with her. I tried to get Toni to tell me why. All she would say was, ‘When you’re by yourself, you can only hurt yourself.’”

 

Fatin let out a sharp breath—part snort, part something unnamable. “Classic Toni.”

 

Leah turned on her, her journalist instincts kicking in. “Wait—so why did they kick her off the team? They were being harassed. That’s not misconduct, that’s self-defense.”

 

Martha swallowed hard. “Because that’s not where it ended.”

 

The room went still. The only sound was the faint buzz of the documentary Leah had forgotten to turn off.

 

“Toni punched Regan’s car window,” Martha said, her voice barely a whisper. “Shattered it.”

 

Fatin’s mouth went dry. She remembered that night too clearly—the trembling hand, the crimson-soaked bandage, the way Toni’s knuckles looked like they’d forgotten how to be soft.

 

Fatin’s mind snapped back to that night, to the smell of cheap tequila and antiseptic that clung to Toni’s hoodie. Martha’s voice filled in the rest. “She didn’t even flinch,” Martha said, her voice filled with a pained awe. “Didn’t go to a nurse. Just stood there with her hand bleeding like it didn’t hurt. Like maybe she wanted it to. Like the physical pain was the only part that made sense when the rest of the world had stopped.”

 

Leah leaned forward, the documentary on her screen forgotten. The shift was subtle but immediate: the friend receded, and the journalist took over, her eyes alight with the morbid fascination of someone piecing together a timeline. Her voice was tight, edged with curiosity. “So the school just acted on that? Did anyone even take a statement?” It wasn’t a question of concern; it was a request for a source.

 

Martha shook her head, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. “That was the weird part. It escalated so fast. One minute, it was just a campus security matter. The next, the local police were involved, asking questions about a formal ‘public disturbance’ report. It felt… pushed. Like someone wanted it on a bigger radar. Once the cops were officially involved, the school’s hands were tied. They had to act.”

 

Fatin said nothing. Her jaw tightened. She flexed her fingers in her lap, a silent echo of someone else’s rage. It wasn’t about the car. It was about the loss of control, the one thing Toni fought so hard to maintain.

 

“They pulled her from the team before she could explain anything,” Martha finished, voice cracking. “And then she disappeared. Ghosted Regan. Ghosted me. All of us.”

 

Dot let out a low, even breath. “And now she’s in California.”

 

Nobody said it aloud, but the silence filled in the rest. The absence had a shape. It was Toni-shaped.

 

Fatin stared at the ceiling. She could see it now—Toni’s silhouette in her hallway that night. Bandaged. Hollow. Not crying—already past crying. That was the night everything splintered.

 

Leah’s eyes were on her, the question unspoken but heavy in the air. She knew Fatin knew something.

 

But Fatin didn’t give it up. Some things weren’t meant for an audience. Some wounds were too raw to be dissected, even by friends.

 

“Yeah,” she said finally, rising to her feet with a practiced casualness that cost her more than anyone knew. “That sounds about right.”

 

---

 

westward

POST GRADUATION / CALIFORNIA 

Toni didn’t walk at graduation. She let her degree in business management arrive in the mail, an anticlimax in a cardboard tube. It was a quiet, unceremonious end to a life she’d burned down on purpose. But the hurt wasn’t loud; it was the kind that seeped into the silence, changing the shape of her playlists and the way she held her shoulders.

 

They didn’t talk about it, but her absence left a vacuum. It was like the moment after lightning strikes, when the air still hums and no one breathes, waiting to find out what burned. One by one, they started leaning west, drawn by an unspoken migration. Like trauma had its own magnetic pull, and Toni had just cracked the foundation open, showing them a way out they hadn’t known they were looking for.

 

Leah had already peaced out mentally. For her, California was a promise of distance, a place where she could build a new identity from scratch, armed with her journalism gigs and conspiracy boards. She didn’t just follow stories; she planted them. Secrets were a form of social currency, and Leah liked to have change.

 

Dot, always the pragmatist, was already grinding—bartender, dispensary clerk, whatever paid the bills and kept the lights on. She followed Toni not out of desperation, but a quiet, steady loyalty. Toni found her one night, passed out face-first in scrambled eggs at a diner, and said, “You’re coming with me.” She introduced her to Marco, who was patching together a leaky, unfinished basement that sparked when it rained. He handed Dot a job without an interview. She never looked back.

 

And Fatin? Fatin was playing cello at weddings for couples she despised, her music reduced to ambiance for overpriced pasta. She still had money, but every check from her parents came with strings. Classical. Acceptable. Stale. For her, California was an escape—from the stifling expectations, from the gilded cage of her family’s approval. She practiced Bach with clenched teeth and dreamed in distortion pedals.

 

Then Dot taped the Noć flyer to the fridge. Open mic. Underground. Looking for “vibes.”

 

Leah said she’d vet it, claiming it was for safety. “That Marco guy is sketchy.”

 

Toni just rolled her eyes. She’d already been there for weeks. Met Marco first, saw something in the hollow concrete that matched her own quiet. She started showing up without asking—running cables, testing reverb, claiming corners of the space with a silent, fierce ownership, like she was always meant to be there.

 

Fatin walked in like she was just passing through. Toni watched her like she wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t trust anything that came easy. But Fatin stayed.

 

Marco looked at her like she’d already bin hired. No paperwork. No questions

 

. Just: can you play? Can you hold your own?

 

Her first gig, she remembered Toni talking about acoustics, materials, load-bearing beams. Fatin didn’t look up, but she noticed Toni watching every now and then over Marco’s shoulder.

 

Watching like she remembered every sound Fatin had made the night she patched up her bleeding hand. Like music was just another kind of scar.

 

The sexual tension between them was palpable, radioactive, and unresolved.

 

And Leah? Leah was watching too, a quiet observer, adding things up. She was quietly calculating how it all fit together—the money, the secrets, the unspoken loyalties—and what she might need to break it. Because someone always did, and Leah never liked being the last to move.

 

They all moved into a crap house with one bathroom and five personalities. The “compound.” It smelled like weed and microwave noodles and the ghosts of other girls they used to be. The living room couch had a permanent wine stain, the kitchen faucet dripped in a rhythm only Dot could ignore, and the back porch screen was torn in a way that let the California night in, whether they wanted it to or not. In every room, something was half-fixed. Like they were always building, but never quite done.

 

Somehow, it worked. Somehow, they didn’t kill each other.

 

And Noć became the fifth roommate.

 

 

Notes:

May 3rd Update: Title updated to before the fire / after the punch to better reflect the chapter’s emotional arc. Content unchanged. Thanks for reading. ♥

Chapter 4: middle finger with a sound system

Summary:

[ Noć was built loud / now it’s listening ]
[ debts come due / stories fracture / the press is already watching ]
[ Shelby’s name surfaces / Fatin stays close / Leah sees too much ]
[ some things are said / some things are seen / not everything survives the afterparty ]

Notes:

Content Warning: Contains references to conversion therapy, please read with care
Shalim Ortiz as Marco

 

a middle finger with a sound system

NOĆ NIGHTCLUB / EAST LA / CURRENT DAY (FRIDAY)

 

“Dave Goodkind,” Marco had said, and suddenly the air in the room curdled.

The name hit Toni like a physical blow. For a split second, she wasn't in Marco's office; she was back on a rain-slicked sidewalk in Minnesota, watching blood bloom on Regan's split lip. The memory was so sharp it tasted like copper.

"Dave Goodkind? Your Bible-thumping ex-business partner?" Toni’s voice rose, sharp and hot as a match flame. “The guy who ran that conversion therapy hellhouse out of Modesto? The one with whispers of ‘quiet rooms’ and kids being rerouted instead of released? The one that only shut down after a string of suicides they called ‘unrelated tragedies’?”

Marco didn’t flinch, but a muscle in his own jaw ticked. “A journalist’s about to make the connection. The story drops this week.”

“I know,” Marco said. The words were quiet, but they landed like a confession.

Toni stepped back, as if the words themselves were knives.

The back of her hand bleeding. Fatin’s fingers on her skin, unflinching. No questions. Just that Clairo song humming low in the dark.

Because I already promised my therapist I’d stop hooking up with guys who cry after orgasms,” Fatin had muttered, her voice a perfect, cutting anchor in the chaos.

“You know,” Toni repeated, the disbelief turning to ice in her veins. “And you let me get up onstage every week talking about diversity and equity like we didn’t build this place on cursed fucking money?”

“He didn’t fund it. He co-signed a loan. One I’ve been paying off—alone. Quietly.”

Toni’s laugh was hollow. It echoed off the bare office walls like broken glass.

“That won’t matter once the story hits. The ink is still there, Marco.”

“It matters to me,” Marco insisted, his voice strained. “This place wasn’t his. It never was. It was built in spite of him. Noć is a middle finger with a sound system.”

She stared him down, her voice dropping, becoming sharper. Like a cracked bottle held in a fist.

“It’s a space for the people he tried to erase.”

Toni remembered painting her first mural in LA—hands still shaking from the flight, from leaving Minnesota.Fatin texting “U up?” like she hadn’t ghosted everything she every knew and came to a city she knew no one in. She painted until dawn, layering color over darkness, trying to build something clean from the wreckage.

 

“But his name’s still in the fine print.”

“I kept it quiet to protect you.”

“No.” Her voice cut clean through his excuse. “You kept it quiet to protect yourself.”

Marco didn’t argue. He just looked tired, the fight draining from his posture.

Toni dragged a hand through her hair, the motion rough and agitated. “Why now? Noć’s been around for years. What changed?”

“Dave’s rebranding. He’s trying to clean up his image.”

She froze.

“He’s pushing some unity, anti-hate, family-values bullshit. A big comeback campaign. His daughter’s running point.”

Toni’s brows furrowed. “Daughter?”

“Shelby Goodkind. PR golden girl. Polished, strategic. People eat that shit up.”

Toni could feel it—the way polished people always had shadows trailing behind them. The kind of perfect that was built on unseen cracks.

“So the journalist started digging. Found the loan. Found me. Found you. You’ve been the face of this place for years.”

Toni’s jaw tightened. It was all clicking into place, a grim, ugly puzzle.

“They’re not just coming for Noć,” Marco said. “They’re coming for him. And he’s not gonna let that happen quietly.”

She crossed her arms. “So?”

'So they've staged a two-part ambush. First, a public 'summit' at some downtown hotel—a full media circus to perform their innocence. Then, after the cameras are off, they want a private 'reconciliation lunch' here. At our table. It's not about peace; it's about getting a photo-op on our turf.'

“A goddamn performance piece,” Toni breathed, the words a mix of disbelief and dawning horror.

“They’re bringing everyone to the summit. Journalists, Shelby, the lawyers. Then it's just them for the lunch.”

“Oh, how civil. ”

Marco almost spoke but didn’t. He hesitated—a flicker of something held back, just long enough for Toni to catch it.

“And Dave?” she pressed.

Marco shook his head. “He’s not coming to either event. Won’t dirty his hands. He’s letting Shelby play messenger.”

Toni’s mouth twisted into a sneer. Coward.

She pondered the stakes—not just for her, not just for Marco at the lunch. For Fatin. For Dot working security. For every performer who thought this stage was safe. Noć wasn’t just a business venture or a symbol; it was a promise. And Marco had just admitted it was built on a lie.

---

a witness, not a bodyguard

FRIDAY NIGHT - THE COMPOUND

Back at the compound, the living room had its usual smell of vape smoke, week-old takeout, and unspoken tension. The furniture was mismatched and worn, but it was theirs.

Dot was sprawled on the couch, exhausted from a night of security work, one boot kicked up on the coffee table as she scrolled through memes, a picture of manufactured calm.

However, everything was amiss.

Toni paced in front of the window, arms crossed so tightly it felt like she might splinter. She’d left the club early, only 11 p.m., still in the sports bra and running shorts Fatin had gotten her for her 25th birthday. She’d run for miles, until her lungs burned and the city lights blurred into streaks of angry color.

“So let me get this straight,” Dot said, not looking up. “Tomorrow, you’ve got a public firing squad at some hotel, and then a private one with a side of sandwiches back here?”

“And me,” Leah added from the armchair, where she was curled up, knees to her chest. Her hair was a mess, but her eyes were sharp as knives. “At the summit, anyway. No one invited me to the post-game analysis.”

“It’s not lunch. It’s a damage control photo-op,” Toni clarified, her voice tight.

“With sandwiches,” Fatin said around a vape hit. “Very civilized.”

Dot tossed her phone onto the cushions. “You sure about this? Bringing Leah?”

Leah offered a humorless smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“That’s exactly why,” Toni said, her voice low and firm. “I need someone in that room who won’t blink if they start lying. I need a witness, not a bodyguard.”

Fatin’s voice was softer now, laced with a genuine worry she rarely showed. “Fuck, couldn’t this mess with my gigs? This could make all of us performers look like hypocrites.”

She glanced from Leah to Toni, memorizing their faces, mapping the new lines of conflict.

Leah leaned forward, all journalistic authority. “It won’t fall on the performers. It’ll fall on management. Right now, everyone’s looking at you, Toni. The queer ex-collegiate athlete who runs the most inclusive stage in East LA. They’ll use you as the face of Noć’s fall.”

Toni nodded grimly. She get it. She’d curated the lineup, booked the talent, negotiated the deals. Noć wasn’t a hobby. It was hers.

'Leah reclined, her expression unreadable. 'Just to be clear, I'm not your PR shield. If they go for your throat, I’m not jumping in. I’m just documenting the fallout.'

Fatin rolled her eyes, then reached over and squeezed Toni’s hand. “Just don’t let them make you doubt who you are.”

Dot leaned back, a wry twist to her lips. “Well, if it all goes to shit, we can burn the place down in style.”

Leah snorted. Toni managed a laugh—sharp, small, and gone too fast. For a moment, just one, the room felt like home.

Tomorrow, everything could fall apart. Tonight, they still had each other.

---

only the ones already falling apart

FRIDAY NIGHT - THE COMPOUND (CONT)

Later, after Dot disappeared and Leah shut herself away with her notebook and half-drunk coffee, Toni stayed behind.

The house creaked.
The heater buzzed.
Outside, the city hummed low and sleepless.

Toni laid out the ingredients for the ultimate Long Island Iced Tea.
Before she could even start, her hands betrayed her—measuring for two.

And Fatin found her.

Silent at first. Then swinging herself onto the counter, hip-to-hip with Toni, stealing the second cup without hesitation.

"You’re gonna wear a hole in your brain if you keep spiraling," Fatin said, swinging her bare feet like she didn't feel the ground shifting under them.

"Hard pass," Toni muttered.

Fatin snorted. But there was no real humor behind it. "Pretend you’re not drowning, at least."

Toni didn’t answer.

"You’re scared," Fatin said. Not teasing. Not gentle either.

Toni nodded once. Sharp. Like if she said it out loud, it might tear something loose inside her.

"Yeah."

"You don’t have to be," Fatin said. "We got you."

Toni stared at her, something ugly and raw clawing up her throat.

"You don't even know what you're backing."

"Don’t care," Fatin said. "I back you."

"You back everyone you fuck?"

Fatin smiled, but it was a sad, broken little thing.

"Only the ones already falling apart."

Toni shoved her—harder than she meant to.
Fatin caught her and held it. She felt steady and warm.

"You want the usual?" Fatin asked, voice stripped and splintered.

Because they had a usual.
Because this was what they did—
Numb it.
Fuck it away.
Pretend none of it mattered.

Toni hesitated, the air between them tight and sour with wanting.

"This is toxic," Toni whispered, voice low and raspy. Like a confession.

Fatin didn’t argue.
"Nothing new, babe."

"You didn’t even know what you were doing," Toni said. "That night. When you patched me up."

Fatin's mouth twisted. "I still can’t believe you trashed Clairo while bleeding out."

Toni closed her eyes.

She remembered: the blood, the music, the way Fatin had touched her without flinching.
Had seen her broken and still wanted her anyway.

"You didn’t even ask," Toni said, opening her eyes. "You just went with it. Hell, you used the same tequila we were drinking to clean my fucking hand."

Fatin laughed, the smallest lift of her shoulder. "Seemed like the thing to do."

They sat in silence for a few moments, acknowledging the secrets they had kept, those they were about to make, and the anonymity of tomorrow.

"You coming or what?" Fatin asked, sliding off the counter and holding out a hand.

Toni stared at it. At her.

She should have said no.

Instead, she let Fatin pull her up, quick and sure, like gravity had finally won.

They moved down the hallway—half-drunk, half-hungry for something that would only hurt them later.

Leah’s door cracked open.
Half-shadowed.
Barefoot.
Watching.

Her hand still on the doorknob.
Frozen.
Wide-eyed.

Fatin caught it first. The look.
The knowing.

Fatin’s body stiffened. For a breath, for a heartbeat, she almost stopped.
Almost let go.

Toni tugged her forward, rough and urgent, never even seeing.

And Fatin let herself be pulled.
Because she was too far gone.
Because it was easier to burn than to turn back.

Leah’s door swung shut behind them.
Soft. Slow.
Like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Something that would crack them open, whether they were ready or not.

---

Chapter 5: inheritance of violence

Summary:

[ one database / two betrayals / three stories rewritten ]
[ love in retreat / grief in playback / anger without warning ]
[ the truth doesn’t echo / it haunts ]
[ power curdled / alliances cracked / silence monetized ]
The summit was supposed to be redemption.
Instead, it was an autopsy

Notes:

I wasn’t originally planning to write this story w/ Leatin, but the works I’ve been reading about them are so captivating that I have some ideas for backstories and subplots for Fatin and Leah. I’d also love to hear your thoughts and suggestions!

As for (Fatin + Toni - they’ll always be chaos buddies, but nothing more than that in the end - definitely not the endgame - I’m not that clueless)
Owen Shroyer definitely plays Andrew in my fic. I don't even remember the actor from The Wilds, but just imagine a rich, white, Republican.

she's not the one i'm lying to 

SATURDAY 3:45 AM / COMPOUND / SUMMIT MORNING

 

It wasn’t when Leah’s third coffee went cold.

It wasn’t when her fingers cramped around the mouse.

It wasn’t even when the words on the screen blurred into fucking hieroglyphics.

No — it was the pattern.

Always a damn pattern with these people. She hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, the acrid taste of stale coffee coating her tongue, but the fatigue was a distant hum against the frantic beat of her discovery. It wasn’t the caffeine keeping her wired; it was the sheer, breathtaking audacity of the pattern unfurling on her screen. Bank records glowed on her laptop, rows of numbers sharp as scalpels.

$200K a month from Dave Goodkind’s Unity Outreach to Noć’s accounts.

Not a loan.

Not charity.

A pulse.

A lifeline with rotten blood. The irony was a cold, bitter taste in her mouth. Noć, built on defiance, now subtly tethered to the very monster they spat against.

Click.

Another file. Marco’s old church, pastored by Dave Goodkind. A youth program in Texas. Three suicides, tied to a rumored gay conversion therapy program disguised as a “youth retreat.”

And then—

Oh, fuck me.

A wire transfer. From an account flagged for cartel activity, funneled into Unity Outreach’s accounts under the guise of “youth retreat” donations… followed by seemingly inconsistent donations to the Modesto Sheriff’s department, coinciding with the start of the fucking investigation.

Math didn’t lie—even if everyone else did.

These documents were fresh. Too clean not to have been handed over, a precise gift from a source she had just recently, begrudgingly, reactivated.

The door creaked.

The air in the room didn't just shift; it thickened, turning mean as Fatin materialized in the doorway. Leah didn't need to look up; she felt her presence like a bruise. But then Fatin stepped closer, and the stale air carried the faint scent of stale vape and something else—something sweet and metallic, undeniably Toni. Leah finally dragged her gaze up.

Fatin looked like shit, yesterday’s makeup smudged beneath tired eyes, hair a tangled mess. And there it was: a constellation of dark bruises flowering across her throat, Toni’s hickies stamped like a brand, blatant and possessive.

Fatin took in the scene, manila-colored envelopes scattered on the desk. She kept her gaze fixed on the screen, the glow carving hollows into her hands, the walls seeming to lean in, anything to avoid confirming the sick suspicion already coiling in her gut.

“Jesus, Rilke,” Fatin said, voice rough. “Planning a coup or just stalking our friends now?”

Leah’s fingers paused over the keyboard.

Friends. Right.

Because that’s all Toni was. Just another friend who fingered Fatin under the sound booth while Leah pretended not to notice.

“Research,” Leah said, voice flat. “On your fuck buddy’s financial backers.”

A beat. Then silence. Sharp enough to cut skin.

“Nice hickies, by the way,” Leah added.

Fatin’s jaw set. “Fuck. You. Like you care who I sleep with.”

“I care,” Leah said. “When it makes you lie.”

Fatin took a step closer. “The fuck am I lying about?” she snapped. “I’m choosing. Unlike you, who just sits there obsessing like a fucking creep—”

Leah’s pulse kicked. Fatin saw it—smelled the blood—and for a second neither of them moved.

Fatin raked a hand through her hair. “Look. Toni knows what she’s doing. And you—you’re not saving anyone, Rilke. You just need to feel smarter than the rest of us.”

When Leah snapped, “This is me trying to keep you from choking on your own fucking mess,” her voice cracked at the edges, the anger splintering into something rawer. It wasn’t just fury; it was fear, it was hurt — it bled between her words, exposing more than she probably intended.

Fatin’s mouth twisted. “You knew,” she said, voice low. “About me and Toni.” Leah had always known. Not in words, but in the way the air shifted, the way laughter died, the lingering scent of smoke and something sweeter. Leah looked away. “I’m not blind.”

Fatin laughed—cold, bitter. “No. You’re just a fucking hypocrite.”

She turned to leave, pausing at the door.

“For the record?” she said, not looking back. “She’s not the one I’m lying to.”

The door slammed.

Leah stood alone, laptop screen buzzing static in her eyes.

Dave’s blood money. Marco’s sins. Toni’s name flashing in red font.

And all she could think about was:

Who the hell is Fatin lying to, then?

---

a stage for a very ugly play

SATURDAY 12:45 PM / EAST - ANGEL LA / THE SUMMIT

 

The conference room looked like it had been peeled straight from a corporate brochure—

clean lines, cool grays, fake ferns sprouting from matte planters.

Leah hated it instantly. Every clean line, every cool gray panel, every fake fern sprouting from a matte planter screamed 'corporate brochure,' a meticulously designed stage for a very ugly play. The air itself felt manufactured, thick with the cloying scent of cheap cologne and the aggressive hum of a hundred small, predatory conversations. The press pool buzzed like flies around old meat, their whispered rumors and the incessant clicks of camera shutters a prelude to the feeding frenzy. Everyone smelled blood, a palpable hunger in the room, but no one quite knew where it was going to come from yet.

The doors groaned open. Toni walked in first—a razor edge cutting through the room, her presence a deliberate shockwave. Her tailored black trousers hung on her like they’d been sculpted for battle, sharp angles and cold precision, a silent dare, the subtle whisper of the fabric a warning. On top of a slate-gray silk blouse, deliberately half-tucked, she wore a cropped bomber jacket, too clean, too controlled.

It was a statement: she was always prepared for war, always one step ahead. Her Chelsea boots hit the floor with a muted thud—no click of high heels to announce a typical arrival, just the steady, deliberate sound of someone who knew they owned the space, even before anyone else did. A thin silver chain, almost an afterthought, caught the light at her collarbone, its cool gleam too deliberate to be accidental. She looked like she belonged here—a defiant monument to everything they wanted to erase. And at the same time, like she might tear the walls down just to see if anyone tried to stop her, just for the sheer pleasure of the chaos.

Leah watched her with narrowed eyes.

It hadn’t always been like this—the casual glamour, the offhand sharpness, the way Toni wore softness like a knife tucked into her belt.

Since they moved to California, it had gotten worse—or better, depending on who you asked.

Leah didn’t need a psych degree to know exactly who was to blame.

Fatin Jadmani.

Fatin, whose beauty was a weapon. Self-expression like an art form. Fatin, who could make you want to be seen and destroy you for it in the same breath.

It was all over Toni now, stitched into her movements, her clothes, the way she stood.

Shelby Goodkind followed one step behind, a vision too perfectly put-together to be real, like she’d stepped off a magazine cover and into a curated performance. Her soft blush dress clung just right, modest yet undeniably molded for attention. Pearl studs, a delicate gold cross—every detail screamed understated condescension. Leah felt the weight of it in her chest—a kind of frustration that was almost dizzying, the visceral annoyance of a truth-seeker confronted with an impeccably crafted lie. Her beauty wasn’t even the worst part; it was the way it made everything else seem irrelevant, airbrushing away the very mess Leah lived to expose. God, Leah hated that.

Leah stiffened at the whisper in her ear—and nearly jumped out of her skin when Dot materialized behind her like a silent sentinel.

“What a bitch,” Dot muttered, and chuckled at Leah’s flustered look.

“Boss lady wants you up by her,” Dot murmured, voice flat. “You’re officially a panel member.”

Leah’s eyes shot to Toni, who gave her a mock-salute and a crooked grin. Then Leah turned back to Dot, brow raised.

“Since when do I sit on panels?” Leah asked, half-amused, half-irritated.

Dot shrugged. “Since she decided she needed someone who actually knows what the fuck is going on. Now move.”

Leah snapped her notebook shut and clipped it into her jacket pocket. Reporters glanced up, curious, as she slipped out of the press pool and made her way to the front.

Shelby Goodkind’s pageant smile faded slightly as she noticed Leah’s presence.

“Sleep well?” Leah asked, thinking of Fatin again as she took in just how great Toni looked.

Toni’s awkward smile faded into confusion, but then she quickly fell into step beside her.

“Don’t embarrass me,” she whispered, though her eyes were dancing.

Leah gave her a wry half-smile. “Try me.”

Toni leaned slightly toward Leah, her voice low. “This is Jacob,” she said, motioning to the man beside Shelby with a lazy wave. The man looked like a more put-together version of Owen Shroyer.

“It’s Andrew,” Shelby cut in, voice clipped, almost reflexive.

A sharp beat of silence followed, the kind that makes the air feel thick. Even the hum of side conversations seemed to stutter for a second.

Toni’s eyes flicked toward Shelby, catching a flash of something — pride, nerves — before the meeting lurched back into motion.

Toni shrugged, unfazed. “Yeah, whatever. Same thing, right?”

Shelby flipped her hair back, crossing her arms, the distance between them suddenly a little colder. She wasn’t happy with Toni’s offhandedness, but Toni couldn’t care less.

She turned to Leah with a half-smirk. “Meet Andrew, the guy who knows more about legal loopholes than you ever will.”

Leah gave her a sideways look. “Wonderful.”

The moderator cleared his throat, interrupting the conversation. “I’m sorry, Miss Shalifoe, we are live.”

Toni sat back in her chair, giving the moderator a glance of mild annoyance. “Great. Let’s get this over with, then.”

And with that, the summit officially began.

Shelby moved to the podium with an effortless grace that made it seem like she’d been born with the ability to command a room. Every step was deliberate, every gesture calculated, and each word dropped from her lips with a precision that could slice through bone. She wasn’t just here to answer questions. She was here to take control, to craft the narrative before anyone else could challenge it.

“We’re here today to address the developments surrounding Unity Outreach and my father’s past connection to Noć,” Shelby began, her voice calm, cold, and clinical. The tone of a woman who had done this a hundred times before, who could sell ice to an Eskimo.

“First, let me make one thing clear: My father, Dave Goodkind, has no active involvement with Noć. Yes, at one point he and Mr. Reyes were business partners, but that was a long time ago. Their values diverged, and so did their professional relationship.”

Leah rolled her eyes. Here it came—the classic Shelby Goodkind spin. This was the part where she’d try to distance herself from the mess her family had created. The media, ravenous for answers, wouldn’t let her get away with it so easily.

Toni sat off to the side, anything but calm. She fidgeted in her chair, her gaze flicking down to her phone every few seconds like she couldn’t stand being in the room. The tension between her and Shelby was palpable, a silent storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Then, the question came.

A young reporter, hungry for a headline, leaned forward, his eyes glinting with the smell of blood. “But your father’s past is more than just a ‘chapter,’” he pressed, voice sharp. “Unity Outreach, under his direction, was running conversion therapy camps responsible for dozens of suicides—and not just in Modesto.”

Toni’s head snapped up, her eyes widening, like someone had just slapped her across the face.

Shelby was quick to shut it down, cutting him off with practiced ease.

“The allegations surrounding these cases were investigated, and no credible evidence was found.” Her voice was smooth, almost dismissive. “The Modesto Sheriff’s Department’s case, specifically, was completely and totally fabricated, all part of an anti-Christian witch hunt, plain and simple.”

When Shelby brushed off the deaths as part of an “anti-Christian witch hunt,” Toni’s jaw twitched—a flicker of barely contained fury she quickly masked. Her gaze darted to Leah, to Dot—each one a silent confirmation: you heard that too, right?—before she forced herself to stay seated, to stay quiet.

It was the next question that hit like a gut punch.

The reporter—seemingly sensing the crack in Shelby’s defense—turned his gaze toward Toni. His voice dropped lower, more pointed.

“Miss Shalifoe, you’re known as one of the most prominent female talent scouts in the LA area. As a queer woman—how does it feel to know that the beloved inclusive space you helped build could actually be funded by money from a known bigot?”

The words hit the room like a sudden drop in temperature.

Toni’s fingers clenched around her phone like it was a lifeline, knuckles stark white. For a split second, Leah saw something truly raw flicker in Toni’s gaze—a stark, unguarded vulnerability that tore through her carefully constructed facade. The perfect, untouchable composure shattered, if only for a breath, revealing a glimpse of the girl beneath the armor. But Shelby’s gaze never wavered.

Fatin entered the room, latte in hand, sliding into a seat next to Dot at the back, her late arrival causing a slight stir among the few, already-seated attendees. Her eyes, usually quick to assess the crowd, flicked to the stage, to Toni’s rigid posture and clenched jaw. A flicker of worry, quickly masked by her usual detached assessment.

“Let me clarify once again,” Shelby began, her voice already betraying a faint edge of annoyance at the disruption. “Noć stands on its own merit. Any past associations are exactly that—past. My father has no knowledge or involvement in any of Noć’s current business endeavors or audience today.”

Leah couldn’t suppress the roll of her eyes.

It was textbook Shelby—slick, evasive, always controlling the narrative.

But the question had landed, and the room could feel the shift. The press knew it. They weren’t about to let this go.

“I’m sorry, Miss Goodkind,” he said, voice cutting, “but my question was for Miss Shalifoe.”

Shelby smiled awkwardly.

The reporter wasn’t done.“Toni—your nightclub—a symbol of inclusivity, community, and celebration—is now under the scrutiny of a past tied to such questionable figures. How do you reconcile that with the values you’ve claimed to build it upon?”

Fatin stopped sipping her coffee, her gaze sharpening, locking onto Toni. Leah clocked it, a silent communication passing between them. Fatin’s eyes flicked to Toni’s clenched jaw, the barely perceptible tremor in her hand. For a brief moment, Leah saw a flicker of something in Toni’s eyes—fragility, like she might crumble under the weight of it all. Then Fatin mouthed one word, a silent, urgent command meant only for Toni: Own it.

Toni’s jaw clenched, a new resolve hardening her features. Her spine straightened, her posture hardening like steel.

With a cold, controlled voice, Toni spoke. “I knew Noć before it even had a damn name. Every person who walks through those doors, every artist who performs on our stage, every soul that dances under our lights—they are what make Noć what it is. Not the people who came before it, not the money that was once funneled in to make it possible. Noć stands for the people it serves, not the men who might have once been involved in its first few thousand dollars.”

The room was silent for a beat.

Toni’s words cut deep, a defiant declaration, a last stand against everything threatening to tear her down.

But then Shelby leaned in, her voice low and deceptively smooth, a politician’s practiced murmur. "And let’s not forget," she added, her gaze never leaving Toni’s, a silent battle for narrative control. "Marco Reyes has built Noć into something incredibly special. The nightclub is what it is now. We’re not here to argue about past associations."

Another reporter pounced.

"And how do you explain the fact that your father, who has publicly opposed the LGBTQ+ community, could employ someone like Toni Shalifoe?"

The room fell into an uneasy silence.

Shelby’s smile tightened.

"Our church does not support that lifestyle," Shelby said slowly, choosing her words with surgical precision. "It’s a matter of faith. Our beliefs are clear. We stand by the values that have guided our community for generations."

Toni’s eyes rolled. Leah could tell this wasn’t anything new - these people always had the same outdated view.

The reporter wasn’t finished.

"So, you’re saying that someone like Miss Shalifoe—an openly gay woman with a public reputation for sexual promiscuity, whose 'lifestyle' clashes so directly with your stated 'family values'—shouldn’t be working at a place like Noć, a venue frequently marketed to young adults?"

Leah’s eyes darted between Toni and Shelby.

Toni’s face burned a deep, furious red. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor, or maybe, more accurately, punch a hole straight through it, just to feel something break.

Shelby’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something colder in her eyes now.

"What I’m saying," she said, voice soft and precise, "is that our organization’s stance remains unchanged. My father didn’t oversee the hiring of Toni Shalifoe. We’ll be praying for those who have strayed from God’s will and divine grace.”

Toni’s jaw clenched so tight Leah thought she might break her teeth. Leah could practically feel Dot’s restraint, a tremor in the air as Dot began to stand, her fists clenching at her sides. But Fatin’s hand, swift and cool, landed on Dot’s forearm. Dot hesitated, then sank back into her seat, Fatin’s low, cynical laugh barely audible, a cutting murmur: "Chill. She's a big girl. Let her swing her own damn mic."

The room buzzed with restless energy.

But then, Toni’s eyes hardened, her posture reasserting itself, the challenge in her gaze unmistakable.

And then, Toni leaned forward mouth meeting her mic, now smiling.

"It’s funny, Shelby," she said, voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade. "You keep calling this outdated information, like it’s a relic. But the truth is—your family’s involvement? It’s still alive and well in every dark corner of this place. You’re not building anything new here. You’re just sweeping dirt under a rug and hoping no one notices the stains."

Shelby’s smile froze.

Her fingers tightened around the podium, nails digging into the wood.

Toni wasn’t done.

"You didn’t earn this," she said. "You inherited it." A flicker of something raw—not anger, but a fleeting, almost imperceptible shame—crossed Shelby’s eyes before her composure snapped back into place. The accusation landed, sharp and clean, hitting a nerve beneath her polished surface.

A new reporter now spoke.

"Before we conclude," he said, voice too loud now, "I have a document here that suggests there were more direct financial contributions from Unity Outreach to Noć—even after your father’s supposed disassociation. How do you explain this, Shelby?"

Shelby and Toni exchanged bewildered looks.

"I—I’m not aware of any such contributions," Shelby stammered, her composure cracking for the first time. "This is the first I’m hearing of it."

"Miss Shalifoe, has Mr. Marco Reyes never mentioned these transactions to you?" the reporter immediately followed, his eyes gleaming with the certainty that neither of them would have a clue what he was talking about.

Toni looked at Leah, her eyes wide, searching for what to do.

It dawned on Leah that this Marco may have kept Toni in the dark.

Andrew—or Jacob, or whatever his fucking name was—stood abruptly and crossed the room to the moderator.

Moments later, the moderator spoke into the mic, his voice cutting through the growing chaos.

"This concludes today’s summit."

The room exploded into noise, reporters shouting over each other, flashes from cameras popping like gunfire.

"We will provide a statement addressing these new claims," the moderator barked over the chaos. "Thank you for your time."

The tension in the room was palpable, a thick, suffocating cloud that hung over everyone.

The story was far from over. The truth was about to come to light—in ways no one could have predicted.

Chapter 6: paper smiles and loaded guns

Summary:

Toni learns just how deep the rot goes—and Shelby’s not as untouched by it as she pretends. A raw confrontation in the parking garage leaves both of them shaken, and something electric starts to shift.

syrup and venom

Noć / 2 PM / Post Summit Lunch

 

The sun sliced through Noć’s front windows in harsh, surgical stripes of light and shadow. Toni hated it. The place looked gutted of its usual energy—noisy, sweaty, raw. Now it was just ugly. Like a body under a morgue sheet. The tables were bare. The dance floor stretched wide and cracked, old gum ground into the floorboards like scars. The air reeked of stale coffee, metal, and burnt-out promises.

She shifted in her chair at the head table, knee bouncing beneath the wood. The coffee in front of her had gone cold. The soft rattle of the cup—constant, traitorous—was the only thing anchoring her.

Everyone had a cup. No one touched theirs.

The club felt too vast now. Like a stage after the curtain falls, nothing left but wreckage.

Dot had texted half an hour earlier: Marco’s not coming. Claimed it was last-minute business.

No.. he’s unreachable.

Gone.

Toni had smiled long enough. Her jaw ached from pretending.

Across the table sat Andrew—Goodkind’s legal golden retriever in a suit that probably cost more than half her yearly income. He smiled casually, like he wasn’t here to gut her.

“It’s a shame Marco couldn’t join us, but we appreciate you all making time,” Andrew said, his voice slick as grease. “Our only concern is making sure there are no lingering misconceptions from the summit.”

Toni stared at him. Outside, the neon Noć sign flickered weakly, casting a bleeding red glow across the glass. Misconceptions. Sure.

She was good at staring. Better at biting.

“Misconceptions,” she echoed, voice flat as pavement.

Andrew chuckled like they were old friends. Fatin shifted in her seat, sensing the tension, ready to pounce.

She’d made her usual late arrival—after the summit, after the headlines. Toni didn’t know her angle, but she liked how Fatin’s presence made the Goodkinds squirm.

“Your association with Unity Outreach is mutually beneficial,” Andrew went on, smile too perfect. “We’d hate to see anything jeopardize that.”

Noć’s walls groaned in the heat. The floor creaked. Shelby sat too straight—perfect pastel pink against the rot—her hands pressed so hard into the table they left tiny crescent moons in the wood.

Leah lounged, tapping a pen against her cup, bored and dangerous. Dot stood near the door, chewing gum like she’d knock the first person out who blinked wrong.

Toni leaned back, the cracked leather chair sighing under her weight. She smiled, sugar-sweet.

“And what exactly would disrupting good faith look like, Andy?” she asked. “Because the reporters? They presented receipts.”

Andrew’s smile twitched. Barely—but she saw it. She’d hit bone.

“Andrew, babe,” Shelby cut in, syrupy and composed. “I’m sure Toni has no intention of—”

“Of course Barbie and Ken are dating,” Fatin blurted, like she was announcing a sports score.

A beat of stunned silence.

Fatin’s eyes gleamed as they locked onto Andrew. “Anyone ever tell you that you kinda look like Owen Shroyer with a slightly botched facelift?”

Andrew blinked. His nostrils flared. His jaw twitched—rage barely caged.

Leah stifled a laugh with a cough and shot Toni a sideways glance.

Andrew chuckled dryly. “So who is this, Toni? One of the girlfriends the press mentioned?”

“Not wise to mix business and pleasure, you know.”

Before Toni could open her mouth, crack—Shelby’s heel slammed into Andrew’s foot beneath the table.

His flinch was small, but the pain on his face wasn’t.

Fatin’s eyes lit up. Toni caught a flash of a grin curling on her lips.

Shelby’s fingers dug into the wood. Her breath came faster, more uneven. Her gaze flicked to Toni—brief, sharp—then snapped back to Andrew.

She was barely holding it together.

“Is this what you do now, Fatin?” Leah’s voice was cool, but the fire underneath cracked through. “Stir shit just to watch it burn?”

From the doorway, Dot answered flatly. “She’s not Toni’s girlfriend. She just showed up and wormed her way in.”

Toni exhaled sharply. “Fatin’s here because she wants to be. That’s it.”

She turned to Leah, voice rising. “Now can you please show us what your connection dug up before I TURN IN MY FUCKING GRAVE?”

Leah slid a folder across the table—one for Toni and Fatin, another for Shelby and Andrew. The soft scrape of paper on wood landed like a thunderclap in the silence.

“These are the files the press hinted at during the summit,” Leah said, calm but clipped. “It’s not everything, but it’s enough. The data’s verified. The authorities haven’t acted yet—probably because they’re afraid of who it touches.”

Toni opened the folder. And froze.

Inside were line after line of wire transfers—each labeled as donations to Unity Outreach’s youth programs. But the amounts were staggering. Regular. Clinical. The kind of precision you didn’t see in charity work.

The names on the accounts made her stomach clench—offshore entities she recognized from a Marco briefing long ago. Shell corporations in Panama, the Cayman Islands, Montenegro. The money flowed like clockwork.

Fatin leaned over her shoulder and squinted. “Is this real? This makes Bach’s taxes look like a fucking sticker chart.”

Toni didn’t laugh. She couldn’t.

“These aren’t donations or loans,” she said tightly. “They’re—”

“Cartel money,” Leah finished, cool and certain. “Washed through Unity Outreach. And through Noć, indirectly—thanks to their community partnerships. But that’s not even the worst of it.”

Across the table, Shelby’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you saying the youth programs… were fake?”

Leah looked at her. And for once, there was no bite in her voice. Just cold truth.

“Modesto wasn't the only, quote-unquote, youth retreat,” she said. “The records show them being in Tempe, Barstow, Barstow, multiple sites, but it's quite obvious that they aren't for spiritual healing—they are just really good at paying off the right people....”

Silence.

Nothing Toni didn’t already believe.

“They framed it all as Christian rehabilitation,” Leah continued. “Wrote off the costs as youth counseling, spiritual mentorship, emotional support. But it was conversion therapy. And it was brutal. The records are spotty, but there are confirmed cases of physical punishment and isolation. And there are at least five suicides that I’ve tied to camp alumni so far.”

Shelby’s face had gone pale. She flinched, a sharp, tiny movement, as if warding off an unseen hand. Her own hand fluttered briefly towards her mouth before pressing flat against the table again. Andrew glanced at her, but said nothing.

“The laundering and the ideology worked hand in hand,” Leah said quietly. “The church got to pretend it was doing something righteous. The cartel got clean money. And the kids—gay kids—got caught in the middle. Disposable. Forgotten.”

Toni could feel Shelby’s eyes on her—skittering between the ledger and her face, trying to force the pieces into a shape that made sense. Confusion bloomed bright across her features, but something else was coming through too—sharper, darker. Recognition. Or maybe fear.

Shelby’s focus seemed to drift for a half-second, her eyes losing their anchor as if replaying a memory. A promise her father made. A door he had closed. Then she snapped back to the present, her voice cutting through the air—too fast, too loud, too raw. “Andrew, what the hell is going on here? Drugs? Money laundering? Daddy couldn't have known about this?”

Her words landed like a slap. The kind that leaves a mark.

Her chest was rising fast, shallow breaths piling on top of each other. The image of the girl who always smiled too much, who stood with perfect posture and played nice for the cameras, was unraveling at the seams.

Andrew didn’t flinch. He turned the pages with the calm of someone who had read them before—someone who had helped write the goddamn story.

“Shelby, darlin’,” he began, voice warm like bourbon, “maybe we should step—”

“No,” she snapped, too quick.

Across the table, Leah tapped her pen—once, sharply. Fatin’s eyes flicked toward the sound. The look they exchanged was brief but electric.

Toni caught it. Filed it. But she didn’t have time to unpack the silent exchange. Not when Shelby was coiled tight across from her, barely holding herself together.

Toni’s gaze dropped to the ledger, pages peppered with neat wire transfers—bland language disguising filthy money.

Her voice cracked like a whip. “Dave Goodkind used me. Used Noć. And I didn’t see it.”

Silence bloomed across the room like a bruise.

Fatin tilted her head, amused. “I came for the drama, but damn, this is practically theater.”

Toni didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She was stone—cold and unforgiving and shaped by the weight of too many bad choices.

Andrew leaned back, leisurely, like none of it mattered. Like the world could burn and he’d still get paid.

“There’s no need to panic,” he said smoothly. “Most reputable outlets have already been… briefed. A few signed NDAs. Marco and Dave are managing the outlets who were present during the summit as we speak. They will make sure they receive… accommodations.”

Fatin let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Accommodations. Cute. You mean hush money.”

Andrew smiled, unbothered. “Call it what you like. The point is, the public doesn’t need to be burdened with half-baked, inflammatory stories.”

Then he turned to Shelby, his expression softening. “Your family’s legacy is safe, sweetheart.”

Shelby opened her mouth like she was going to scream—but no sound came. It was a familiar silence, the one that had been pressed upon her in quiet rooms and sterile hallways for years. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her eyes were wide, wet, not with tears but with the pressure of holding everything in.

Leah scoffed, low. “So that’s the plan? Pay off the truth, polish the lie?”

Toni’s pulse pounded so hard she thought her ribs might splinter.

Andrew didn’t miss a beat. “Discretion,” he said smoothly, “is in everyone’s best interest.”

Toni’s voice dropped to a growl. “You offering me silence, Jacob?”

“It’s Andrew,” he bit out.

Toni smiled slow and cruel. “Right.”

His eyes gleamed, tapping his pen against the folder like it was already signed and sealed. A done deal.

Toni’s fists clenched under the table.

No Marco. No backup. No spin control. Just her. A stack of damning paper. A snake in a tailored suit. A girl across the table deciding whether she was a witness or a weapon.

The neon above buzzed once—stuttering, ill—and bled warped colors over the polished wood.

“We’ll stick to the vetted language. No admissions. No speculation. No exposure—so long as everyone stays on message.” Andrew leaned forward, voice thick with syrup and venom. “We’re prepared to be… generous. If you are.”

It landed like smoke in her lungs—oily, choking, sour.

Toni didn’t blink. “And if I’m not?”

He said nothing. Just smiled.

Across from Toni, Shelby’s pencil cracked clean in half in her hands. She flinched like she hadn’t expected it. Color rushed to her cheeks. Shame. Rage. Both.

No one said anything.

Toni shoved her chair back—slow and loud, the legs screaming against the tile.

She stood.

Left the papers on the table, untouched.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t let herself break.

And walked out.

 

---

knock everything down and call it justice

Noć / Parking Garage

The door slammed behind her with a finality that made the fluorescent bulbs overhead tremble in their casings. Toni made it ten feet out of the club to her shiny new Jeep before her legs gave out. She slammed her shoulder against its white door to catch herself, breath ragged, pulse spiking. Her hands fisted against the concrete like she could disappear inside it.

Noć’s parking structure stretched around her—wide, empty, endless. Buzzing fluorescent lights washed everything in sterile, ugly color. Her hands shook. She hated that. Hated feeling exposed. Hated that somewhere inside her chest, it wasn’t rage eating her alive anymore—it was disappointment. At Marco. At herself. At the lie she’d been living without even knowing it.

The meeting had been a slow death. A clean-cut lawyer with a thousand-dollar pen and Shelby’s too-sweet smile spelling out the ways her club was never really hers. The laundering. The fake donors. Marco’s ghost fingerprints on every dirty dollar. And Toni had sat there, barely breathing, while Shelby leaned in like it was all just business. Noć was supposed to be hers. Not some hollow front for men like Dave Goodkind and Marco Reyes to play God.

She glared at the Jeep—its polished exterior a mockery of everything she wasn’t. Fatin had picked it out, laughing about how it made Toni look “too hot to touch.” Toni played along, tossed a grin over her shoulder like she was in on the joke. But she wasn’t. She’d never been built for this. She just hoped she looked like someone who couldn’t be touched—because inside, she felt paper-thin.

Toni had held it together in the club, carved from granite and spite. But here, in the concrete silence, the cracks showed.

Taking out a Newport, Toni leaned against the car window, put a cigarette in her mouth, and let her head fall back.

Then—Shelby’s heels echoed like gunshots—too loud for someone trying to stay composed. “Are you… are you alright?” That same Southern charm—tight, trained—cracked on the edge of her question.

Shelby’s gaze prickled along her spine, too hot and searching. And then—because the silence was too much—a brittle laugh snapped out of her. “Peachy.”

Shelby didn’t flinch. Of course she didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer, her presence wrapping around Toni like static—vanilla and something green, something alive. Toni didn’t move.

“Well, you look like shit,” Shelby said.

Toni blew smoke out the side of her mouth, eyes still forward. “Fuck off.”

Shelby ignored her. The sharp click of her heels echoed louder now, until she was close enough that Toni could feel the charge in the air between them. Shelby crossed her arms in her pastel pink blazer, the shadows slicing her features into something harder.

“You humiliated me at the summit,” Shelby said. Her voice wasn’t steady. It trembled—like she hadn’t hit the ground yet.

The height difference between them vanished when Toni stepped forward. Shelby didn’t move.

“Careful, Goodkind,” Toni said, low and dangerous. “I’m not in the mood to be forgiven.”

Toni blew smoke in her face.

Shelby didn’t blink. “Got a spare?” she asked, voice flat but heavy.

Toni hesitated, studying her. Shelby’s mask didn’t budge, but something behind it was trembling. With a slow sigh, Toni pulled another Newport from her jacket. Passed it over. Shelby took it with a nod.

Without missing a beat Toni lit it using her lighter—the one Marco gave her after her first big act. The fucking irony.

Shelby didn’t thank her. Just inhaled like she’d been waiting to exhale her whole damn life.

“You think you’re righteous,” she said. “Like you’re not in the same mess.”

Her words didn’t feel like an attack to Toni. They felt like a confession.

Toni’s mouth twisted. “Not better,” she said, voice rough. “Just not hiding behind Jesus to launder my sins.”

Her body curled slightly, like the force of saying it took something out of her. “Or still chained to a faith that—hurts people like me.”

Shelby paled. Panic bloomed behind her eyes, wide and wet.

“You think I wanted this? I—I didn’t—.”

She broke off. Swallowed. Looked away like the words tasted wrong.

Toni blinked. Something inside her faltered. “You didn’t?” she asked, bitter.

Shelby’s laugh cracked open.

“My father barely lets me breathe without permission,” she said. “You think he told me our foundation was running money through fucking cartels? I found out with the rest of you.”

Toni stared. For the first time, she didn’t see a villain. She saw someone drowning in the same tide she was.

Shelby’s mouth twisted. “What choice did I have? You think I get a vote in the empire I was born into?”

Toni stepped back, exhausted. “There’s always a choice. You’re not a child, Shelby. And this isn’t Texas.”

Shelby flinched—just barely.

“You don’t get it,” she said. “You never had to build something out of someone else’s fucking ruins. You just knock everything down and call it justice.”

Toni’s hands twitched. She wanted to hit her. Kiss her. Scream. Something.

Instead, she stood still, jaw clenched.

“You don’t know shit about me,” she snapped.

Shelby laughed—dry and sharp.

“Noć was never clean. You just didn’t ask where the money came from. You’re not different—you’re just better at lying to yourself.”

Toni didn’t flinch. But her silence said everything.

Toni looked at her—really looked. Past the polish. Past the posture. To the girl underneath, clawing at the walls someone else built around her.

“I didn’t know either,” Toni said.

Shelby frowned.

“About the money. If I did I would’ve gone to the press myself.”

Shelby’s posture sagged. Her arms wrapped around herself like she was holding her body together.

“You think you’re better than me,” she whispered.

“No,” Toni said, eyes on the flickering lights. “I just think we’re both fucked.”

For a second, Shelby’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

She bent down to the concrete floor to ash her cigarette. She pulled a pastel business card from her purse and held it out. “Here. My number and where I’m staying. If you need anything… or just want to talk.”

Toni didn’t take it. So Shelby placed it gently on the Jeep’s hood, her fingers lingering like it cost her something.

They stared at each other. A beat. A breath. Something fragile flickered between them—hot and wrong and terrifying.

“You should go,” Toni said. It came out like a plea. “Run back to Daddy’s leash—or Andrew’s arm, whichever keeps you safer.”

Shelby froze. Her face twisted—rage, grief, and something raw tangled in her eyes. She turned, heels echoing, echoing—until she vanished.

Toni got into the Jeep, the lit cigarette still in her mouth.

She reached her hand out the window, and grabbed the pastel card, she held it like it might burn off her fingers.

Hope was a dangerous thing to leave behind.

Chapter 7: we don't come back the same

Summary:

[ the folder / the flame / the club they “accidentally” built on cartel money ]
[ a smirk / a threat / a secret that’s too old to be new ]
someone vanishes. someone swings. someone looks back.

they don’t come back the same.
maybe they don’t come back at all.

Notes:

CW: Chapter discusses conversion therapy in Scene 1

lavender and barbed silence

[SHELBY] SATURDAY 11:45 P.M. –  POST NOĆ LUNCH

The door clicked shut behind her like a gun cocking.

Shelby stood motionless. Coat still on. Heels pinching. The air in the suite was too still to breathe, scrubbed clean and smelling faintly of lavender over bleach—gloss over something rotting. Her chest rose, but the inhale never quite landed. Something in the silence buzzed—too quiet, too clean. Like a room designed for ghosts.

She kicked off her heels one at a time. They toppled sideways onto the plush carpet. She didn’t fix them.

The blazer slid from her shoulders in a slow collapse, catching on her wrist before she let it fall to the floor. Not folded. Not draped. Just dropped. Like the discipline had leaked out of her bones. Everything smelled like Andrew—the aftershave, the burned coffee, the antiseptic moral high ground. But he was gone now. Left right after the meeting at Noć, muttering about “optics.” He never looked her in the eye. Never apologized. Never denied it. He’d known.

And now that he was gone, she was starting to realize—maybe he never was on her side.

She moved like someone afraid to make a sound. A mouse in a god’s cathedral. This hotel—the lavender piped through the vents, the untouched mini bar, the glass corners—wasn’t meant to protect. It was meant to contain.

Her hands found the silver cross at her throat. The chain clung tight. It always did. She stared into the full-length mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back. The polished hair. The pale lips. A portrait of poise smothered under pageantry. For a moment, her seventeen-year-old self blinked back at her, and the pristine hotel room dissolved into memory, the scent of lavender replaced by something colder, sharper.

The girl locked in a “retreat” for spiritual cleansing. Concrete floors and bunk beds with no blankets. The unending, sterile hum of fluorescent lights that buzzed when the prayers stopped. Cold showers that made her gasp, the shock of it a clean, sharp pain that was almost a relief. No mirrors. No clocks. Just prayer cards and a barbed silence that pressed in from all sides. They called it healing. Said demons lived in her body and scripture was the cure. She learned to quote Leviticus between nosebleeds, the metallic taste of blood a constant reminder of her own frailty. Fasted until her vision blurred and her hands stopped shaking, the ache in her stomach a hollow confirmation of her emptiness. A counselor once told her hunger was proof that God was listening.

They kept the lights on all night. Made her write letters to the boy she was supposed to love. Every time she cried, they said she was getting closer to grace. Every time she smiled, they said she was lying. Her own face became a mask she had to constantly monitor. They broke her until she stopped asking to go home. Until she started saying thank you when they told her she was an abomination, the words scraping her throat raw.

They called it healing.

She called it disappearing.

The cross slipped down her chest, cool against her skin. She didn’t take it off. She pressed her fingers against it like it might bite, the familiar shape both a comfort and a cage.

"You said I was healed," she whispered to her reflection. Her hand braced against the cold marble of the vanity as a tremor ran through her. "Then why does it still hurt?"

No answer. Just the faint hum of the air conditioner and the buzz of something she wasn’t ready to name.

She hadn’t meant to give Toni her number. That part was true.

But part of her had hoped she’d use it.

Part of her still hoped she wouldn’t.

---

---

by line over everything

[FATIN] SATURDAY 11:45 PM – THE COMPOUND – POST NOĆ

The Compound was quiet, but not asleep.

Fatin moved through the kitchen like a ghost with a grudge—barefoot, silk robe twisted around her, mascara smudged, jaw clenched. Her phone buzzed once. She didn’t check it. She couldn’t stand to see another headline. Not tonight.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Leah. About the way she’d stood at Noć like she was the only person in the room with a brain and a backbone. The way she waited to drop everything she knew until the worst possible moment—like timing was part of the performance.

Like she’d planned it.

Fatin didn’t trust performances. Or secrets. And Leah had both.

So she crossed to the drawer, a knot of sick dread tightening in her gut. She slid it open and pulled out Leah’s laptop.

Still charging. The screen was asleep, but the machine was on. A password prompt glowed in the dark.

Fatin scoffed. Of course.

Leah, queen of paranoia and encrypted files, wouldn't just leave it open. But she was also predictable in her own particular way. Fatin’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

First guess: ToniIsTheWorst . Incorrect. A girl could dream.

Second guess: JeffreyGalanis . The name tasted like ash in her mind. Incorrect. Good.

She paused, thinking back. To late-night study sessions, to the relentless drive she’d always seen in Leah, the one that both impressed and terrified her. The need to be the smartest person in the room, the one with the byline, the one who broke the story.

Third guess: BylineOverEverything .

The screen unlocked.

Reckless. Or arrogant. Or maybe just so deeply known by Fatin that even her secrets had no locks.

Fatin cracked her knuckles, the sound sharp in the silence, and took a seat. The screen glowed, casting a cold blue light on her face.

The browser blinked awake with tabs like breadcrumbs: local government filings, wire transfer records, religious nonprofit directories, weirdly deep zoning research.

And then—halfway down the bookmarks bar:

Leah

Told you she wouldn’t respond.

JG

Push her again in person. You always get through.

Leah

They don’t trust me right now. But I’m close. It’s lining up. Just like you said it would.

JG

Keep it quiet for now. Eyes are everywhere.

Fatin sat back, heart thudding. It didn’t feel like a source. It felt like a fix.

She recognized the pattern. It was just like high school—Leah circling back to the same man who once fed her delusions and called it clarity. Who made her feel chosen. Who made her think obsession was investigation.

She opened a new tab. Fingers moving faster now, fueled by a cold, rising anger.

Search: Jeffrey Galanis + California journalist

She scanned through the links. Book reviews. Syndicated columns. A podcast interview about “ethical exposure.” Blah blah blah.

Then—halfway down page three—a headline from

Why do we keep handing platforms to men like Jeffrey Galanis? —Claire Ruiz, Staff Reporter, October 2023

She clicked it.

The article didn’t name him outright. But the context was clear: a senior reporter accused of repeatedly harassing a younger coworker. Unwanted late-night messages. A “mentorship” relationship that turned toxic. HR complaints that vanished. A newsroom that protected its own. Fatin’s throat tightened as she read. Of course he had a type.

She didn’t hesitate.

Screenshots. Email threads. Marginal notes. The article. The comment.

She dragged it all into a folder, her movements precise and deliberate. She zipped it, the progress bar on the screen crawling with agonizing slowness, and sent it to herself under a name no one would ever think to open:

Spring Break Tax Docs.zip

Just in case.

She deleted the files. Emptied the recycle bin. Cleared the emails.

Tabs closed. Search history wiped. She shut the laptop and slid it back into the drawer like nothing had happened.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

But she knew.

Whatever Leah thought she was doing—whatever “truth” she believed she was chasing—it’s not truth. Not if it came from him.

Fatin leaned on the counter. Took a breath.

Then moved back to the window like nothing had changed.

---

lesbian talent scounts launder badly

[FATIN] SUNDAY 1:00 AM – THE COMPOUND

The Compound felt like a dead thing pretending to breathe.

Fatin stood at the window, back to the others, arms crossed, watching nothing. Just the dark. It had been hours since Noć. Since Leah’s little mic drop. Since everything changed. Toni hadn’t come back.

Behind her, the TV whispered silent trash. Dot sprawled in the armchair, chewing her nail, waiting to see if any other pieces of news would come out besides Noć’s ties to David Goodkind, the last accusation of the Summit apparently.

Leah hovered at the table, buried in the same stacks of paper she’d been printing since midnight. Printing like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.

Fatin didn’t say much. Her voice felt dangerous.

Then the door opened.

Toni stepped inside like she owned pain. Hoodie up. Jaw locked. Face a bruised mosaic. Split lip, swollen cheek, dried blood by her eye.

She looked like she’d volunteered for violence. And won.

Fatin turned, slow.

“You disappeared,” Leah said. Flat.

Toni cracked a beer on the counter like nothing mattered. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

“I’m keeping records,” Leah replied, flipping a page too hard.

Dot: “Where were you?”

No answer.

Fatin stepped forward, pulse rising. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

“Guy at a gas station,” Toni said. “I hit him. He hit back.”

Dot’s voice was a blade. “Or maybe you went looking for it.”

Toni met her eyes. Didn’t flinch.

Fatin moved. Quiet. Grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink.

“You’re not bleeding on my fucking rug.”

Toni sat. Hoodie slipped. Bruises spread across her collarbone like ink stains.

“Head up,” Fatin said. Knelt in front of her.

Toni obeyed. Her skin was warm. Damp.

“This isn’t a thing,” she muttered.

“Too late,” Fatin said. Fingers steady. Gentler than she wanted them to be.

They didn’t speak. She cleaned the blood in silence.

She didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t want to know.

She already knew too much.

Toni leaned back against the couch, bruised and smirking. “You realize we started the day at a summit and ended it in a club we accidentally built on cartel money?”

Fatin raised an eyebrow, still wiping dried blood from Toni’s jaw. “Add a laugh track and it’s a sitcom.”

“Lesbian Talent Scouts Launder Badly,” Toni deadpanned.

Fatin snorted. “Guest-starring every closeted donor west of Pasadena.”

Toni laughed, low and raspy. “At least we made it out before the credits rolled.”

“Speak for yourself,” Fatin said, voice dry. “Pretty sure today was just the cold open for the next disaster.”

They looked at each other—tired, cracked open, still joking because it was easier than saying they were scared.

Toni said quietly, “Feels like we’ve been here before.”

“We have,” Fatin replied, a smirk forming slowly. “Same lies, different branding. Same damage, new bruises.”

“New bruises,” Toni echoed, glancing down at her hands. “Cute.”

And then—a beat of silence. A familiar warmth settled between them, heavy and charged. 

Fatin thought, for a second, that Toni almost looked at her lips.

That’s when Leah stood. Hard.

“I’m going to bed,” she said—too loud, too pointed. “Let me know if we decide to care that Marco still hasn’t called. Or if we’re just flirting through the apocalypse now.”

Fatin’s body went still. Toni didn’t look up. And that was worse.

Dot stood next. Slower. Her gaze moved between the two of them—bruises, tension, smirks like armor—and then to the front door, like she could already hear it getting kicked in.

“You’re both treating this like a joke,” she said, low and sharp. “But if one of those press sharks blows the whistle on Noć, we all lose our jobs. Fatin, you will go back to playing weddings instead of clubs, and Toni—I don’t even know what the hell you would do. But this isn’t some young adult soap opera. It’s a fucking disaster.”

She didn’t wait for a response. But as she passed Fatin, she paused—just long enough for Fatin to feel it. Like she wanted to say something. Like she expected better.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was residue.

Toni leaned back. Cradled the beer. Didn’t speak.

Fatin stayed kneeling.

“Leah hates me,” Toni said finally.

“Leah’s scared,” Fatin replied. “Different thing.”

“What about you?”

Fatin didn’t lie. “I’m tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of all of it.”

And of how stupid it is, letting myself care this much. Like I didn’t know how this always ends.

She stood. The air felt heavier now. Charged.

“I don’t trust her source,” she said, quieter. “I think it’s Jeffrey Galanis.”

Toni’s mouth hung open, puppils blown out.

“That perverted author she hooked up with in high school?” Toni said slowly. “The one who wrote that book about a guy fetishizing a 22-year-old virgin and called it ‘romantic realism’?”

“He wasn’t just some guy,” she said. “She was obsessed. Wouldn’t shut up about him. Like he was God. Like he was the only one who got her.”

“Fucking creep. And she thought he loved her.” Toni muttered. “You think he’s her source?” she asked finally. “Why?”

She sat back, slow and deliberate, the beer still in her hand but forgotten. The bruises on her knuckles stood out under the kitchen light.

Fatin’s voice dropped, like it was dangerous to even say it.

“Because I saw the folder on her laptop. His name. His email. Her notes — cross-referencing shit from Noć with stuff he gave her. Timelines. Case numbers. Contacts. It wasn’t a fluke.”

She looked at Toni now, eyes like knives. “Like he’s been feeding her the whole time.”

Silence dropped between them like a weight.

And then Toni’s voice cut through it — quiet, afraid.

“Or she’s been feeding him.”

She stared at a crack in the tile like it might open up and swallow her.

“God. That’s not just a conflict of interest,” she muttered. “That’s a fucking landmine.”

Her grip on the bottle tightened. Jaw clenched. The edges of her calm started to splinter.

“If this blows up and he’s behind it—”

“We’re fucked,” Fatin said. “And she dragged us into it without asking.”

Pause.

“By the way,” Fatin added, not looking back, “you swing at one more gas station guy, I’m gonna swing at you.”

Toni laughed — cracked and low. “You’d lose.”

Fatin paused at the door.

“Not if I aimed below the belt.”

She didn’t smile, didn’t wait for the comeback. “And you’d let me.”

Then she was gone.

And for the first time that night, the Compound felt like it could breathe again.

---

different cross, same altar

[DOT] SUN. 4:06 A.M. – EAST LA

The Civic idled too long after she parked. Dot sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, eyes on the neon flickering over the old laundromat like it was trying to decide whether to stay alive or not.

Two dryers spun behind fogged-up glass. No customers. Just the whirr of machines and the late-night smell of burned electricity.

She popped the door and crossed the lot on foot. Hoodie up. Steps silent.

Mateo had said the alley behind the mural. Same place they used to sneak smokes, kiss, lie to themselves about what they were. He always smelled like clove smoke and something else she could never name. Still did.

He was already there, leaning against a sun-faded mural of the Virgin Mary, the halo above her head mostly tagged over. Hoodie up. Cigarette burning low. He smiled when he saw her.

Didn’t reach his eyes.

Mateo looked older now—sharper, too. Like the years had worn down the softness in his face and left only edge. Faded neck tattoo just peeking above his collar. He used to laugh more. Now his mouth just twitched like it remembered how.

“You’re late.”

“You’re still dramatic.”

He exhaled. “You still come running when someone ghosts?”

She didn’t answer. Just handed him the folded photo—Marco, mid-chant, mid-smirk, alive.

Mateo scanned it. Nodded once. “Heard some noise. You’re not the only one asking.”

“You know where he is?”

“Not exactly. But I know who last saw him. People are being told not to talk. Places he used to be—wiped clean.”

Dot’s jaw twitched. “That Goodkind-brand brainwash?”

“Different cross, same altar.”

“They’re erasing things.”

Mateo’s eyes flicked toward the shadows. “They cleaned out a whole drop site in Barstow yesterday. Nothing left but Clorox fumes and a pissed-off neighbor.”

Dot stared down the alley. Something in the silence tugged at her.

She could still hear the slow, irregular beep of her dad’s heart monitor.

The sterile hum of a hospital too underfunded to pretend it was anything else. The way he looked at her that night—barely breathing, pain leaking from every pore.

She was sixteen.

He asked if she was ready.

She said yes.

She pressed the morphine button for him.

Twice.

People didn’t just disappear.

They receded.

First their appetite. Then their voice. Then everything else.

Dot didn’t wait for people to come back after that. She learned to move forward with a clean break and a backup plan.

Mateo flicked his cigarette into the gutter. “You going in alone?”

Dot shrugged. “What else is new.”

“They see you coming, they’ll erase the room before you get to the sidewalk.”

“Then I’ll use the back door.”

A pause. “You still know how to disappear when it counts?”

She looked at him. “You taught me.”

He handed her a burner phone. New. Charged. Loaded. “Use it if things get loud. Not before.”

She took it without a thank-you.

“You didn’t get this from me,” he added.

“You never existed.”

Dot turned and walked away, hoodie up, hands deep in her pockets. The wind kicked up dust behind her. The sky was bleeding toward dawn.

She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.

Didn’t say goodbye.

But Mateo stood in the alley two minutes longer, watching the direction she’d gone.

He took a long drag from his last cigarette, pulled a second burner from his coat, and turned it on.

No words. No smile.

Just quiet steps heading the same way.

---

quiet doesn't mean peace

SUN. 7:03 A.M. – THE COMPOUND

Fatin woke up because the house was too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace.

The other kind—the kind that meant someone was gone. Or maybe never planned to stay.

She padded out barefoot, silk robe half-falling off her shoulder, mascara still smudged from last night. Phone loose in her hand.

The air in the living room was stale. Beer, sweat, too much thinking. Bottles on the counter. Blankets kicked off the couch like they lost a fight.

Dot’s spot: empty.

Not just empty—cold.

She’d been gone a while.

No keys in the bowl.

No Civic out front.

Fatin frowned, typed:

🏣 where’d you ghost to?

No reply.

She moved toward the kitchen. Not quiet, just… careful.

Leah was already there, hunched at the table, surrounded by open tabs and dead mugs. Same clothes as yesterday. Eyes sharp, unreadable.

“She’s gone,” Fatin said.

Leah looked up, slow. “Who?”

“Dot.”

Leah glanced toward the couch, then the door. “Maybe she’s just out.”

Fatin shook her head. “Dot doesn’t do just out. She vanishes on purpose.”

A beat.

Leah tilted her head. “Did Toni tell you where she was last night? Before she came back looking like hell?”

Fatin didn’t flinch. “No.”

“She left again this morning. Told me she was going to the gym.”

A pause.

“She didn’t take a bag.”

Fatin blinked. “Of course she didn’t.”

Leah raised an eyebrow. “And you’re not even curious?”

Fatin’s voice went sharp. “What do you want me to say, Leah? That I’m worried? That I should’ve stopped her? That I’m supposed to keep tabs on every fucked-up decision she makes?”

Leah stayed calm. “Did you try?”

Fatin scoffed. “She’s Toni. She lies in full sentences. She always comes back.”

Leah said, quieter, “Except when she doesn’t.”

Fatin let out a breath, jaw tight. “You think this is me not giving a shit?”

“I think it scares you that you do.”

Fatin looked away, voice low. “Of course I care. But that doesn’t mean I get to fix it. That’s your thing, right? Playing detective. Playing savior. You get off on it.”

Leah didn’t take the bait. But her mouth tightened. Just slightly.

Fatin rubbed her face. “You really still think this is about me and her?”

Leah didn’t answer.

Fatin’s voice dropped. “She’s easy, okay? She doesn’t ask me shit I don’t want to answer. She doesn’t look at me like she’s already disappointed.”

A long pause.

Then Fatin added, quieter:

“She’s not the one I lie to.”

Silence stretched out. Different now. Heavier.

Leah’s voice was steady. “Then who is?”

Fatin didn’t answer. Just turned toward the sink, hands braced on the edge like she needed something solid to hold.

“Doesn’t matter.”

But Leah didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t let her off the hook.

---

DOT

SUN. 10:00 A.M. – THE LEGACY PATH, VICTORVILLE

The retreat center looked like a church that had been scrubbed too clean—white stucco blistering in the heat, ironed hedges, no signage except a wooden placard out front that read:

THE LEGACY PATH
Rest. Reclaim. Rebirth.

Someone had scratched out Rebirth and scrawled RUN in Sharpie.

Dot parked the Civic two blocks down. Walked in on foot. Hoodie up. Hands deep in her pockets.

No gates. No fences. Just silence that tasted like lemon cleaner and old promises.

Inside, the lobby was too cold. The A/C humming too loud. Piano music played softly overhead—a tinny instrumental version of “Fix You” by Coldplay. The kind of song that sounded sweet until you listened to the words.

At the front desk sat a woman in her fifties. Perfect posture. Lipstick too red. Nametag gleaming like a warning.

LORNA – CARE AMBASSADOR

Dot forced a polite nod.

“Welcome to the Legacy Path,” Lorna chirped. “Are you checking in?”

“Just looking.”

Lorna reached for a clipboard anyway. “We’d be happy to set up a tour—”

“I’m not here for the pamphlet.” Dot slid a photo across the counter. “He used to work with our outreach team. We’re worried about him.”

Lorna didn’t blink. Didn’t touch the photo.

“I’m sorry. We’re a confidential facility. We don’t release information about guests.”

“I’m not asking for a file. Just if you’ve seen him.”

Lorna finally glanced down.

Marco—mid-chant, face half-shadowed by the megaphone. Alive. Loud. Unignorable. The photo was a candid Toni had taken years ago at an anti-Trump rally—Marco roaring into the crowd, Toni beside him, barely in focus but unmistakably radiant. You could see it in her eyes: pride, fierce and unfiltered. The kind of look you gave someone who made you feel safe for the first time. He’d been the only father figure she’d ever trusted.

Dot had found the photo tucked into one of Toni’s old notebooks. She hadn’t asked permission. She just took it—because if Marco was gone, Toni would never admit how much that mattered. But Dot would.

Lorna’s eyes flicked to a door behind the desk.

STORAGE.

Dot noticed. Didn’t move.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Lorna said.

“You didn’t even look.”

“I’ve been here a long time, sweetheart. I’d remember.”

Dot leaned in, voice soft. “Even if he wasn’t a guest?”

Lorna’s smile stayed in place. But her knuckles tightened on the clipboard.

“Even then.”

Dot straightened. “That room behind you always stay locked?”

“Storage.”

Dot raised an eyebrow. “You always store it like a vault?”

A beat.

Lorna’s mouth twitched. “I think it’s time you left.”

“I think it’s time you stopped pretending this place is just about healing.”

Dot reached into her hoodie, pulled out a folded bill and slid it across the desk. “There’s a janitor on break in the east dorm. Give him a twenty and he might tell you how many rooms have padlocks from the outside.”

Lorna didn’t touch it.

Dot leaned closer. “He said Room 120 used to be occupied.”

Lorna’s face froze.

Then she smiled.

“It’s unoccupied now.”

Dot smiled back. “Good to know.”

She turned. Left without a word.

The smile dropped from Lorna’s face before the door even closed.

---

[DOT] 12:00 P.M. – ROOM 120

The east dorm smelled like dust and stale prayer.

Dot moved slowly down the hallway, footsteps muffled on old carpet. Every door looked the same—white, wooden, numbered in fading brass. Room 114. 116. 118.

120. The one Lorna hadn’t quite looked away from fast enough.

The key had come from a janitor who didn’t ask questions after a few folded bills changed hands. She didn’t tell him who she was. She didn’t need to.

Dot slid the key in.

The door stuck—swollen frame or something heavier. She pushed harder. It gave with a dull groan.

Inside, the room was clean, but too clean. A wipe-down job. A ghost story.

Bed stripped. Trash empty. Curtains drawn.

No toothbrush. No bag. Just a Bible on the nightstand and a faint outline where a duffel used to sit.

Dot shut the door behind her.

She moved fast but methodical—opened the dresser. Nothing. Checked under the bed. Nothing. Looked behind the mirror. One chip in the drywall, like it had been rehung in a rush.

Finally, she crouched near the desk.

There—a scuff in the floor, dark and fresh.

Dot pulled at the drawer. It caught. Jammed.

She reached behind it, fingers brushing something thin—paper.

She coaxed it out.

A folded note. Handwritten. Sloppy. Rushed. Dot recognized Marco’s handwriting from her job contract.

They called this ‘retention.’ No locks. No noise. Just bleach.
This room’s been used before.
If I’m still here in 3 days, they’ve already moved the money—and they’re deciding what to do with me.

Dot stared at it. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Just read it again. And again.

Then she folded the paper, slid it into her back pocket, and stood.

Then she opened the door, looked both ways, and walked out fast—but not so fast it drew attention.

---

to see what broke first

[TONI] SUN. 1 PM – HOTEL

The hotel lobby felt like a lie—air-conditioned, over-sanitized, too quiet for the kind of fallout that had just gone down. Toni moved through it like she was daring someone to stop her.

She hadn’t planned to come. Not really. But the image of Shelby’s practiced smile at the summit had dug in under her skin, a splinter of polished defiance. She’d stared at the business card all night, the clean, corporate font a mockery of the mess they were in. She wasn’t here for an apology. She was here for a confession. She wanted to see the mask crack.

Not to fix anything.

To see what broke first.

She didn’t ask for a room number. Didn’t need to. She remembered the lobby. The elevator. The eyes Shelby had on her when she handed her the card—half-defiance, half dare.

The elevator dinged.

Shelby was already inside.

Dressed down. Hair in a knot. Bare face. Holding a paper cup of coffee like a shield.

Her eyes landed on Toni’s face—the swelling, the cut—and stayed there a second too long.

Toni didn’t flinch.

“You gonna say it?” she asked.

Shelby stepped aside, her voice soft with a slight drawl. “You’re not here to be makin' apologies, are you?”

“Nope.”

The doors closed.

The hotel room was quiet, clinical. Cold coffee on the desk. An open Bible beside it like an afterthought. The kind of room that pretends to be safe until someone leaves bleeding.

Toni didn’t sit. She stood at the window, hands in the pocket of her hoodie, her breath fogging faintly on the glass.

“You always run to places like this when the PR storm hits?”

Shelby stood near the desk. “There's not a soul lookin' for me.”

Toni turned halfway. “You sure?”

“Ought I be?”

Toni looked her over. “You’re the face of Unity now. You’re not invisible. Just polished.”

Shelby crossed her arms. “You truly think this is all just polish?”

“I think it’s fear with foundation.”

That hit. Not deep, but it left a mark.

Toni began to walk a slow circle around the room, her boots heavy against the carpet, deliberately taking up space. She let the silence stretch, watching how Shelby tracked her movements. Every part of this was a performance—the sterile room, the casual posture, the Bible left open just so. It was all a stage, and Toni wanted to know what role Shelby thought she was playing.

“You know Marco Reyes is missing, right?”

Shelby nodded, slow. “I’d heard as much.”

“He’s not the kind of guy who goes quiet.”

Shelby’s gaze flickered for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible shift before her expression smoothed over again. “I can’t say I knew him well at all.”

The lie was so clean it was almost an insult. Toni saw it land—the way Shelby’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch after she spoke, the slight shift of her weight away from the desk. It wasn’t just a denial; it was a deflection, a well-rehearsed pivot. And in that hollow space, Toni saw the shape of her complicity. She didn’t just look the other way; she’d practiced it.

Toni shrugged. “No one’s accusing you.”

Then added: “Not yet.”

Her arms tightened. “I don’t know what in the world you think I’ve gone and done.”

“That’s the problem,” Toni said. “You don’t know what you’ve done. You just showed up and smiled for the cameras and assumed your hands were clean.”

“I was only tryin' to help.”

“Were you?”

She didn’t answer.

Toni’s voice dropped, sharpening to a point. This was it. The polished faith, the practiced deflections—it was all armor. Toni didn't think Shelby was a victim; she thought she was a gatekeeper. And you didn't break down a gate by hitting it head-on. You found the lock. She decided to aim her next words not at Shelby, but at the system Shelby was paid to represent.

“You ever have to write the press release before the kid disappears?” she asked, her voice deceptively soft. “Spinning a ‘relapse’ for the cameras?”

Silence. Toni watched her, cataloging the micro-expressions. The way Shelby’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. The slight tightening of her jaw.

She pressed harder. “You ever watch your father talk about ‘restorative discipleship’ and know he meant breaking someone until they begged for grace?”

Still no answer. But Shelby’s knuckles went white where her hands were clasped.

Toni’s gaze dropped to them, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. A slow, cold certainty settled in her gut, familiar and bitter like the taste of someone else’s complicity.

Shelby finally spoke, her voice softer now, her drawl thickening with a delicate, almost rehearsed innocence. "Well now, all I was ever told was that they were just camps to help young folks find their faith. I surely didn't know what all they were truly tangled up in."

“And you didn’t want to know.”

That one landed.

She looked down. “It never crossed my mind they’d lie to me.”

Toni blinked. The word—lie—hung in the air, so earnest and so profoundly clueless that it knocked the air from her lungs. It wasn't an act. This wasn't a calculated denial. It was the unvarnished, terrifying truth. That? That was the crack. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't shame. It was a cavernous, world-breaking naïveté. And the anger in Toni’s chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted, making way for something colder and far more complicated.

She took one slow breath. In through her teeth. Out through the bruise.

“Now you know,” she said.

Shelby looked up. “What on earth am I supposed to do with that?”

Toni tilted her head. “Don’t ask me for a redemption arc. We just met.”

She almost smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

Toni stepped toward the door.

“I didn’t come here to fix you,” she said. “Or fight you.”

“Then why?”

She looked over her shoulder. “I wanted to see if you flinched.”

“And?”

“You didn’t.”

Toni opened the door.

“That doesn’t mean you’re being honest,” she added. “It just means you’re finally scared enough to tell a different story.”

Then she was gone.

---

something real

[SHELBY] SUN 10:57 P.M. – "CLUB SOFT"

Shelby → Toni

Can we talk? Somewhere neutral.

Toni

Define neutral.

Shelby

Not the hotel.

Toni

Meet me in 30. Wear shoes you can stand in.

--

The place was loud, but not in a fun way. The bass vibrated up through the soles of her shoes, a hostile pulse in a room that smelled like spilled gin, sweat, and the electric ozone of a fog machine. This wasn't a 'forget who you are' kind of loud; it was a 'nobody here cares what happens to you' kind of loud.

The neon sign outside just said SOFT, but inside, everything was edged: the synths, the sweat, the strangers pressed too close together.

Toni moved through the crowd like she’d been here a hundred times before. She hadn’t. Didn’t matter. The way she mingled with everyone, knew everyone, had Shelby thinking maybe she was the one working in PR.

She knew the rules. Shelby didn’t, and the knowledge left a cold, sharp-edged hollow in her stomach. She felt like a tourist in a warzone Toni had already mapped.

She stayed near the back wall, fingers wrapped too tightly around a drink she hadn’t ordered. Gin and something. The bartender hadn’t asked for her name.

Toni found her eventually.

Not fast.

Just… when she felt like it.

“You came,” Toni said over the music, voice low but somehow still cutting through.

Shelby nodded once. “You said thirty minutes.”

Toni shrugged, eyes sweeping the room. “Didn’t think you’d like the location.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

Silence. The synths pulsed. Sweat and neon clung to every word.

“You texted me to talk,” Toni said, not unkind—just tired. “So talk.”

Shelby hesitated. Then: “You played at Minnesota State, right?”

Toni’s brow ticked up. No smile.

“What—you want my stats or my rap sheet?”

“Basketball. Point guard. Full ride. All-conference freshman year. That game you dropped twenty-two on Arizona Tech…”

Toni’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think you followed sports.”

“I don’t.”

“So how do you know all that?”

Shelby paused. Then, carefully: “He asked me to look into you.”

Toni didn’t blink. “Dave.”

Shelby nodded. “He didn’t get why Marco hired you. Said you were a liability. Said you blew up your scholarship over a girl and a windshield.”

A muscle in Toni’s jaw jumped, a flicker of memory there and gone so fast it was like a ripple over deep water.

She reached for an abandoned glass and took a slow sip. “Coach called it a conduct violation. I called it closure.”

“You finished your degree online,” Shelby said.

Toni’s mouth twitched—something like a smirk, but without the joy. “Zoom U, baby. Graduation gown’s still in plastic somewhere. Never wore it.”

A beat.

“I’m not judging,” Shelby added.

Toni’s gaze locked on her, sharp as a knife and just as still. “You don’t have to. That’s Dave’s job.” Her voice, which had been laced with bitter humor, dropped into something colder, more serious. A pause. 'You came here with his words in your head. What are you hearing now?'

Shelby didn’t answer right away.

Toni stepped closer—slow, deliberate. Not threatening. Just unmistakably present.

“He wanted you to find a red flag,” Toni said. Her voice dropped, low and daring. “You think you did?”

The silence stretched long and tight.

The beat from the speakers seemed to fade into a dull throb in her ears. The room narrowed to the space between them, to the challenge in Toni’s dark eyes. Shelby’s own breath felt loud. Then she nodded once, a single, decisive movement. Not with fear. With certainty. 'No,' she said, her voice clear over the noise. 'I think I found something real.'

Toni’s eyes lingered on Shelby for just a second longer.

Then, with a breath so quiet it almost got swallowed by the bass, she looked away.

“You want a drink?” she asked. Light, but not casual.

Shelby blinked. “Now?”

Toni turned toward the bar, already moving. “Might as well be drunk for whatever comes next.”

She didn’t look back to see if Shelby followed.

Didn’t have to.

She’d know if she did.

And if she didn’t — well.

That would say something too.

Notes:

[Note Added: May 2]
Small edits and additions were made after the original posting—these were accidentally left off while I was trying to reformat. If you read the chapter early, you might notice a few emotional or dialogue shifts. Nothing major to the plot—just some tonal adjustments and a scene that hits harder now. Thanks for sticking with it as it evolves. <3

Chapter 8: we are the footnotes

Summary:

[ one leak / two betrayals / three names no longer spoken ]
[ faith weaponized / love misread / guilt rerouted ]
[ survival is a silence / protection is a curse word ]
[ the headline was never ours / just the damage it left behind ]
[ we are the footnotes / to someone else’s truth ]

Notes:

Devin Wesley as Dante James

the human underneath

SUNDAY 11:38PM – CLUB SOFT

Toni moved through the club like she was built from the beat—shoulders loose, gaze steady, steps unbothered.

People shifted as she passed—not out of fear, but familiarity. A slap on the shoulder. A nod. Someone reached out, almost said something, then thought better of it. She didn’t break stride.

Behind her, Shelby followed close. Eyes darting. Heels clicking too sharply for the rhythm of the room. The lights painted them both in pink and violet, but only one of them wore it like armor. The crowd recognized Toni. This club belonged to her.

A few people clocked the bruises on Toni’s face and leaned in, already whispering:

“Who do I need to punch?”

Toni never lingered long enough to give an answer.

She looked like she hadn’t tried—but that was the point. White ribbed tank. Oversized black blazer. Faded jeans slung low on her hips. Scuffed-up Converse that had survived more fights than most people in the room.

Her curls were down—glossy, parted deep, a soft wave framing her face like a Vogue shoot caught mid-moment. A look meant to land. Dressed to impress without looking like she cared.

Shelby, by contrast, looked like the kind of beautiful that turned heads without asking. Blonde hair straight and gleaming, parted just right, tucked behind one ear with practiced grace.

Men still looked—still gawked—but it wasn’t hungry. It was reverent. Admiration in a more traditional register. The pink silk halter and white tailored pants were classic, curated—flattering without flaunting. Her heels clicked like punctuation marks. Her lips, glossed just enough.

They didn’t match—but they didn’t dare clash. Two people with secrets, standing just far enough apart to pretend they weren’t burning.

Shelby looked like a rumor trying to catch up to a headline. People still looked at her like a hot blonde accessory—glossy, harmless. But if anyone’s gaze lingered too long, Toni would glance back, sharp and fast, like she was keeping score. Like if someone got too close, she’d start swinging.

And that—God help her—Toni felt like safety.

The bartender barely looked up when they approached. Blasian, mid-twenties, golden-brown skin catching the club lights like smoke on satin. Clean fade, longer on top. Sharp jaw, sleeves rolled. A gold ring on one finger—subtle, intentional. The kind of man every normal woman might want.

Shelby—honestly—assumed he was gay. No straight man she knew was that well-kept and that attractive. Not even Andrew.

His expression didn’t shift. Like he knew what kind of night they were having, and didn’t plan to make it easier.

When he finally looked at Toni, it wasn’t curiosity.

It was a calculation.

Like he was sizing up a fuse before it hit the flame.

Then—he grinned. Slow. Wide.

“Toni-fucking-Shalifoe,” he said, giving Shelby a once-over. Smirked.

“You always roll in with a pretty girl. Starting to think it's a rule.”

“Dante. Two bottles of Don Q. Two glasses.” Toni dropped onto a stool like it owed her rent. She yanked the next one out for Shelby with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Sit, it said. Now.

Shelby sat—slowly, like it might bite.

Dante raised a brow. “Damn. That kind of night?”

“One for me,” Toni said. “Maybe a little for princess over here.”

Her tone wasn’t playful. It was precision-cut sarcasm.

Dante’s gaze flicked to Shelby. “She got a name, or do I get the honor of calling her ‘princess’ too?”

“Shelby,” she said, spine straight.

He nodded, already reaching for the bottle. “Right. The Goodkind girl.”

Not a question. No surprise. Just a quiet fact with an aftertaste.

Shelby’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a problem?”

Dante shook his head. “I’m open-minded...” He glanced at Toni. “Our mutual… uh… friend… Fatin would probably call you a Westboro Baptist Bible-thumping—”

Toni cut him off, grabbing the bottle from his hand.

“Everything’s a problem. Drink.”

Toni poured—first for herself. Then for Shelby.

They knocked back the first shot. Toni didn’t blink.

Shelby flinched. Exhaled slow to cover it.

Dante was watching—amused more than anything. He gave her a wink.

And she had to blush. Not because he was cute. Because he assumed.

Because they always did.

And for a half-second, she wished he’d been right.

It caught her off guard—that kind of attention. Light. Easy. No weight to it. Just a guy thinking she looked nice.

Like that was all she had to be.

It made her chest feel weird.

Toni—who Shelby was learning had the observational skills of a sniper—clocked it without even turning around.

“Maybe you should keep your eyes on the liquor shelf,” she said.

Then, drier: “And maybe text Fatin back while you’re at it.”

Dante laughed. Quick. Sharp. Too practiced.

“That’s what she told you? She ghosted me.”

Toni rolled her eyes. “I wonder why?”

Another couple slid up to the bar. Dante turned with a sigh.

Toni poured again. Generous this time.

“You still want to talk?” she asked. “Or was this just a goodwill tour for your conscience?”

Shelby’s jaw ticked. She lifted her glass. Took a sip.

It burned.

Toni watched her like she was waiting to see if she’d spit it out—or swallow it whole.

Shelby swallowed. Deliberate.

“I’m not here for a drink.”

Toni tilted her head. “Then why are you here? Miss the sound of your own voice?”

“Maybe I wanted to see if yours still worked,” Shelby shot back. “Or if you were too busy choking on all the moral high ground you used to stand on.”

Toni barked a laugh. “Cute. You rehearse that in the mirror?”

“No. Just figured I’d match your energy.”

“My energy?” Toni leaned in—lazy, lethal. “Sweetheart, you don’t have the battery life.”

Shelby didn’t blink. She downed the rest of her drink. Clean.

Toni refilled both glasses without asking. The bottle had already dipped past halfway—its weight shifting like time giving way. It tipped like an hourglass, counting down something neither of them could name.

“Scared?” Shelby asked, eyes steady.

“No,” Toni said. “But I think you are. Scared you might agree with me.”

She lifted her glass, just enough to wet her lips, then set it down again.

“You feel it coming?” Her voice dropped.

“The rumors. That Noć was a front. That I was in bed with the cartel.”

She smiled—dry.

“Sound’ like something Daddy’s friends whispered behind your back? Or did they give you the full story before you smiled for the cameras?”

That one landed.

Shelby drank again. More this time.

Toni turned toward her now—full tilt, eyes locked. “Tell me something, Goodkind… when your family plays dress-up with blood money—”

Her voice softened, mock-sweet.

“Do they at least dry-clean it first?”

Her tone flirted. Her eyes didn’t.

Shelby said nothing. Just refilled her glass. Her fingers shook slightly.

Toni continued, “Unity always said they helped kids. Outreach. Rehab. All that squeaky-clean PR bullshit.”

Shelby shifted, defensive without knowing why.

Toni’s voice dropped. “You ever ask where the pills came from?”

The pause was heavier now.

“Or did you figure, if they came with a Bible and a prescription pad, they couldn’t be poisoned?”

Shelby blinked. Jaw set. Then—a flinch. Reflexive. Small. Like her body got the message before her mouth could lie.

Toni watched. Longest time. Then leaned back.

“Huh,” she said.

A beat.

“That’s why I came.”

“…To see if you’d flinch.”

Shelby’s voice came out finally. “And?”

Toni drank the last of her glass. Eyes never leaving hers.

“You did.”

Dante returned. Not smiling this time. He popped the second bottle and poured again. The first had emptied like sand through glass—no questions, no teasing, no toast.

They drank.

Toni didn’t look at Shelby—but she felt her. Shoulder brushing hers. Barely. Maybe by accident. Maybe not.

And maybe Toni was keeping track. Of how close Shelby stood. Of how quiet she stayed. Of how her eyes hadn’t widened, how her hands hadn’t trembled when the cartel was mentioned.

Something about that made Toni’s stomach turn.

She ran through it again—what Shelby had said. What she hadn’t. How quickly she’d swallowed the liquor. How she hadn’t asked for more details.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Toni’s jaw set.

A burst of white lit up the dark like lightning—too bright, too sudden, slicing through the low club haze like a blade.

Shelby didn’t move away.

Outside, the synths surged. The room blurred.

But here—

In this sliver of stillness—

They were the only ones left breathing.

And just like that, it felt like the next wrong move might start a war—or something worse.

Then—

Flash.

Not lights. A phone.

“Who the fuck—” Toni started.

Voices behind them hissed in the dark:

“That’s her. Toni Shalifoe. From Noć.”

“Is that the Goodkind girl—with her?”

“Shit—get a picture.”

Flash. Flash.

Dante lunged from behind the bar. “Yo—phones down!” he barked.

Too late.

Toni’s phone buzzed on the bartop.

Shelby’s lit up: Daddy.

Toni saw it. Her gaze snapped to Shelby’s screen.

For a second, they just stared at each other—one heartbeat, maybe two.

Shelby declined the call. No hesitation.

Not now. Not him.

And just like that, something cracked.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Shelby grabbed her phone, watching the notifications pile up like dominoes.

Dispatch Exclusive: *NOĆ Implodes After Summit: Inside the Faith-Washed Pipeline of Disappearances, Detention, and the Quiet Vanishing of Marco *Reyez*

Shelby’s eyes locked on her screen. Her voice, barely above the music:

“Exclusive documents tie Unity Outreach to unregulated isolation programs, off-the-books transfers, and a string of pseudo-religious rehabs accused of using medical sedation and coercive silence. One handwritten note describes a ‘silent disappearance protocol.’”

They called this ‘retention.’ No locks. No noise. Just bleach. If I’m still here in 3 days, they’ve moved the money—and they’re deciding what to do with me. —M

Toni froze. The club dulled around her. The music might as well have stopped. Every light felt like it was aimed directly at her. Too hot. Too loud. Too exposed.

Shelby leaned in. “Toni…”

Toni didn’t look at her. “Where the fuck did they get this? And 'Reyez’? Are you FUCKING kidding me? How do you even misspell that?”

Her voice cut through the air, sharper than the bass line. She was half-laughing now, the bitter kind that comes right before you break.

“All of this—it’s everything Leah showed us at Noć,” Shelby said quickly, trying to anchor the moment. “Same ledgers. Same accounts. Same documents. Everything’s a carbon copy. Did she leak this? Did she even tell anyone?”

Toni’s eyes dropped to the byline.

They didn’t move.

*Contributed by: J. Galanis*

“Fuck me.”

The words blurred, but Toni could still read them. Etched into the inside of her skull.

“Did Leah do this?” Shelby asked again. “Who the hell is J. Galanis?”

Toni’s voice dropped, hoarse, almost disbelieving. “Someone found this note… and didn’t tell me.”

She wasn’t looking at anything now. Not the screen. Not Shelby. Just past all of it. Like if she looked directly at anything, she’d combust.

“Someone found this—read it—and gave it to him.”

That word—him—landed with venom. It curled through her teeth like poison. She said it like a curse.

Shelby didn’t speak.

Her phone buzzed again. A message from Daddy. The first since she’d come to L.A.

She didn’t even open it. Just stared at the notification like it was an accusation.

Toni didn’t see it. Her hands were fists now. White-knuckled and trembling.

“He trusted me,” she whispered. “Marco trusted me. And now he’s a fucking headline. A ghost in a thinkpiece. Something people read, repost, and forget.”

No locks. No noise. Just bleach.

His words. Now everyone’s.

She looked up. Her eyes weren’t just angry. They were wrecked. Fury still there—but at the center? Grief.

She swayed slightly on her feet.

Dante reappeared behind the bar, voice low and unusually serious. “I’m calling you both a cab. Out back. You don’t want to be here when this gets louder.”

Shelby nodded slowly. Her mouth opened like she might say something, but nothing came.

Toni grabbed the second bottle, capped it like it owed her something, and stood. Her chair scraped back—loud as a slap. Shoulders squared. Spine iron-tight.

Shelby hesitated. Then followed.

They didn’t look at each other.

Security met them near the service exit. No words. Just a nod. Just silence

The door shut behind them—heavy and final.

Shelby said something about not dying in a headline.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t her father.

A new thread lit up the screen and she read it as they walked out:

“Incoming requests for comment on the Unity report—LAPD sources say investigation “imminent.”

Toni didn’t read over her shoulder. Didn’t have to.

“It’s not just us anymore,” she muttered. “They’re gonna start knocking on doors. And I don’t know who’s gonna answer first—cops, lawyers, or ghosts.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Just clutched the keys Dante had handed her like a weapon. Like a favor she couldn’t return.

And when she hugged him—quick, one-armed, almost defensive—Shelby thought, for just a second, she saw the human underneath.

---

---

MONDAY 1:00 AM – DANTE’S CONDO – LIVING ROOM

Toni had been drunk before. Sloppy, sharp, mouth faster than her brain. But this—this was different.

Slower. Heavier. Like someone had poured wet cement into her chest and dared her to breathe.

They’d had enough to black out, easy. But the grief caught the alcohol halfway down and made it stall.

Like even their bodies knew this wasn’t the kind of night you got to escape.

The condo was spare. Clean lines. Dim lighting. Big windows no one had bothered to close. Tucked inside a gated complex in the Hills—one of those buildings with valet, a eucalyptus-scented lobby, and neighbors who didn’t make eye contact.

Toni had stayed here once or twice. Dante won it in a lawsuit no one talked about but everyone whispered involved hush money and something ugly. The kind of place where secrets hung like curtains.

A couch sat in the middle—stiff, expensive, and unforgiving. A new bottle on the table. Half full. Or half gone.

Shelby hadn’t shut up since they walked in.

“This couch is, like, genuinely hostile. You think people with money pay extra just to be uncomfortable? I mean—God—maybe I do that too. Like, if it hurts a little, it must be expensive.”

Toni didn’t look at her. Just stood at the window.

She stared out at the city like it had personally betrayed her.

In her pocket, her phone buzzed again. Leah. She didn’t check it.

A different night, she would’ve answered. Said something biting. Or nothing at all.

But tonight, even silence felt like work.

She deleted the voicemail without listening. If it was an apology, she didn’t want to hear it. If it was an explanation, she’d end up forgiving her.

And forgiveness felt like weakness. Like bloodletting with no promise of healing.

Shelby kept going. “I’m just saying, if I’m going to spiral, I’d rather do it on something with cushions. Maybe even a throw blanket. Is that too much to ask?”

Silence.

“God, okay, sorry. You’re clearly brooding and terrifying. I just—what is this? Are we supposed to sit here while Leah sends a thank-you note to the guy who wrote the article? Because unless you’re about to tell me why he knows more than he should, I’m gonna lose it.”

Still nothing.

Shelby sighed and grabbed the bottle.

“Cool. I’m just gonna drink then. And pretend like this isn’t all crashing down in real time.”

Toni didn’t blink.

Then, fast—like the pause scared her:

“Look, I saw the byline. That J.Galanis-or whatever? You wanna explain how he’s writing like he’s been CC’d on everything since the summit?”

Toni exhaled sharp. “Galanis wasn’t just a byline. He was Leah’s first—something.”

Shelby blinked. “Does everyone in LA speak in short code or is that just your thing?”

“Author. Predator. Pick a label.” Toni’s voice airy now, like she’d been holding her breath before and just remembered she could breathe. “She was sixteen. He thought she was eighteen. When he found out, he ended it. No apology. Just vanished.... Built a brand on her trauma.”

Shelby’s mouth opened. Then closed.

“Jesus.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s not a secret. That’s a pattern.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Shelby looked up again, slower now. “So she’s just… what? Back in touch? Handing him scoops while pretending to protect us?”

Toni finally turned—slow, deliberate. “You still think she gets to play innocent in all this?”

Shelby stopped mid-sip. Blinked.

Her voice softened. “Even Jesus flipped a table,” she mumbled. “And he was literally the son of God, so… cut yourself some slack.”

Shelby looked at her. Really looked. The way Toni wasn’t moving. The way her eyes hadn’t softened once.

“So that’s your theology now? Drunk Southern revenge gospel?”

Shelby rubbed her temples. “I don’t know, okay? I just—I’m trying to keep up.”

And then—quietly:

“You think she gave it to him?”

Toni’s jaw twitched.

Shelby took it as a yes.

Shelby’s phone buzzed again.

A message this time. Not a call.

DADDY: We clean this up now, or you’re on your own.

It flashed across the screen like a threat wrapped in scripture.

Toni caught the name before Shelby flipped the screen face-down.

“You still talk to him?”

Shelby blinked like she hadn’t heard right. Then scoffed—too fast, too loud.

“No. God, no.”

But the phone still lit up in her hand. She didn’t put it down.

Toni raised an eyebrow.

Shelby swallowed. “Not since I left. Not really. Not since… before.”

Toni didn’t press. Not yet.

Shelby let the silence grow. Then—like it slipped out without permission:

“I thought he might call. Eventually. He always does when something breaks and he thinks it could trace back to him.”

A pause.

“I mean—he always made it clear what not to ask. What was ‘his department.’ The money. The meds. The rehab stuff.”

She laughed, but it didn’t sound like humor. “I didn’t ask. Not because I was stupid. Because I was scared.”

She met Toni’s eyes. Barely held the stare.

“I’ve been surviving him since I was sixteen.”

Toni stayed silent. Her mouth set like a blade. Her hand curled tighter around the bottle.

Shelby blinked again, feeling the weight of her own words.

Her next one was quieter. Guiltier.

“I flinched, didn’t I?”

Shelby opened her mouth again—maybe to say more—but Toni stood, bottle loose in her hand. She crossed to the door and leaned against the frame, back to Shelby.

Shelby let out a laugh—too loud, too sharp. Like it might hold the rest of her together.

She looked down at the bottle. Tipped it. Drank.

Then, softer. Slurred.

“I knew… something wasn’t right.”

Another sip. Her hand shook now.

“I knew the meds I got didn’t come from God.”

She blinked, slow. Like her body was catching up to what her mouth had done.

“They said it’d help. Said it was faith. Said it’d fix me.”

Her voice cracked.

“But all it did was make everything quiet. Too quiet. Like I didn’t even get to hate myself properly.”

She laughed again. Different this time. Empty.

“And I didn’t ask where it came from. I didn’t want to know. Because if I knew—if I really knew—then it wasn’t just their sin.”

She looked at Toni. Eyes glossy. Words stumbling now.

“It was mine too.”

And then—barely a whisper:

“I flinched. Because I recognized it.”

Toni didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stood there—jaw tight, bottle clenched in one hand like it was the only thing anchoring her.

“I can’t hold your guilt too,” she said quietly. Not cruel. Not even angry. Just… tired.

A beat.

“You flinched. So did I. We’re still here.”

She didn’t look at her when she walked away

---

MONDAY 2:00 AM – THE COMPOUND

Fatin looked like a blade in silk. Midnight liner, sharp and intact. Nails flawless. Hair twisted up with mechanical precision, a gold clip catching the overhead light like a warning. Her robe was some decadent thing that shouldn’t have been functional—but somehow was. She didn’t look tired. She looked furious. Like rage was just another part of her beauty routine.

Leah, by contrast, looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days—and wore it like a dare. Hoodie loose, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Hair still damp from a shower she forgot to finish. No makeup. Just dark circles and dry lips. The aftermath of too many sleepless nights and unanswered questions.

But even unraveling, there was something striking about her. Not fragile—fierce, in a quieter way. She looked like the kind of beautiful you didn’t recognize until you were already haunted by it. Like the last page of a mystery she couldn’t solve—and refused to stop reading.

Fatin slammed Leah’s laptop shut like it insulted her mother.

“You have GOT to be kidding me.”

Leah blinked, still seated at the kitchen table, the glow of her phone painting her face in cold blue.

“Fatin—”

But Fatin was already moving—hood off, hands shaking, eyes wild.

“You didn’t think I’d recognize his name? J. Galanis? Are you serious? You left your laptop open. I went digging.”

Leah flinched. “You what—?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Fatin snapped. “You walked into that meeting after the summit with pounds of evidence, started name-dropping sources, sneaking off with people no one knows—and you think I wouldn’t connect the dots?”

“I didn’t leak it,” Leah said, lifting her chin like it might shield her.

Fatin snorted. “You didn’t have to. You gave it to him. It’s like you’re back in high school again—your friends don’t matter more than the pervert who fetishized you.”

Leah’s eyes narrowed. “He was my source.”

Fatin’s voice cracked. “He was your obsession. There’s a difference.

She turned to go—ready to storm out—but froze.

Dot stirred.

“Fatin—”

There was something about the way Dot looked at the floor—like she already knew this would end badly. Like she’d been rehearsing regret.

“And you—where the fuck have you been all day?” Fatin said slowly, confusion creeping into the fury.

Dot hesitated.

“Dot,” Fatin said louder. “What the hell did you do?”

Dot didn’t answer fast enough. And that was enough.

Fatin stepped forward. Eyes narrowing.

“No. No. No, don’t tell me—”

“I found the note,” Dot said quietly.

The words landed like glass breaking.

“WHAT?” Fatin was hysterical and unhinged. “MARCOS DEATH NOTE?”

“I found it. Today. My friend Mateo—he ran in some circles, you know, with people tied to another group tied to Unity, Legacy. I asked about Marco… went on a bit of a witch hunt… followed some leads…”

Fatin’s voice cracked again—raw now. “And your first move was Leah?”

“No,” Fatin snapped. “You decided I couldn’t handle it. Like she did. Like he did.” She pointed at the headline again.

Leah bristled. “I didn’t publish it to hurt anyone.”

She hesitated. “I didn’t mean to—” she caught herself. Then quieter: “Okay. Maybe I did. A little. Just enough to feel in control again.”

“You didn’t publish it,” Fatin spat. “You fed it to the same guy who used to tell you what to wear to class. Don’t pretend you didn’t know what it meant.”

A voice cut in—quiet, but unmissable, more importantly miserable.

“You didn’t trust me to do the right thing.”

Everyone turned.

Toni stood in the doorway. The bottle still in her hand.

Her eyes dull.

Her body stiff.

But locked on Dot like a knife held loose.

Dot froze. “Toni—”

“You didn’t trust me,” Toni repeated. “To do the right thing.”

Maybe Leah thought giving it to Galanis would protect someone. Maybe she wanted to control the story before it got out anyway. Toni didn’t know. But the not-knowing stung worse.

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Dot’s answer came fast. Like it had been waiting.

“No. I trusted you to do the wrong one.”

The room went still.

Leah’s voice sliced through—low, almost bitter. “Toni would’ve waited. Covered for Marco. Buried it in guilt.”

She looked at Dot, then at Fatin—but never at Toni.

“Toni protects people. Even when it kills her.”

She stopped short of the next line once.

Before Dot could speak, Fatin—surprisingly—cut in. Protective. Sharp.

“YOU DO NOT GET TO TALK ABOUT THAT. Where is your respect? Seriously—where is it? You think Toni’s trauma is just fair game now? Like it’s a citation in your little guilt monologue?”

Her voice cracked. “You don’t get to pull that card just to make a point. Not after everything she’s carried alone. AND EVERYTHING SHE LITERALLY BUILT WITH MARCO. LIKE WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU BOTH THAT'S LIKE HER DAD?”

Leah backed off.

Dot’s voice shook. “I didn’t want to make you leak it if Toni didn’t,” she said. “Not again. Not for another man’s mistakes.”

Her voice cracked again.

“Not after what you had to do when your dad—”

“Don’t,” Fatin said. Voice like a blade. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“I saw what it did to you,” Dot said. “I saw how long it took for you to stop thinking it was your fault. You leaked your father’s messages to protect your mom. I wasn’t going to let you bleed out for Toni too.”

Fatin’s expression shattered.

“You don’t get to use what I survived to justify stabbing us in the back.”

Dot’s voice broke. “I thought if I moved first, you’d never have to.”

Fatin stepped back. Eyes glassy.

“No. You moved first so you wouldn’t have to feel it. The risk. The weight. What it costs to wait for someone you love.”

She turned. Gone.

The door slammed.

Leah stood frozen.

Dot leaned against the counter. Eyes on the floor.

Toni didn’t move for a long moment.

Then—

She stepped forward. Slow. Heavy. Drunk.

She looked at Dot. Then at Leah. Her voice came quiet. Hollow.

But sharp enough to cut.

“You talk about protecting people like it’s a flaw.”

She didn’t blink.

“I protected Marco. Until I couldn’t.”

A breath.

“You handed him over to someone who turned him into a fuckin’ typo.”

She turned toward the door, bottle still in her hand.

And just before she left:

“Next time you want to martyr me, Leah—don’t confuse it for love.”

And she left carrying everything they thought she couldn’t.

 

---

📎 THE DISPATCH

Investigative Staff | Contributed by J. Galanis

NOĆ IMPLODES AFTER SUMMIT

Inside the Faith-Washed Pipeline of Disappearances, Detention, and the Quiet Vanishing of Marco Reyez

Exclusive documents obtained by The Dispatch have unearthed a web of concerning connections linking the influential charity Unity Outreach, previously helmed by conservative benefactor Dave Goodkind, to a network of unregulated isolation programs and clandestine financial dealings.

The investigation has further revealed the existence of several pseudo-religious rehabilitation centers now facing intense scrutiny due to allegations of administering unauthorized medical sedation and enforcing periods of coercive silence upon their inhabitants.

The documents, which include meticulously kept internal ledgers and confidential communications, paint a disturbing picture of Unity Outreach’s deep-seated affiliations with at least three therapeutic retreats operating under a religious guise. These facilities, alarmingly, appear to have functioned entirely outside the purview of federal regulatory bodies.

Of particular concern are indications that these retreats may have housed minors, potentially subjecting them to sedation protocols euphemistically described within internal communications as “voluntary compliance measures”, raising serious questions about the true nature of consent and individual liberties within these programs.

They called this ‘retention.’ No locks. No noise. Just bleach.

If I’m still here in 3 days, they’ve moved the money—

and they’re deciding what to do with me.

—M

Investigators believe the author to be Marco Reyez, co-founder of the once-prominent Los Angeles-based nightlife venture known as NOĆ. Reyez’s connection to the network extends beyond NOĆ, as he is also identified as a former associate of both Unity Outreach and the private equity conglomerate Legacy Holdings. Reyez has not been seen publicly since April 25, and his current whereabouts remain unknown.

The ripple effects of these revelations have already begun to impact NOĆ, which issued a formal announcement Tuesday confirming it will be ceasing operations permanently, citing “internal restructuring.” However, that explanation has been met with skepticism in light of growing evidence linking its early financial backers to offshore accounts and Unity’s rehabilitation infrastructure.

Online platforms erupted following the leak. Advocacy groups are now demanding federal oversight of Unity Outreach’s donor network and its historical ties to sealed juvenile treatment centers.

Law enforcement sources confirm that a formal LAPD investigation into Unity Outreach, Legacy Holdings, and NOĆ is imminent. Authorities are expected to pursue allegations of unauthorized medical practices, coercive control, and suspicious financial transfers, with particular attention to the fate of individuals like Marco Reyez.

 

Chapter 9: what we did with the match

Summary:

[ one match struck / two girls exposed / three days too late ]
[ cartel smoke / legacy blood / a drive that should not exist ]
[ loyalty is leverage / silence is strategy / survival is still betrayal ]
[ the photo said everything / the truth said nothing ]
[ we weren’t ready / but they were already watching ]

Notes:

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to conversion therapy, religious trauma, and institutional abuse.
Previously: Dispatch ran with the note Dot found. Leah gave them just enough to burn the house down.
also—this chapter’s not fair to shelby. intentionally. the others don’t know what she’s carrying yet, and she’s still too ashamed (and conditioned) to name it. this is a girl who was taught that suffering was holy. that disappearing was how you found grace. next chapter, chapter, she gets to say it for real—sober

Now: Unity’s unraveling. Noć is closed. Shelby’s past is bleeding through the photos.

Marco’s still missing. And the ones who survived him are turning on each other.

The truth didn’t start the fire.
But it’s about to get louder.

📎 Read the Dispatch + EXPOSÉD. leaks here

 

everything’s already burning

[LEAH — MONDAY — 7 HRS POST DISPATCH DROP]

 

Everything’s already burning when Leah wakes up on Monday.
Her phone vibrates. Fatin’s name flashes—then disappears. She doesn’t check it.
Instead, she watches the Dispatch story climb the trending topics. Shelby’s name gets half-redacted, then fully dragged. Noć’s Instagram comments fill with half-sarcastic prayers and rage-posted exclamation points.

She thinks about the summit. The weight of Toni’s voice. The calm under fire. The way she pulled Shelby out like it was instinct, not strategy.
That’s the thing with Toni. She’s always the hero in someone else’s story. She said that to Dot last night—half a joke, half a dare. But now it doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like a truth that sticks in your throat. Toni tears everything down in the name of saving you—and walks away like she never lit the match.

Leah wants to believe that’s all it is.
But she knows better. She always has.

Freshman year, Minnesota State—house party, loud and reckless. Regan slipped outside for air. Ryan, a point guard from the men’s team, who ironically Fatin had thought had dreamy eyes, cornered her. He said something Leah couldn’t hear, but she noticed Regan flinch.
Toni moved fast. One second she was on the porch. The next, she had him pinned. “You don’t get to touch her. Ever.”
He tried to laugh. The girl is 5’3.
Toni punched him. Once. Then again.
When the RA showed up, she didn’t stutter. “Tell the truth,” she said, “or I’ll come find you.”

It was loyalty. Fury. Survival, the Toni way.
Then she vanished for a week. Suspended. The team lost without her. She came back like the wreckage wasn’t hers to carry.

Leah never forgot.

Toni doesn’t just light fires. She leaves you to explain the smoke. At least, that’s what Leah keeps telling herself. It’s easier than admitting she’s still waiting for an apology that may never come.

She said it last night, after Fatin slammed the door. She’d laughed—sharp, bitter—but this morning, the line loops back with teeth.
It’s not dramatic. It’s true.
Leah used to think that meant strength. Now she thinks it’s cowardice in armor.

And Fatin—God, Fatin. Constellation mind. Silk-and-snap tongue. Dumb, perfect eye-rolls.
She never said she loved Leah. But she never stopped calling when Leah spiraled.
She looked at Leah like she wanted to be hated for it. Touched her like she could’ve kissed her, but never did.

Leah loved her like a secret. Toni treated her like a habit.

There was that night in the dorms—midnight, shared earbuds, Clairo low in both ears. Leah got Fatin hooked. She knew it. Fatin was tracing the edge of Leah’s knee and calling her beautiful, and Leah almost said it then. Almost.

And maybe Leah’s not proud of what she did.
But she’s tired of watching Toni waste the things Leah couldn’t bring herself to ask for.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t stop herself.
Why Jeffrey's offer didn’t feel like betrayal.

Jeffrey Galanis picks the café—some sterile, try-hard place called Grind & Press. White tile, zero personality, and an air of curated discomfort. Of course he does. Industrial minimalism. Performative pour-overs. Precision that screams, I’m above it all.
Leah orders her coffee black. She doesn’t need comfort—just clarity.

He slides into the booth like it’s a stakeout, not a meeting.

“You were right to be suspicious of Toni,” Jeffrey says—no hello, no preamble. Just intel dressed as concern. “She and Shelby met in Brentwood Saturday after the summit. Legacy-owned hotel. Legacy Holdings—one of Unity’s shell companies. On paper, it’s real estate and hospitality. In practice? A thicket of trust funds, dummy corps, and offshore blind spots. Not a place for tourists. A place you stash secrets.”

He barely pauses. “After midnight, they were seen at Club SOFT. Two bottles of Puerto Rican rum—maybe an ode to Marco Reye’s ethnic heritage? Left through the inconspicuous service exit. Same car to a Westwood condo registered under another shell name.”

He flips his phone toward her. The photo: Toni and Shelby, bodies too close, eyes too soft. That look like they’ve survived something together. Like they might survive each other. This was not an image that was consistent with the events of the summit.

Leah doesn’t look right away. That’s the thing about evidence—it doesn’t surprise. It confirms what the walls already whispered.

She says nothing for a beat.
Then: “Fatin and Toni have been hooking up.”
Flat. Like she’s naming a weather pattern. Like it doesn’t still sting.

Jeffrey raises an eyebrow—his version of a smirk. “And why do you care?” he asks. Not mocking. Not kind. Just dissecting. “You always said Fatin fucks like she’s bored. That it never means anything.”

Her jaw tightens. Fingers curl slightly around the cup.

She could lie. Pivot. But what’s the point?

“Because I’m in love with her,” she says. Quiet. Barely shaped. But it lands.

Jeffrey doesn’t blink. Just sips. Swallows too loud.

“Fatin—the one who blackmailed me with your birth certificate when she found out we were hooking up?” he asks, offended like it still bruises. “She could’ve got me sent to prison, or completely ruined my reputation as a writer.”

Leah doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. I promise she’s not a fan of you either.”

She leans back. Exhales. Then, eyes sharp:

“If I’d gotten there first, maybe I wouldn’t have had to burn it all down just to feel real. I didn’t do this to hurt them—I did it because I’m tired of watching people betray each other and call it love. Tired of being the footnote in someone else’s story.”

Jeffrey nods once. Like she’s finally said something worth printing.
Then: “Well. Congratulations. You’re the byline now. Just hope you’re ready for the body copy.”

She tells herself it’s justice. But it feels more like revenge with better punctuation.

Jeffrey slides her one white envelope, open, with cash. “Payment for your… insight. I don’t know how you knew where Toni would be, but you had me impressed. The outlets were generous, for some reason the media finds her—interesting.”

She doesn’t look at him when she takes it. Her hand shakes, just slightly. She hates that he sees it.

He slides a second envelope across the table. Thumb drive inside. No label.

“This one’s not just scandal,” he says. “It’s structure. Foundation stuff. The kind Marco kept quiet—for too long.”

Leah doesn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Jeffrey leans in. “You want to know why Legacy’s so untouchable? Because they’re not just laundering money. They’re moving product. Settling contracts. Buying silence.”

He taps the drive. “Some of the substances listed? Not FDA-approved. Not legal, either. The shipping logs overlap with cartel routes out of Jalisco and Durango. Names you won’t find in any Unity press release—but they’re all over Legacy’s filings.”

Leah’s throat tightens.

“This isn’t philanthropy,” he says. “It’s infrastructure. The camps? They weren’t designed for healing. They were designed for sedation. Those drugs went.”

Then, quieter:
“There’s a file in there that should’ve disappeared. But Marco kept a copy. Could’ve wiped it. Didn’t.”

Leah looks at him—silent. Still.
Jeffrey doesn’t push. Just studies her.

“You think he was trying to bring the whole thing down?” he asks. “He wasn’t. He was trying to protect someone. And he… well… he failed.”

She doesn’t reach for the drive. But her gaze doesn’t leave it.

“That’s where Dot found the note,” she says. “Bleach. Three-day window, the one she gave me for the dispatch leak last night.”
Jeffrey nods once.

“You think this ties back to the camps?”
“It’s not back,” Jeffrey shoots. “It’s still happening. Just better hidden.”

Jeffrey slides the drive just a little closer.
“You already crossed the line, Leah. The least you can do is make it count.”

A beat.
“You don’t have to trust me,” he adds. “Just trust the data.”

She finally reaches for the drive.
Her fingers brush the plastic. Cold. Weightless.
But for a second—just one—she sees the photo again.
Toni’s face.
Not the bruises.
The betrayal.

She tells herself it’s justice. But it feels like the kind of truth you only chase when you want someone to bleed.

---

---

 

matchstick loyalty

 

[DOT — MONDAY — 11:25 A.M. — SILVERLAKE PARK]

 

It’s officially the worst Monday morning of her life. Not in the dramatic, Leah-level existential spiral way. Just in the "everyone’s lost their shit and someone has to keep the lights on" way.

She’s running on black coffee and instinct. The note’s still in her jacket pocket, damp with sweat. She hasn’t shown anyone else. Not really. Letting Leah see it was a slip-up—one she’s regretted every hour since.

The Dispatch story dropped like a bomb. Outreach is trending. Noć’s name is in the splash zone.

The cops showed up this morning. Talked to Fatin. Then asked for her.

She lied. Clean. Controlled. Said she didn’t know anything about Unity Outreach, Legacy Path, or David Goodkind.

Which, to be fair, was technically true—on Friday.

Now? Now it’s Monday, and the whole house smells like smoke.

Toni didn’t come back to the compound last night. She always did before. Even when she was pissed. Especially then.

Fatin’s been slamming cabinets all morning. Loud. Intentional. The kind of anger that says: you fucked this up.

Dot hasn’t responded. Not yet.

Then her burner buzzes.

Not her phone. The burner.

M: "Need eyes on you. Can we meet? Not safe to talk here."

She stares at the screen for a long beat.

Mateo doesn’t reach out unless it matters. He’s ghosted better than anyone she’s ever met. But if he’s breaking pattern, it means something’s moving.

She replies: Send a location. 30 minutes. Come alone.

Not subtle. Not talking. But loud enough to say: You fucked this up.

Was it right to do what she did and stab Toni in the back? No. Absolutely not. She knows that.

But that didn’t make Leah wrong.

Toni’s been running on rage and fumes for months. Refusing to share. Refusing to listen. And Dot’s done covering for people who don’t even pretend they want saving.

So yeah. Leah said the quiet part out loud.

Dot should’ve stopped her.

But she didn’t.

Because sometimes you let the match burn if it’s the only way to see what’s still standing.

Mateo’s already waiting when Dot gets to the bench. Hoodie up, coffee in hand, tapping his foot like he wants to be anywhere else. His knee bounces like a tell he doesn’t realize he’s giving.

“You heard?” she says, sliding onto the bench beside him, leaving a half-space between them.

Mateo scoffs. “Whole damn block heard. Dispatch story hit like a bomb. Word is the cops are sniffing around Eastside and Downtown. Unity’s name is poison now. No one wants to be the next to catch it.”

“I know,” she mutters. “We shut down the club this week. Didn’t even have to explain. Half the staff saw the headline and locked their own damn doors.” She pauses. Then exhales. “Cops were at the compound this morning. Asked for Fatin. Then for me. I didn’t have much to lie about—on Friday. Now?”

Mateo freezes, raises his eyebrows. “Now what?”

“I went to Victorville. Found something. Marco left a note. They’re calling it retention. It mentioned bleach. Three days. I gave it to Leah.”

Mateo’s eyebrows lift. “WAIT—You found that note? Shit. That’s why you bolted out of there like you saw a ghost?”

Dot turns sharply. “You followed me?”

He shrugs. Sips his coffee. “Just made sure you got back. You looked... haunted.”

She glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know. You love me for it.”

Dot rolls her eyes. “Don’t push it.”

“Cops came by the bar last night,” he says, too casual. “Asking about Unity. About Marco. About who worked back door security at Noć and who moved shipments in and out.”

Dot stiffens.

“They’re looking for someone to pin this on,” he adds. “And I’m not white, rich, or missing.”

Dot scoffs. “Neither is Marco.” She folds her arms. “And Toni’s not exactly media-friendly either. Foster kid. Grew up on a reservation. Her mom said her dad was Māori.”

Mateo raises an eyebrow. “What the fuck is that? And wasn’t her mom an addict?”

Dot doesn’t flinch. “Doesn’t matter. Just means she’s not safe either. Not to them.”

Mateo shrugs. “You know I saw Toni after the summit? She came into Palmer’s asking about someone named Serrano. Security. Legacy’s old-school enforcer. Quiet guy, ex-military maybe. Used to run logistics for Unity retreats in Texas—the kind no one writes down. She didn’t say much, just that Marco had something—an email maybe? Said the shipment got rerouted. Said she didn’t like the way it smelled.”

“Shipment of what?”

“Didn’t say. But she got into it with someone. Serrano’s guy maybe. Fistfight. Toni left blood behind—not all of it hers.”

Dot’s mouth parts. “That’s where she—”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s where she fucked up her face.”

Dot leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Fatin and Toni hate me right now. Because I gave the note to Leah.”

Mateo glances sideways. “That’s her Pa, Dot. You think she wasn’t going to blow it up eventually? You just gave her the reason.”

Dot stays quiet. Then, quietly: “I just wanted to know what was worth all this hiding. All this silence. I thought... maybe it’d help us figure out what Marco died for.”

Mateo watches her. This time, he doesn’t joke. “Me too.”

Then, after a beat, “Serrano’s not a guy you ask questions about. Legacy’s old-school enforcer. Used to run logistics for the Unity retreats in Texas—the kind no one writes down. Marco got too close to whatever Serrano was still covering up.”

Dot stiffens. “So he vanished himself?”

“I think he tried to,” Mateo says. “But someone else made the call before he could.”

Dot swallows. Her voice drops. “You think he’s dead?”

Mateo shakes his head, but it’s not denial. “I think if he was, they’d want us to know. This? This feels like pressure. Like they’re waiting to see who panics next.”

Dot’s hands curl into fists in her lap. “Toni didn’t let it die with him. She’s carrying it now—whether she knows it or not.”

“Then we better hope she figures out who’s watching her.”

---

---

the silence between slammed doors

[FATIN — MONDAY- COMPOUND]

 

The cabinets have stopped slamming.
Now it’s just the quiet—thick, ugly. Thick. Ugly.

She tells herself she doesn’t care—not like that. It was never love. Never promises. Just a pressure valve. Just friction in the dark and silence after. And Toni knew that. They both did.
But she still keeps looking at the door.
Not because she’s worried. Because it’s annoying.
Because that’s what Toni does—she ghosts when she needs space. And Fatin lets her. It’s easier that way. Always has been.

The group chat’s been dead. Noć’s dark. Fatin hasn’t played her cello since Friday or spun decks there since Thursday. There’s no music in the house—just grief, breathing.

The last time she saw Toni, she was bleeding. Shoulder tense. Jaw twitching like she wanted to bite someone. Fatin cleaned her up anyway—rubbing alcohol, gauze, silence. No questions. And their shared laughter caused more division than peace.
It was just simple with Toni. Because it never asked for anything deeper.
It was simple with Toni because she wasn’t Leah.

She scrolls through her feed. It’s all Dispatch memes and Noć speculation. A photo of the stage. A blurry screencap of Shelby’s speech. A Reddit thread titled “Shalifoe = liability?” with too many comments and not enough facts.

She hates this part. The voyeurism. The way everyone wants to weigh in like they were there. Like they built the club. Like they know the cost.

Her phone buzzes.

Toni: I'm safe. You don’t have to check in.
Toni: I just needed a minute. It’s not about you.

Fatin stares at the screen. No apology. No explanation. Just the fact of Toni, alive and reachable.

And this—this is why it was always easier with her. No feelings to untangle. No expectations. Just proximity and pressure and someone who didn’t ask for more.

She types back:

Fatin: I know.
Fatin: Still should’ve said something.

And then she’s a simp:

Toni: I’m so sorry.

She sets the phone down and stares at it like it might explain itself.

Leah hasn’t said a word. Not about the note. Not about Marco. Not even about Toni.

And it’s funny because Leah should be apologizing, not Toni.
And Fatin knows she’s hiding something. She’s seen it before—the fake calm, the way Leah starts acting like she’s fucking Sherlock, the way she disappears into her own head and comes out swinging.

But the worst part? It still hurts.

Because Leah was the one who stayed up with her after she smashed her laptop and swore she’d never make music again.
Because Leah knew how to talk to her. How to cut through the noise.

She was the one who told her to stop playing Bach at weddings and start producing. To stop making herself small. To make things that mattered.
And for a second—longer than a second—Fatin thought maybe.

Then she saw the email.
The name in the header: Jeffrey Galanis.
And it all snapped back into place.

Leah never chose her. Not when it mattered.

She said all the right things—late-night voice notes, half-drunk compliments, the way she’d trace Fatin’s tattoo like it meant something—but she never stayed.
She never stopped chasing the man who broke her. Not even for the people trying to love what was left.

Fatin shuts her phone off. Tosses it on the bed. The silence closes back in.

She tells herself she doesn’t care.

---

---

let them think it’s just a party

[TONI — MONDAY — DANTE’S CONDO]

 

Toni wakes up with the taste of rum in her mouth and regret running laps behind her eyes. Her entire face aches from her Saturday night brawl. Her thoughts are jagged, already sharpening into weapons the moment her eyes open.

The couch creaks as she sits up, rubbing the back of her neck. Shelby’s curled against the opposite armrest—face turned away, legs tucked beneath her like a secret she never meant to share. One of Dante’s hoodies wraps her up. It’s not clear who wore it last.

The place smells like ash, cold air, and something older—fear maybe, or exhaustion.

The condo is too quiet. Just the buzz of the refrigerator and the low hum of the city pressing against the glass. The stillness feels staged. Too calm for what’s waiting outside.

Toni stands. Pads barefoot to the sliding door. She opens it like it might shatter. The cold hits her—sharp enough to wake her up for real. She steps out anyway.

Before she passed out, she hit send on the mass closure. “Noć is closed until further notice.” Marco’s gone.
This was the last thing she felt in Minnesota—that nothing feels worth it.

Outside, the air bites. Her skin prickles. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and her clipper—her last piece of Marco—as she lights a Newport.
Her Calvin sports bra is still damp from last night’s sweat and smoke. She doesn’t care. The cigarette steadies her. Not enough—but more than nothing.

***[FLASHBACK-THREE YEARS AGO - NOĆ]

The first real conversation Toni had with Marco wasn’t about music or business. It was about control.

They were standing in what would eventually become Noć—back when the floors were raw concrete and the air still smelled like mold and sawdust. Toni had just finished arguing with the sound tech over where the booth should go. Marco didn’t step in. He just watched her storm out back and light a cigarette.

“You always fight that hard for things you don’t trust yet?” he asked.

She turned. “Better than pretending I’m not paying attention.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded, like that confirmed something.

“I built this place for people who’ve had their power stripped down to instinct,” he said. “The generation who got good at surviving but never got a chance to lead.”

Toni didn’t soften. But she stayed quiet.

“You think you’re just here to manage the chaos,” he added. “But I think you’re here to build the thing no one gave you.”

That shut her up.

He left her with the keys that night. Said she’d know what to do.
She did.

She didn’t think much of it back then—the way Marco already seemed to know her name, her high school, the scholarship she blew up. She figured it was background vetting. Normal shit.

Now, she’s not so sure.

She remembers his face when she first mentioned Unity. The flicker. The hesitation.

Later, she found out Dave Goodkind had donated to Noć. Silent partner. Strategic donor. Call it what you want.

But now all she can think is: He knew who I was before I walked in. And he let me believe I chose this.

Behind her, the sliding door opens with a soft scrape.

Shelby steps out—barefoot, wrapped in one of Toni’s Minnesota State Girls Basketball shirts, clinging to it like it’s borrowed from a past she’s still trying to return. Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are swollen—from too much sleep or too little truth… or too much Don Q…

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes the cigarette from Toni’s fingers without asking and inhales like she’s starving. Like she’s still halfway in a memory she won’t name.

Their shoulders touch. Barely. Familiar now. Like habit.

Shelby’s hand brushes Toni’s back—light, steadying. A little spark flares in Toni’s chest. Unwanted. Unwelcome. Real.

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just there.

But the camera across the street won’t care.
It’ll catch the angle. The hand. The silence. Turn it into a headline.

The shutter clicks. Three times. Neither of them notices.

Shelby hands the cigarette back without looking. Her fingers brush Toni’s—warm, uncertain.

“Do you think they’ll raid the club?” she asks, voice hoarse. Like it’s just another morning. Like her world didn’t splinter five hours ago.

Toni exhales, smoke tight in her lungs. She doesn’t answer. The silence between them grows teeth.

Shelby hugs her arms to her chest, eyes flicking across the skyline like it holds a better version of her story.

“Sorry I—crashed here.” A weak laugh. “I think I tried to order an Uber, but you wouldn’t let me.”

Toni snorts, but it’s tight. Edged. “Yeah, because you couldn’t remember the name of your hotel. You were shaking so hard you typed in your middle school.”

She doesn’t say the rest—about the Dispatch drop, about Leah and Dot’s epic betrayal, about how she didn’t trust any man driving Shelby anywhere last night.

But it hums there. Under the joke.

Shelby blinks. There’s a beat too long before she shrugs.

“Bits and pieces.”

That’s when Toni knows.

It wasn’t just the liquor. Or maybe it was. But it’s also a choice.

Shelby isn’t owning what she said—the pills, the fear, the part about being sixteen and surviving a man who taught her that PR wasn’t just her job, but her punishment. She’s rewriting her own confession. Turning it back into myth.

She’s lying. Again.

And Toni is so. fucking. tired.

Toni stubs the cigarette out against the concrete. The ember hisses like it’s disappointed.

“Right,” Toni says, low and bitter. “Forget what you said. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. That’s easier, isn’t it?”

She turns like it’s final. Then—quietly, like the truth slipped out by accident:

“My mom was a ghost on methadone by the time I turned nine. I never met my dad. I was in six foster homes before Martha, my best friend, took me in.”

She doesn’t raise her voice.

“I know what it’s like to be warehoused and forgotten. To be told silence is healing. To be punished for making noise.”

A pause.

“So don’t tell me you forgot. You just didn’t want to carry it where anyone could see.”

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t wait for a reply.

But as she steps back inside, something sharp flickers. A sound from memory. Marco, that first night, grinning like he was in on some sacred joke: “Let them think it’s just a party. That’s the trick.”

She used to think he meant strategy. A safe haven hidden in plain sight.

Now it sounds like cowardice with good acoustics.

Her legs feel steadier than they should.

That’s the trick of grief—you don’t limp when you’re used to it.

---

---

halfway to tenderness / not a secret, just a story

[FATIN — MONDAY — 9 P.M. — COMPOUND]

Toni knocks once.

Doesn’t wait.

Fatin opens the door halfway—then all the way.

Toni’s still in the hoodie from last night. Her eyes are hollow. No mascara. No armor. Just something raw in her mouth like she’s been clenching her jaw for hours.

Fatin doesn’t speak.

She just steps back.

The door clicks shut behind them like punctuation.

The room smells like incense and shampoo. Something citrusy bleeding under coconut lotion. A vinyl turns on the corner player—Clairo, warped slightly. Not for ambiance. For the ache.

They don’t talk.

They don’t need to.

Toni kisses her like she forgot how to be soft. Fatin drags her closer like she never cared.

Their clothes fall in pieces. Hoodie. Silk robe. Sweatshirt. Underwear kicked to the edge of the bed.

Fatin pulls Toni on top of her, legs spreading like invitation wasn’t even necessary. Her hands are rough. Familiar.

Toni’s fingers find her wet—fast, easy. Her breath stutters.

TONI (low)
“You’re soaked.”

FATIN (already smiling)
“Then do something about it.”

Toni does.

Two fingers. Deep. No warning. Fatin gasps, her whole body lifting.

Toni doesn’t speak. Just watches her fall apart. Adds another finger. Circles her clit. Learns the rhythm by instinct.

FATIN
“Harder. Don’t stop.”

Toni doesn’t. Her jaw clenches. Her shoulders lock.

Fatin comes quick and brutal—legs trembling, mouth open but soundless. Her whole body drawn tight like a bowstring.

Toni holds her through it. Stays with her. Doesn’t look away.

Then—

Fatin grabs Toni’s thigh. Pulls her between her legs.

FATIN (quiet, hungry)
“I want to feel you.”

No hesitation. No question.

Toni moves. Lines their bodies up. Slides in.

They both gasp.

It’s not slow. It’s not gentle. It’s fucking war.

Fatin digs her nails down Toni’s back. Toni buries her face in Fatin’s neck, breath hitched and hot.

TONI
“I’m—fuck—I’m close.”

FATIN
“Then take it. You need this.”

And she does.

Toni moans once—low, guttural. Fatin holds her like the only thing that matters is keeping her from falling apart entirely.

They finish together.

Messy. Shaking. Wordless.

They don’t pull apart after.

Just breathe.

Fatin rolls onto her back. Hair a mess. Lips parted. One hand still tangled in Toni’s.

Toni pulls the sheet up halfway. Only halfway.

No one says it’s love.

So of course they talk like it isn’t.

Toni pulled the sheet up halfway. Only halfway.

No one said it was love.

So of course, they talked like it wasn’t.

Fatin reached for the robe. “So where are you even staying now? You haven’t slept at the compound since Leah went full nuclear.”

Toni tugged her hoodie over her head, hair caught in the collar. She didn’t look up.

“Take a guess.”

Fatin didn’t need to. “Oh. Dante.”

Toni shrugged. “He’s got blackout curtains and no opinions. Kinda perfect.”

“Romantic,” Fatin said.

“I’m nothing if not consistent.”

Fatin tossed a pillow at her. Toni caught it one-handed. Didn’t smile.

“He’s still texting, you know,” Fatin said.

Toni looked away.

“And you’re still not replying.”

A beat.

Fatin turned to the mirror, twisting her hair up like she hadn’t just slept in a stranger’s bed with someone she once promised to forget. Her voice was easy. Her hands weren’t.

“Maybe I’m not in the mood to be pursued right now.”

Toni leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. Still naked under the hoodie.

“Or maybe you like someone who won’t make you answer for it.”

Fatin turned. Slow.

“You mean like you?”

“I mean—I did just make you moan loud enough to scare your sheets.”

“They’re jealous,” Fatin said. “You got the better angle.”

The line hung. Then Toni’s voice dropped—low, unsmiling.

“He’s good to you. You could let him be.”

Fatin looked down. Tightened the robe belt.

“I think I’m scared he actually would be.”

Toni didn’t laugh.

“Look. I know this is just sex.”

Fatin raised an eyebrow.

“How generous.”

Toni met her eyes for the first time in minutes.

“But it’s you.”

She paused.

“And I love you. Just… not in the way that fixes me.”

Fatin picked up a glass of water. Didn’t drink it.

“You think I don’t know that?”

She stepped closer, barefoot and tired and still angry in ways she hadn’t found language for.

“You’re not a secret,” she said. “You’re just a story I don’t know how to end.”

Toni stared at the floor.

Then—quiet:

“We’re not exclusive.”

Another beat.

“But you’re kind of mine.”

Fatin stepped past her.

Then stopped in the doorway.

She didn’t turn all the way around when she said it.

Just—

“And you’re kinda full of shit.”

---

---

bigot’s daughter

[SHELBY — MONDAY NIGHT — 10 P.M. — BRENTWOOD HOTEL]

She hasn’t taken Toni’s shirt off.

The TV’s on, muted. Her name scrolls in bold. The minibar’s open. The vodka is untouched.

She checked Noć’s and Unity Outreach’s websites earlier. Both completely blank—black screens. Like everything else Toni touched this week.

Her phone buzzes—an unknown number.

“Ms. Goodkind, this is the front desk. The card on file has been declined. We’ll need updated payment by checkout tomorrow.”

“Of course,” she says. Then hangs up.

Another buzz.

DADDY: You wanted freedom. Handle the consequences.

She doesn’t reply. She knows better.

Then he calls.

“Proverbs 28:13,” he says.
Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper.
A pause.
“You’ve embarrassed this family. And God.”

Click.

She sets the phone down gently. Like it might bite.

The headline on her laptop loads itself.

Another leak. Another angle.

BIGOT’S DAUGHTER & NOĆ’S PROBLEM CHILD: UNHOLY ALLIANCE EXPOSED IN NEW ROUND OF PHOTOS — UNITY, PR, AND PAST TRAUMA COLLIDE

And just like that—she’s sixteen again.
She can’t breathe.

White sheets. A locked door. A tray: two pills. One white. One blue.
“For your clarity,” the nurse said.

White sheets. Fluorescent lights that buzzed when the prayers stopped.
A laminated Bible verse on the wall—Galatians 5:24:
Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.

A paper cup with two unmarked pills. One white. One pale blue.
“For your mood,” the nurse said. “For your clarity.”

She asked once what they were.
The nurse smiled like it was a joke only God understood.

“A path back to grace.”

She took them anyway.
Because refusal meant retention.
And retention meant Room 120.
And nobody came back from Room 120 the same.
Sometimes, they didn’t come back at all.

She blinks, and the hotel room snaps back into place.

The TV’s still muted.
The vodka’s still untouched.
Her mouth tastes like metal.

She moves to the mirror above the desk.
It’s not kind. Hotel glass never is.

The shirt hanging off one shoulder.
The mascara she didn’t remember wearing.

Behind her, the screen flickers:
“BIGOT’S DAUGHTER.”
She watches the headline ghost across her reflection.
Watches it land on her chest like a brand.

Then she turns away.

She lights a cigarette.
Not for rebellion. Not for clarity.
Just something to hold that isn’t the past.

---

📎 EXPOSÉD. // LEAKED FEATURE

BIGOT’S DAUGHTER AND NOĆ’S PROBLEM CHILD

UNHOLY ALLIANCE EXPOSED

By Anonymous

We regret to inform you: the girls are not alright.

In a twist straight out of a prestige drama pilot, disgraced PR heiress Shelby Goodkind—yes, that Shelby—has been spotted in what can only be described as spiritually compromising positions with Toni Shalifoe, ex-athlete-turned-queer-nightlife-general and co-founder of NOĆ, the underground club currently tangled in financial fuckery, cartel whispers, and Unity Outreach’s evangelical paper trail.

Photos leaked Monday night show the pair across four separate LA locations over the course of 3 days—most notably:

• The VIP section of Club SOFT (hands, hips, and heavy stares)
• The back entrance of a Westwood condo (barefoot, one shirt between them)
• A cigarette-lit balcony moment that screams either after-sex peace or the eerie stillness before another screaming match

Honestly, with these two? Flip a coin.

But the bruise on Shalifoe’s face? That speaks volumes.

Let’s Talk Optics.

Unity Outreach—the same culty foundation accused of laundering donations and running conversion therapy camps—has spent years polishing the Goodkind brand to a mirror shine. Shelby was supposed to be their comeback mascot: clean, composed, God-fearing.

And now? She’s wrapped in a scandal that involves queer club kids, missing money, and photos that look straight out of a sapphic noir fever dream.

“Sources close to the condo” (read: nosy neighbors with long lenses and no chill) claim this wasn’t a one-off. The rumor mill’s been churning since the summit debacle, where Shalifoe torched Shelby’s entire moral platform in real-time.

But apparently? Fire’s an aphrodisiac.

---

Let’s not forget: Toni’s got a history.

Raised by ghosts and bruises. Banned from her college team after one too many outbursts. And now reportedly at the center of a federal investigation into where exactly Unity’s blood money went.

Spoiler: It went everywhere.

NOĆ isn’t just a club—it’s a crime scene with good lighting.

Insiders at the Dispatch suggest the leak didn’t come from within—this came after. The kind of strategic release you drop when you want to watch someone burn.

Because these girls aren’t just caught in the crossfire—
They are the crossfire.

Queer mess. Religious trauma. Daddy issues in full 4K.

It’s not just gossip. It’s war. And the girls are bleeding for it.

[END OF FEATURE]

---

what the actual fuck

[MARTHA — MONDAY NIGHT — SEATTLE, WA — EVERETT EMERGENCY VET CLINIC]

Monday night. The kind of quiet that waits. Rain ticks against the trailer roof like it’s keeping time for something about to detonate.

She feeds the strays—two kittens, a one-eyed tomcat, and a mutt that only responds to swearing. The vet tech left early. The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker like they know something’s coming.

She never planned to stay in Washington. The clinic job was supposed to be a stopgap—just until she figured out if vet school was still the dream. But then the weeks turned into months. Regan was nearby. That helped. They didn’t move together—just adjacent. One of those accidents you don’t question too hard. Regan picked up freelance design gigs for outdoor brands and microbreweries. Enough to pay rent. Enough to stay afloat.

Martha still talks to the others. Still sends Leah those vet memes. Still messages Dot. Talks boys with Fatin.
But not Toni.
Especially not since Regan moved out West.

She opens her laptop. Not looking for anything. Just noise. Just something to fill the space.

But the homepage is already loaded. Not Dispatch this time—something meaner, messier. Martha doesn’t check her phone until after the clinic closes.

The Dispatch leak hit overnight. But this? This came hours later—after everyone had time to pick sides. The kind of site that thrives on scandal. The kind that eats girls alive and calls it journalism. It doesn’t read like gossip. It reads like an attack wrapped in clickbait—crafted to make evangelicals choke on their communion wafers.

Martha’s eyes track the headline like it might change if she blinks. But no—it’s real. And cruel. And loud.

"BIGOT’S DAUGHTER & NOĆ’S PROBLEM CHILD: UNHOLY ALLIANCE EXPOSED IN NEW ROUND OF PHOTOS—UNITY, PR, AND PAST TRAUMA COLLIDE"

After the many, many, many pictures that nobody should’ve actually cared about enough to misconstrue—she skims the rest: legal trails, financial redirections. Apparently, the club Toni and Dot work for is laundering money. Marco Reyes is missing.

Martha only ever saw Marco in photos. Dot described how he used to hover at Noć—watchful eyes, backroom secrets. But Martha knew Toni had idealized that man. You could see it in the way she posted club promos, how his name lived on her tongue like a password.

Now his name is everywhere—and Toni’s is in bold.

Hers isn’t. Neither is Regan’s. But every line feels haunted. Like the past crawled out of the dark just to watch it all burn again.

She thinks about calling. About texting. But doesn’t.

She closes the tab. Reopens it five minutes later. Reads it again.

Some things don’t change. Not after three years. Not across state lines. Not even with all the silence in the world.

Regan texts a few hours later. She doesn’t have to name the article.

REGAN: What the actual fuck?

Martha types back. Just one word.

MARTHA: Yeah.

Then throws the phone facedown and keeps feeding the strays.

 

**END**

Chapter 10: for the ones who can stomach it

Summary:

[ interrogation without cuffs / surveillance without warning / silence without consent ]
[ one photo leaked / two girls exposed / three stories rewritten ]
[ faith won’t save them / loyalty won’t protect them / love won’t forgive this ]
[ the drive was Marco’s / the fallout is theirs ]
[ and the truth? / it never cared who bled for it ]

Notes:

This chapter is a turning point—for the story, and for every character inside it.
It’s about exposure in every sense: media, memory, surveillance, silence.
The girls are caught between what the world sees and what they’ve tried to bury.

Toni’s not just under investigation—she’s being turned into a headline.
Shelby’s confronting the system that told her obedience was healing.
Fatin learns that the people she trusted were funding the harm.
Leah finally sees the cost of chasing truth.
And Marco? Well. You’ll see.

This chapter is messy, heavy, and doesn’t promise closure.
But if anything hit you—I’d love to hear it. Feedback, questions, theories, rage.
Whatever you’ve got.

Thank you for reading. Truly.

 

📎 Read the Dispatch + EXPOSÉD leaks here

TUESDAY — 9:43 A.M. — COMPOUND KITCHEN

The microwave beeped.

Dot didn’t hear it at first. She was too busy stirring oatmeal she hadn’t added anything to, letting it congeal in slow, pointless circles.

Across the kitchen, Fatin was scrolling. Not aimlessly. Not even quickly. Her eyes were moving, but her expression stayed still—fixed in that unreadable way she wore when something was about to break.

She stopped. Blinked.

Then her thumb moved again. Slower now.

Dot glanced over. “What?”

Fatin didn’t answer. Just turned the screen toward her.

BIGOT’S DAUGHTER & NOĆ’S PROBLEM CHILD: UNHOLY ALLIANCE EXPOSED

Dot squinted. Read the subhead.
Photos. Smoke. Balcony. Bra.

A pause.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Fatin didn’t blink. “It’s not Dispatch. It’s EXPOSÉD.”

She tapped. The article opened. The photo loaded.

Toni. Shirtless. Backlit on a concrete balcony.
Shelby beside her—barefoot, wearing Toni’s Minnesota State shirt, smoking like it belonged to her.

The caption called it sapphic noir.

Dot leaned in. “That’s Dante’s place.”

“Yeah.” Fatin’s voice was flat. “From across the street.”

Dot exhaled slowly. “That’s not press. That’s surveillance.”

The silence landed. Hard. Wide.

Then Dot’s phone buzzed.

MARTHA CALLING.

Dot answered. No speaker this time. Just raw instinct.
“Hey.”

“I saw the article last night. Are you with her?”

Dot looked across the kitchen.
Fatin’s face was stone. Her thumb had stopped moving.

“No,” Dot said. “It’s just us.”

“Is she okay?”

Dot didn’t answer.

Because the truth was: they didn’t know.

Fatin didn’t speak.

She just picked up her phone again and scrolled. The article hadn’t ended—it had unfurled. Embedded photos. Caption overlays. Comments.

They were using words like “unholy,” like “cautionary,” like “raw, unapologetic queer disruption.”

She scrolled further.

The image loaded like a bruise—slow, blooming, irreversible.

Toni, shirtless, leaning against the balcony rail. Eyes down. Cigarette mid-pull. Bruise like shadow high on her cheekbone.

And Shelby.

No pants. Just bare legs and that shirt—Toni’s shirt—threadbare at the hem, falling off one shoulder like it was designed to. She was standing behind her, not touching, but close. Smoke curling up between them. Eyes half-lidded. A fingertip hovering near Toni’s spine like she was about to trace it.

It didn’t look like a moment someone captured.

It looked like a scene someone staged.

Fatin’s stomach flipped.

This wasn’t a headline. It was a fucking script.

She whispered it before she could stop herself.
“Oh my god.”

Dot looked over. “What?”

Fatin turned the screen. Her hand was shaking now, but only slightly.

Dot stared. Went quiet.

“This isn’t a leak,” Fatin said, voice low. “This is framing.”

Dot didn’t argue. She didn’t have to.

Fatin scrolled down. She read the caption under the photo out loud :

“Sapphic noir, trauma-glam, and a bruised debutante—EXPOSÉD takes you inside the fall of Unity’s golden girl.”

Another photo loaded. Just Shelby, holding a cigarette like she didn’t know she was being watched.

Fatin let out a breath that came out wrong.

“They’re not making fun of Toni,” she said. “They’re mythologizing her.”

Dot blinked.

“They’re going to turn Toni into a warning,” Fatin added.

She locked the phone. Set it down on the counter like it might still explode.

And for a second—just one—she looked like she didn’t know if she wanted to scream, or throw up, or start rewriting the world with a hammer.

Dot was still staring at the image.

Shelby’s bare legs. Toni’s bruise. Smoke like a signature. The whole thing lit like it belonged on a poster, not a screen.

Fatin didn’t move. Her hand was on the counter, flat. Her nails tapped once, then stopped. The silence wasn’t shock anymore. It was dread.

Dot blinked.

Then picked up her phone again and hit redial.

Martha answered before the second ring.
“Dot?”

Her voice was already laced with worry.

“I’m here,” Dot said. “You’re not on speaker.”

A beat.
Then Martha asked it again—softer this time.
“Is she okay?”

Dot glanced at Fatin. At the phone still dark on the counter.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

Martha exhaled. It was shaky.

“I didn’t click on it at first. I thought it was clickbait. Like a fan thing. But then I saw the byline.”

Fatin let out a bitter sound.
“That wasn’t written. It was aimed.”

Martha’s voice came quiet now, like she was speaking through a closed door.
“It didn’t even read like news. It read like… like they were building a myth.”

Dot frowned.
“They are.”

“They’re calling her a noir archetype,” Fatin muttered. “They called the bruise ‘a visual motif.’ Like it’s set design.”

Martha was silent for a moment.

Then, quietly:
“Toni was never a character.”

“No,” Dot said. “But they’re going to make her one.”

The line went still.

Then Martha asked the thing she’d been circling around since the call started.

“Are they doing this because she kissed a girl—or because Shelby used to be the kind of girl who’d apologize for it?”

Fatin answered before Dot could.

“Both.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a crack across glass.

Martha swallowed.
“I know what that feels like,” she said. “Being turned into a warning. It’s not just the photos. It’s how they tell your story without you.”

Dot leaned back against the fridge, eyes shut.

“They framed it like romance,” she said. “But it’s not. It’s surveillance dressed up as desire.”

Dot rubbed her thumb along the edge of the counter.
Then, quiet:

“You don’t think… this was Leah again, do you?”

Fatin looked up, slow.

“Dispatch was one thing. That was a truth bomb. This?”
She gestured toward the phone like it still radiated heat.
“This isn’t truth. It’s fucking theater.”

Dot didn’t speak.

Because the question wasn’t just whether Leah had done it.
It was whether she’d justify it again.

“What’s happening with Leah?”

Dot took Martha off of speaker and moved the phone call to the other room.

Fatin sat there, her head buried in her hands.

 

TUESDAY — 2 PM — WRITER’S LOFT

Leah sits with the thumb drive balanced on her knee, in front of her freelance desk in a Koreatown co-op: three monitors, a locked drawer, and too many Post-Its. She liked the anonymity of it. No names on the doors. Just quiet.

The drive feels like a weapon she hasn’t decided to use yet.

So she plugs it in. The click is small—too small for what it holds.

The loading bar creeps. Somewhere down the hall, someone’s speaker leaks music she can’t place. Her pulse picks up.

There are four folders.

 

1. RECEIPTS

She opens it first. It feels safest. Cleanest. Like paper.

Inside: spreadsheets, donation summaries, wire transfers layered under shell corporations.

One name surfaces: JADMANI. FAMILY. TRUST.

Fatin’s parents?

No—now it’s Legacy money. Unity-approved.

She clicks deeper.

The same donor names reappear across three shells: religious PACs, charity trust funds, LLCs with names like Harmony Path and Redemption Hills.

One lists a youth camp lease as a pastoral real estate investment. Another:

“Therapeutic facility dormitory expansion. Shared donor match: JADMANI. FAMILY. TRUST.”

She stops scrolling.

That’s not just money. That’s construction. The rooms.

Fatin’s family helped build the rooms.

Legacy moved the money. Unity made it righteous.

Noć just lit the match.

Her mouth tastes metallic.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathes.

She hadn’t realized she said it out loud.

She shuts the folder. Too fast.

She told herself she did this for the truth.

But watching those names line up—seeing Fatin’s family threaded through fake charities and faith-washed facilities?

She’s not sure she’d recognize the truth if it stared her in the face.

She just wanted to be the one holding it.

Now it’s holding her.

 

2. RETENTION

These files are worse.

Sparse. Coded. Marked Internal Compliance: Therapeutic Logistics.

Drug inventories

• Ketamine
• Chlorpromazine
• Lorazepam

Most illegal for minors. All untraceable in donation disclosures.

She skims a transport record:

Shipment 12-C: Delta/Barstow route.
Contents: sealed. For use under “voluntary sedation protocol.”

Facility logs. Camp movement reports. Patient counts—ages 14 to 19.

No names. Just codes.

Unity retreats. Hidden under fake LLCs and faith-based umbrella orgs.

A subfolder labeled ARCHIVE.

Inside: a sealed court document.

Juv. Case No. 1294. Sealed by Special Motion.
Redactions everywhere.

But enough survives to haunt her:

Age: 16. Female. Group home. Assault charge.
Disposition: Sealed. Special motion filed by non-parental guardian.

She scans the metadata. A note in the footer:

Authorized by: M. Reyes

She stares at the screen. Not long. Just enough to let the shape of it settle.

Sixteen. Group home. Assault. Marco’s name in the metadata.

It’s Toni.

Of course it is.

 

3. REDEMPTION

Emails. Dozens. Some archived. Some half-deleted, then recovered.

They’re between Marco and people she doesn’t recognize—Legacy Holdings compliance officers, shell accountants, someone signed only:

J. Serrano – Comp. Clearance

Subject lines read like smoke signals:

• Re: Legacy-JH3 acquisition: name suppression + minor expungement
• Re: Audit delay request — Unity crossover flagged
• Re: Donation masking for private donor D.G.

They’re cleaning the money. Scrubbing Unity’s name.
And Marco’s playing along—carefully. Reluctantly.

One email reads:

“We cannot afford exposure until the transition is complete. The girl is the only asset keeping the operation emotionally viable.”

Another:

“Protect the girl. She is the reason it still works.”

It wasn’t about saving her.

It was about keeping her past quiet.

 

4. REGRETS

Only one file.

A video.

Filename: FOR THE ONES WHO CAN STOMACH IT

When she clicks, a password prompt appears.

A plain-help-text readme flickers beside the file:

She’ll know the password. And if she doesn’t—don’t show her.

Leah types something. A date. A name. Deletes it.

She almost types Toni—but stops halfway through.

She doesn’t know it.

And that stings.

Because if it’s not for her, then none of it ever was.

She sits in silence. Screen glowing. Pulse racing.

The files are open. Her notes are a mess. Her hands won’t stop shaking.

She whispers it like a confession. Like a prayer that won’t help anyone now.

“Jesus, Marco… what did you do?”

 

TUESDAY — 4:10 P.M. — DANTE’S CONDO

The detectives don’t cuff her.

That’s how Toni knows this isn’t protection. It’s performance.

The kitchen smells faintly like bleach and citrus. The window’s cracked, but it doesn’t let in air—just the sound of a siren a few blocks off, Doppler-slow and disinterested.

They sit across from her at Dante’s kitchen table—both in plainclothes with a bureaucratic edge: cheap cologne, sensible shoes, too-patient smiles. One flips open a notebook. The other just watches her.

The basketball by the door hasn’t moved since noon. Neither has she.

“Toni Shalifoe,” the man says. “Former athlete. Noć co-founder. Some heat on your name lately.”

Toni leans back. “Glad you’re keeping tabs.”

“We’re looking into Marco Reyes.”

“You and everyone else.”

“You were close.”

“Define close.”

“You tell us.”

“He was around. We had overlap. He knew everyone.”

Her tone is clipped. Dry. She’s not giving them anything.

The man flips a page. “You saw him after the summit?”

“Briefly.”

“Can you describe the interaction?”

“Not really.”

The woman leans forward. “You got into a fight Saturday night. You showed up with visible injuries. Then you disappeared for two days.”

“I closed my club. Took a breath. Sue me.”

“And Shelby Goodkind?”

Toni doesn’t blink. “What about her?”

“She stayed with you, didn’t she?”

“She passed out on my couch. Ask her where she meant to be.”

“You two were seen together. Club SOFT. Condo. Balcony.”

He slides a folder across the table. Opens it.

Glossy paper. Full bleed. He rotates the photo toward her.

Toni’s stomach tightens. Shelby, barefoot, hand on Toni’s shoulder. Smoke curling around them. Toni in a sports bra—shirtless, tired, bruise framed like set design.

The watermark in the corner isn’t a media logo. It’s a serial number. Surveillance grade.

Her skin goes cold. Jaw locks.

“You hadn’t seen that yet, had you?”

“No.”

“Is that a romantic evening?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“A moment taken out of context. Just like everything else in this goddamn story.”

“We’re just trying to understand the relationship.”

“Then go ask Shelby. She’s better at stories.”

The man flips another page. “You have a sealed juvenile record—expunged but not forgotten.”

Toni stiffens. She remembers fluorescent lights, cold tile, the meds hitting—cold, fast. How she didn’t even know what she said to get dosed.

“You’re reaching,” she says. “You want to tie Marco to Legacy. To Unity. To Noć. And you don’t have shit, so you’re hoping I’ll give it to you.”

“We’re hoping you’ll help us understand why your name keeps circling back to rooms full of silence.”

“Maybe I’m just loud.”

“We can do this here,” the woman says. “Or we can bring you downtown. Up to you.”

Toni looks at the photo. “You gonna arrest me?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’re still in the warm-up round.”

“I think y’all are done here.” Dante appeared in the doorway. “Next time, you question her, it better be with her lawyer present. Not in this condo. This is a safe space—for me, my friends, and every customer at Club SOFT looking for some peace.”

The detectives close the file and leave. The door clicks behind them.

Silence stretches. A car backfires outside. The fridge hums. Someone yells in the distance.

Toni doesn’t move. Dante doesn’t either—just watches her, soft where it still matters.

“You good?”

She nods. Doesn’t say yes.

She stands, grabs her half-finished shake, drinks it like she’s thirsty, not furious.

Dante clears his throat. “I went to Shelby’s hotel earlier. She left a charger and a notebook. Front desk says she’s gone—card declined, no forwarding info.”

Toni’s shoulders slump. She sets the empty bottle down and finally turns on her phone.

 

TUESDAY — 4:30 P.M. — FRIEND-OF-A-FRIEND’S SUBLET, ECHO PARK

The room is small. Borrowed. Deceptively soft.

Nora doesn’t know Shelby. But she knew Jessica—the one girl at retreat who never flinched at Shelby’s stare.

Jessica said: If it ever gets bad again, find Nora.

So Shelby did.

Nora’s text: The key’s under the mat. Stay as long as you need.

No mirrors. No photos. Just a twin bed, a folded blanket, and quiet that isn’t hers.

She hasn’t cried. She just feels scraped out—like her skin stayed behind in Brentwood.

Her card was declined. Her name is in headlines. She survives on borrowed time and silence.

A knock: one—two—stillness.

“Shelby. It’s Andrew.”

She opens the door slowly. His collar is pressed, his calm rehearsed.

“You’ve strayed from God.”

“They cut me off.”

“Not punishment. Redirection. You’ve stepped out of alignment. I’m here to guide you back.”

She steps aside. He scans the room like sins on a grid.

“It’s her shirt in the photo, isn’t it? No pants. Leaning into her like she’s the only solid ground.”

She stares.

“A purity audit?” she says.

“You were exposed. You need protection. A framework.”

“I need to stop being hunted by men who think correction is care.”

He falters. “People are talking—your judgment, your history, your spiritual clarity.”

She steels herself. “I said a girl’s name too softly in prayer. Your people called that a crisis.”

“You were young. You needed help.”

“I needed to feel safe in my own fucking skin.”

He watches. Still pretending.

“You don’t have to lose yourself to feel free.”

“I’m not lost. I just stopped performing.”

“You don’t have to end up like her.”

She doesn’t bite. “I don’t want to end up like anyone you’d be proud of.”

She closes the door. Locks it. Leans back, shaking—not afraid, but owning her anger.

Nora enters, hoodie up, no questions—just arms open.

Shelby lets herself be held. Not fixed. Not forgiven. Just held.

After Nora retreats to bed, Shelby sits on the floor. No lights. Still.

Her phone buzzes: unknown number. She flips it face down.

Bury the part that breaks you. Then you’ll be whole.
— Unity Path Devotional, Week 3

Seventeen, desperate for silence. She carried that card in her Bible—not as faith, but as a promise.

She tears it in half—slow, precise.

No apology.
No prayer.
Just this.

 

 

Tuesday, 5:15 PM — Leah’s Loft

The drive’s been spinning for over an hour.

Leah doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care anymore. The folders are still open—RETENTION, REDEMPTION, REGRETS—bleeding across her screen like rot. She’s read everything twice. Some files, three times. Her notes are a blur—timestamps, initials, donor trails that don’t decode into anything clean.

She keeps thinking about that one entry: JADMANI.

Fatin’s family name—pinned like a signature beneath a line item for youth dormitory construction.

The line about sedation protocols.

The “real estate investment” that funded isolation rooms.

How did they never tell her?

The knock is sharp.

Then Fatin is there, letting herself in like she still can. Hoodie half-zipped, eyes storm-colored, jaw locked in something just shy of rage.

Leah doesn’t get up.

Fatin scans the room, then the screen.

“What the hell is this?”

Leah exhales.

“Information.”

Fatin steps closer.

“From where?”

Leah hesitates.

That’s all it takes.

“You’ve had this?” Fatin says, voice rising. “Since when?”

“Jeffrey gave it to me. Yesterday.”

Fatin blinks.

“You met with Jeffrey?”

“I didn’t plan to—”

“So you actually helped him expose Toni and Shelby?”

“I didn’t know he was going to do that,” Leah says.

“Then what did you know, Leah?”

A long beat.

“I told him where Toni was going,” Leah says. “On Sunday. I didn’t name who she was meeting—I didn’t know… I thought she might lead us to Marco.”

Fatin’s face cracks. Then sharpens.

“You used her.”

“I didn’t mean to expose … whatever this is with Shelby.”

“But you did.”

Leah’s voice drops.

“I didn’t think Shelby would be there.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better?” Fatin says. “You gave him Toni’s location. He turned it into a headline. And now they’re both bleeding in public.”

Leah looks at the ground.

“I thought I was helping.”

“No,” Fatin spits. “You thought you were needed.”

Leah doesn’t deny it.

“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought the truth would fix something.”

Fatin points at the screen.

“So what—he paid you in secrets?”

Leah turns the laptop.

“He gave me Marco’s drive. Said it was mine now. That I’d know what to do with it.”

Fatin moves slowly now. Like she’s approaching a wreck.

“What’s in it?”

Leah swallows.

“Emails. Sealed records. Drugs. Donations. He was trying to protect someone. Called her ‘the girl.’ I think it’s Toni.”

“You don’t know that,” Fatin says.

“No,” Leah admits. “But I couldn’t stop looking.”

She doesn’t say: And your name is in it too.
Not directly—but in the donor rolls. In the foundations. In the trust.

She doesn’t say: Your family helped fund the walls kids were locked inside of.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Poisonous.

Leah forces herself to meet Fatin’s eyes.

“I wanted to be seen,” she says. “I wanted to matter.”

Fatin’s jaw tightens.

“And you thought if you gave him something dangerous enough, I’d look at you again?”

“I thought if I could find the truth—”

“God,” Fatin cuts in, voice shaking. “You still don’t get it.”

And then it breaks.

“Me and Toni? We’re just sleeping together. Friends. Chaos buddies. I don’t give a damn who she hooks up with—she’s still my best friend. That’s not what this is about.

It wasn’t love. But it was ours. And you—

You turned it into a story you could control.

I’m mad because you used her. Because you looked at the people I love and saw plot devices. And you knew exactly what that would do to me.”

Leah doesn’t speak.

Because if she does, she’ll have to tell Fatin: They used your family, too.

She’ll have to explain the real reason she hasn’t closed the drive.

Fatin wipes her face roughly.

“I do love you, Rilke. I always fucking have. But that doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you for making all of this about you.”

Another beat.

“You say you wanted the truth. But the truth doesn’t need to be weaponized. The truth doesn’t crawl over people’s lives to get to the front page.”

Leah’s eyes sting. Her mouth opens. Closes.

Fatin takes a step back. Toward the door.

She hesitates.

Then Leah speaks—quiet. Final.

“You should see this,” she says. “It’s your name.”

Fatin turns. Steps closer.

The spreadsheet’s still open. Second tab. Donation routing.

JADMANI. FAMILY. TRUST.
Shared donor match: Jadmani Holdings.
Facility: Therapeutic compliance dormitory.

Fatin blinks.

And memory rushes in like a hand she didn’t reach for but couldn’t refuse.

Her father at the dinner table, polishing a wine glass he never used, saying,

“It’s not about who runs the charity. It’s about the returns.”

Her mother on the phone with an uncle, whispering,

“It’s all legal. The structures are clean. They promised the facility was therapeutic.”

That night she asked what Legacy Holdings even was, and her dad just smiled—

“It’s a good investment, sweetheart. That’s all you need to know.”

The gala in Brentwood. Her parents’ names etched in gold on the sponsor board.
Fatin posing for the photo, thinking the font looked cheap and the food was bland—
but still letting the camera flash.

Back in the present, the spreadsheet stares up at her.

She doesn’t touch the screen.

Because she knows if she does, she’ll feel it burn.

The silence that follows isn’t angry anymore.
It’s surgical. Quiet.
The kind people bleed in.

Fatin doesn’t say anything.

Because what is there to say,
when the walls you’re railing against
were built with your name stamped into the concrete?
She doesn’t move.
But her hand curls into a fist at her side.
Not at Leah.
Not at the truth.
At the part of her that still wanted to believe her family didn’t know.
She’s going to find out for sure.

 

TUESDAY NIGHT — ECHO PARK

Toni lights a cigarette she doesn’t want. The ember flares. Her bruise aches.

She’s stared at the photo—the balcony, the smoke, the shirt—hoping it’ll explain Shelby’s vanish.

She scrolls to Shelby's number. Types:

You disappear better than you lie.

Sends it. Waits. Nothing.

She grabs her keys. This is about the lie Shelby wrapped in liquor and soft hands.

If Shelby won’t say it—Toni will.

 

TUESDAY NIGHT — UNKNOWN LOCATION

He doesn’t know where he is. Corporate silence: no chains, no blood—just filtered air and approved blinds.

Marco sits in the middle—hands folded, not free, just managed.

REYES, M. Legacy Holdings — Project Liaison / Compliance Oversight

A euphemism for what he built: sanitized donations, offshore to youth programs, dorms and “quiet rooms” that locked and belt-strapped.

He helped design the system. Watched RETENTION protocols, camps, and then came the girl.

He opens the folder: flagged narcotics, unlogged shipments—Jadmani Holdings, FaithBridge, Redemption Ranch.

They haven’t asked about the thumb drive. Either they don’t know it exists or where it went.

He thinks of Leah—obsessed, brilliant, hungry. He didn’t send it to her, but she’s probably found it.

That wasn’t the plan. But the plan bled out weeks ago.

They won’t kill him. Not yet. This is containment: quiet, useful, forgotten.

He didn’t name her in any document—but every “the girl” was for her.

Legacy makes examples, not mistakes.

He remembers her—sixteen, fists clenched, too proud to beg.

He buried her file. Moved her from number to ghost.

He made the drive. Wrote:

She’ll know the password.

Because if she doesn’t—if she’s forgotten who she is—maybe she’s not ready.

But if she does know? If she opens it?
Then it’s her story. Not his.
Let the world burn.

The door clicks. Not an announcement—just the sound of a man with the key.

Marco doesn’t look up. The cologne arrives first—subtle, medicinal, expensive. Clinging to sermons and sealed courtrooms.

He sits, spine straight. If this is the reckoning—let it come.

 

Notes:

[Chapter 11 will be Toni/Shelby.]
Just them. No headlines. No surveillance. No forgiveness yet.
But maybe—finally—a choice.

Chapter 11: the room they never got to rewrite

Summary:

[unfinished walls / breathless truths / Shelby speaks / the photo wasn’t the worst of it]

Notes:

This chapter is Shelby’s. Mostly her POV.
Not her confession—her refusal.
She doesn’t say sorry. She doesn’t ask for grace. She doesn’t beg to be understood.
She just shows up. Bruised. Haunted. Furious. Still here.
Toni doesn’t forgive her. She doesn’t need to.
This isn’t about forgiveness—it’s about saying the thing out loud, finally, without choking on it. About choosing not to disappear.
There’s a gas station. A club that never opened. A girl who won’t apologize for surviving the only way she was taught.
It’s not redemption. Not yet. But it’s a start.
If you see her clearly now, say so.
If you don’t—she doesn't care.
Content warning: Religious trauma, institutional abuse, surveillance.
Nothing graphic, but the weight lives in the silence.

GAS STATION — TUESDAY, 11:00 PM

This wasn’t her city. It never had been. But the gas station was real, and so was the hurt.

It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t even regret.

It was what you did when you ran out of options and pride in the same hour.

There was no hotel anymore. No burner. No line to walk.

Just the half-known ache of a girl she couldn’t name and a location she never deleted.

She hadn’t planned what to say. She didn’t even know if Toni would be here.

But the photo was out. The frame had done its damage. And Shelby—

She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t have one to go back to.

She didn’t come to explain.
She came because there was nowhere else left to go.

Toni stood half-lit near the ICE chest, loose black tee tucked into faded trousers, the kind that fit like they’d been hers for years. Gold chain at her throat, barely visible. Her vans were scuffed, but intentional—like she could outrun something if she had to. Hair down, soft and wild. She looked like someone who didn’t need to try. She looked like a problem not a plea.

Shelby could barely breathe. Couldn’t look away either.

She knew she didn’t look like herself. Not the polished PR daughter. No donor smile. No cardigan of repentance. Just rough edges—

Gloss faded. Cutoff shorts and a crop top that would've gotten her kicked out of any Unity retreat and made her daddy call a prayer circle before dessert. LA-girl bold.

Just wrong. Just obvious.

They hadn’t spoken since Monday—since Shelby said the meds didn’t come from God. Since the morning after, when she left wordless.

Now the world had photos. Headlines. Framed them like prophecy.

Toni saw them once, then closed the browser for good. But the image stuck—her bruise, Shelby’s stare, the lighter mid-flick. Not a kiss, but close enough to sell. Close enough to use.

She wondered who had waited for that frame.

And yet.

Here they were.

Unnamed gas station. Buzzed light overhead. No words yet. Just two people standing in the wreckage of a day they never agreed to live.

The cashier looked up, recognized them, and chose silence.

Toni’s gaze flicked to the camera dome in the corner. Burned-out, or faking. She didn’t trust dead glass anymore.

The last one was a window. Now it was a headline.

Outside, heat clung to the pavement like memory. The “ICE” chest blinked neon through glass. Hum louder than it should be. Inside, Shelby picked up a cheap soda. Held it like it might explain her.

Toni stared too long.

“Don’t tell me you lost your wallet too.”

Shelby didn’t smile. “No. Just my last name. And the future it paid for.”

Toni didn’t answer. There was nothing to laugh at.

Toni paid. The receipt printed slow—like it wanted them to change their minds.

Outside, they returned to the Jeep.
Didn’t get in. Not yet.

Shelby perched cross-legged on the hood.

She sat like she didn’t care who saw her.

She did.

Just didn’t know how to look like it anymore.

Toni hovered near the corner, half-lit, half-shadowed. The lighter spun in her fingers like it could start something.

“You’re not gonna ask?” Shelby said.

“I’m not gonna ask what?”

Shelby’s voice was quiet. The fight gone.

“If I’m okay.”

Toni didn’t look at her. Just stared at the pavement.

“He called. Right after the photo dropped.”

“I bet he did.”

“Cancelled my cards. Kicked me from the hotel. Said I was a liability. An embarrassment. Didn’t even ask what the photo was.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“No,” Shelby said. “He just saw me not apologizing.”

“I wasn’t even doing anything.”

“You were in my shirt.”

“I was cold.”

Toni met her gaze. Held it like a dare.

“You looked like you belonged there.”

Shelby froze—just a flicker, like a skipped breath. Her body gave her away. Stillness, sharp and deliberate. A beat too long before she looked down.

That landed. Deeper than either admitted. Shelby blinked—slow, body registering before brain. Her fingers tightened on the bottle. Not enough to crack it. Just enough to feel.

Silence. Humming.

Toni stepped closer. Not a threat or a promise. Just proximity with a pulse.

Shelby stayed on the hood, but leaned in—half curious, half cornered. Her knee nudged Toni’s thigh, light contact, unapologetic.

Toni tilted her head, just slightly. Watching. Waiting.

“You showed up wanting something. I can’t tell if it’s an apology or a dare.”

Her eyes flicked down, then back.

“Which is it?”

Shelby held her ground.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d still look at me like that.”
Her voice was low, sure. Measured. Dangerous.
“Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d flinch first.”

She leaned closer—not aggressive, not gentle. Just enough for Shelby to smell the smoke on Toni’s breath.

“You think I don’t see what this is?” Toni said.

Shelby looked up, eyes sharp. “You mean the cameras?”

“I mean you,” Toni said, voice soft like a bruise.
“Sitting there like you want me to lose control.
Like you want to watch me choose you over caution again.”

The air snapped between them—hot, electric, tight.

Toni’s head tilted—just slightly. Something behind her eyes shifted. The moment lasted too long.

Then the flash came.

Someone across the lot. A phone raised.
A shutter click that didn’t belong. Then two more.
Another laugh. A car door slamming.

To someone watching, it looked like a kiss was coming. Like something private cracked open just long enough to be caught.

Shelby pulled back fast.
Toni didn’t move.

“Get in.”

Shelby blinked. “What?”

Toni didn’t repeat it.
She just turned, opened the door.

Shelby slid into the passenger seat—fast, quiet, not asking more questions.

Toni dropped into the driver’s seat.
One hand on the key, the other still wrapped around the lighter.

The inside of the Jeep smelled faintly like Old Spice.That scent had always followed her like a warning or a comfort. Maybe both.

“Where are we going?” Shelby asked, voice small.

Toni didn’t look at her. “Somewhere with unfinished walls.”

Pause.

“It’ll make sense when we get there.”

Shelby looked at her, then out the window, then back.

Toni’s voice stayed level. Cold steel under velvet.

“You’re gonna sit with it. All of it. Somewhere they can’t photograph us.”

Outside, the driver turned away.

The air shifted. A breeze cut across the lot—sharp, sour, fast enough to lift wrappers and dust like something had just left the building.

Shelby didn’t speak again. Just buckled her seatbelt like the ride already knew what kind of story it was telling.

Toni slid the key into the ignition.

The engine caught. Low and mean. The kind of sound that didn’t ask where you were going—just how far you’d go.

She didn’t ask where. Just watched the road swallow them whole.

---

TONI’S JEEP — WEDNESDAY, 12:01 AM

The city rolled by like it was trying to forget itself.

Toni drove one-handed, elbow crooked against the window. Other hand spun the lighter slow, unlit. Always unlit.

Shelby sat quiet. Legs folded beneath her. Not cold. Just small. Her hand lingered on the door handle like it hadn’t decided whether to stay or bolt.

Streetlights blurred across the glass. Tire hum underneath. Nothing in the air except what they weren’t saying.

“You always drive like this?” Shelby asked.

Toni didn’t look over.

“Like what?”

“Like you burned it all down already. And you’re just checking for survivors.”

Toni didn’t answer. Just changed lanes without signaling.

Her phone buzzed against the console.

Leah.

Shelby didn’t mean to look, but she saw the name. And the preview.

fatin’s dad is sick. we’re flying out tonight. long story.
i didn’t leak the photos. are you okay.

Toni didn’t answer. Didn’t even pick up the phone.

She just looked at the screen like it offended her. Like she could smell the lie baked into it.

The lighter clicked once. No flame.

Toni opened a new thread.

Shelby caught the name at the top before Toni turned the screen away.

Fatin.

Whatever message she sent was short. Whatever came back—

It made Toni’s grip on the wheel shift. Not relaxed. Just less alone.

Shelby watched her out of the corner of her eye. Toni hadn’t softened. But something about her stillness shifted. Like she’d been bracing for a lie, and it arrived right on time.

---

 

UNKNOWN BUILDING — WEDNESDAY, 12:30 AM <4>

Shelby stepped out first. The air hit different—cooler, sharper, like it hadn’t touched skin in days. She blinked hard, stomach tight. Something about the place made her chest feel small. Like walking into a version of herself she hadn’t buried deep enough.

It wasn’t the cold. It was the quiet. The way it echoed like it remembered things. Or expected them.

Toni didn’t speak when they arrived. Just unlocked the gate and held the door open.

Shelby stepped inside like she was entering something sacred—or condemned.

The building wasn’t abandoned. It was paused.

Inside, the air was colder. Not from weather. From things that hadn’t been finished. Things that didn’t want to be.

Dust clung to the floor like it had nowhere else to go. Light sliced through the high windows in sharp, deliberate slashes. Everything echoed—too much and not enough.

Shelby stepped carefully. Like if she moved too fast, the silence would snap. The drywall leaned inward like bones. Power cables curled across the floor, limp and waiting. Nails caught light like teeth.

Toni didn’t explain. She just moved like the silence already belonged to her.

Shelby’s pulse ticked faster—not out of fear. Out of recognition.

This wasn’t just a space. It was grief with architecture. Still breathing.

Blueprints were taped to the wall. Some curled at the corners. Others stained like something had already been spilled.

A mezzanine. A fog-drenched floor.

biometric entry, one page read.

privacy by design.

for the ones who were told no.

None of it matched the room she was standing in.

“This was yours?” she asked.

Toni didn’t look at her. Just ran her hand along a steel beam—raw, unfinished. Still waiting to become something.

“The one after Noć,” she said. “The one we didn’t finish.”

Shelby scanned the space.

No lights. No music. Just breath and dust.

“You built another one?”

“Just started to.” A beat.

“Me, Marco, and Shining M,” she said. Like it was nothing.

“Shining who?”

“Mateo,” Toni said. “Dot’s guy. Quiet, quiet type. Ghost network. He made the club safe. I gave it pulse.”

Toni stepped away from the panel. Her vans dragged through plaster dust and glitter.

Shelby watched her. Then finally:

“You brought me to the place no one was supposed to see. Why?”

Toni didn’t answer right away. She turned slow—like she might still change her mind.

“Only place I know where the walls don’t listen,” Toni said.
“Where the floor doesn’t cave just to shut you up.
Where nothing’s been staged, or scrubbed, or rewired to look safer than it is.”

Shelby didn’t answer. Just looked up—at the steel beams overhead, the empty promise of what this place was supposed to become.

“You ever think about finishing it?” she asked.

Toni didn’t blink. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want it polished. I want it honest.”

She stepped further into the space, like she was walking through memory. Dust curled at her heels.

“This is the only room they never got to rewrite.”

Shelby breathed in. Let it sit.

“It feels like it knows too much,” she said.

Toni nodded once. “It does.”

She glanced up at the dark corners near the ceiling—where wiring coiled like questions and beams crossed like unfinished thoughts.

Shelby didn’t move closer. But she stayed.

“I was sixteen,” she said.

Toni turned toward her, just slightly.

“They called it Reframe. My dad named it.”

Her voice was steady. Too steady.

“They didn’t label it as conversion therapy. Not to the press. Not to me. Just a retreat. Redirection. Spiritual recalibration.”

Toni didn’t move. Just listened.

“We had color-coded trays. Red meant punishment. Yellow meant watch her. Green meant you were safe again.”

A pause.

“I never got green.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Oversized clothes if you didn’t quote enough scripture. I was a pageant girl—so that fucking killed me. Looking like a ghost in someone else's skin. Silence if you cried. Locked doors if you didn’t improve. Like they thought isolation would turn you holy.”

“If that didn’t work, they upped the meds. Said it was for anxiety. For adjustment. For spiritual restlessness.”

A breath.

“But it was just quiet. Manufactured.”

“They kept saying it wasn’t punishment, it was protection. But protection shouldn’t feel like isolation. Like forgetting your own name on purpose.”

“And if you didn’t shut up fast enough… they shut you down.”

“I got out in three months. Thought that meant I passed.”

She let it hang for a second.

“Six weeks later, I was onstage at a fundraiser. Wearing the t-shirt. Reading the speech they wrote.”

A bitter breath.

“They said I smiled better medicated.”

She looked at Toni.

“I did. Smile better, I mean.”

The silence held. Not judgment—just gravity.

Toni’s throat worked like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

Shelby caught the shift.

It wasn’t hesitation—it was restraint.

Like the words were there, sharp-edged and waiting, but Toni hadn’t decided if Shelby had earned them.

Shelby remembered what she’d said that night in the condo.

My mom was a ghost on methadone by the time I turned nine.

It hit harder now—now that they weren’t fighting, now that Toni wasn’t aiming it like a blade.

And maybe that was what did it.

Not the silence, not the bruises. Just the echo of someone else who never stayed.

The silence held. Not judgment—just gravity.

Then Shelby’s gaze flicked up—
Toni was standing under the only light source in the club—harsh, overhead, sharp as a confession.

It caught the bruise near her temple. The one that hadn’t faded yet.

“I saw it,” Shelby said. “At the hotel.”

Her eyes didn’t move, but her voice did—soft, and smaller than before.

“I wanted to ask how.”

A pause.

“Didn’t know if I was still allowed.”

She reached up—slow, deliberate.
Fingertips hovered near Toni’s cheekbone like they remembered what hurt felt like.

Toni didn’t flinch.
But her voice came low, flat.

“No.”

Not sharp.
Not gentle.
Just the truth.

Shelby let the air go.
Pulled her hand back like it hadn’t almost meant something.

She didn’t apologize.

Toni didn’t explain.

“After the summit, after the parking lot—I remembered a name.” “Marco almost said it. Mateo didn’t.”

She looked down at her hand, thumb grazing the edge of the clipper.

“Texted him that night. Just the name. No context.”

A pause.

“He didn’t answer the question. Just said: ‘Be careful who you corner.’”

Her mouth pulled tight.

“That’s when I knew I was right to be scared.”

“There was a name on a reroute Marco flagged—same batch Leah brought to the table. Listed as a compliance rep for one of the Unity retreats.”

Her voice flattened, like she was reading off a report she hadn’t stopped hearing since.

“Didn’t say Modesto outright. But the timing. The money trail. And then the camp just—disappeared.”

Shelby’s voice was careful, like she already knew where it was going.

“So in the twenty-four hours between yelling at me in a parking lot and the Dispatch article rolling out… you were already fighting with people?”

Toni nodded once.

Shelby waited.

“Are you going to tell me his name?” she asked.

Toni looked at her. Long. Still.

“You tell me.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But her hand tightened on the clipper like it already knew the name.

That stopped Shelby cold.

No flinch. No blink. Just stillness. The kind you don’t come back from fast.

“José Ángel Serrano.”

Her breath caught at the edge of her ribs.

Toni didn’t need to answer.

Shelby didn’t blink.

“He ran Reframe,” she said. “In Dallas.”

Her voice cracked—memory splintered down the middle.

“He ran the red tray room.”

She didn’t explain what that meant. She didn’t need to.

But Toni saw it—the shift in her. The way her breath got shallow. Like even saying it out loud made it real again.

Toni didn’t speak at first.

Then she laughed. Sharp. Empty.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything. The fucking nerve it took to stand at that summit and say there were no credible witnesses.”

Her voice was low. Not soft. The kind of quiet that holds knives in its throat.

“Modesto was supposed to be a retreat,” she said. “That’s what they sold it as.”

Her voice stayed low, but the pressure beneath it was seismic.

“Until it wasn’t. Until kids stopped answering letters.”

She took a step forward. Not a threat. Just proximity you could feel.

“That’s why I followed the money.”

A clipped breath.

“Not for Marco.”

Another.

“Not for you.”

She looked at Shelby like she was trying to recognize something. Like she was trying not to.

“For the kids they buried. The ones they silenced. The ones like you—who never got to scream.”

The silence after that was brutal.

Then—quieter, sharper, like it cut both ways:

“And you still didn’t say a goddamn word.”

Shelby flinched like it hit bone.

“You think I could have?” she snapped, breath catching. “You think I could’ve stood up and told the truth and walked away clean?”

She laughed. Bitter. Not amused. Just tired.

“I was with a man for five years, Toni.”

Didn’t blink.

“Not because I loved him. Not even because I liked him. But because he made it easy to disappear.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Not yet. It was too cold for that.

“He loved the version of me that never spoke out of turn. Never had an opinion worth listening to.”

Then—sharper:

“I let him talk over me. Let him thank God for fixing me like I was ever broken. I wore the dress. Took the photos. Smiled next to him while strangers said that was the way back to heaven.”

A pause.

“And I stayed. Because it was better than going back. Better than telling the truth and getting crucified for it.”

She looked at Toni then—eyes wide, wet. Not apology. Not rage. Something else. Something awful.

“So no. I didn’t say a goddamn word.”
She could’ve said a hundred. Didn’t.
Just sat there, letting that one settle.

A breath.

“I survived instead.”

Toni started to speak.

Didn’t get the chance.

“I didn’t get to scream, Toni.”

Flat. Final.

Then, sharper:

“You ever stop swinging long enough to ask who you’re really hitting?”

Toni didn’t move.
Didn’t argue.
But her jaw went tight like it remembered every name she never said.

“I used to think that was it,” she said finally.
“The whole thing. You fight for them. You bleed. They stay.”

A breath. Dry.

“But that’s not how it works.”

Another pause.
The kind that asked for silence, and got understanding instead.

“Regan. My ex.”

“There was this guy—drunk, too close, wouldn’t leave her alone. So I swung.”

A pause.

“She tried to stop me. I didn’t see it was her.”

Her voice dropped, thin as static.

“Caught her in the mouth.”

The air felt like it stopped moving.

“She didn’t talk to me for a week. Then she left.”

“No yelling. No tears. Just—”

Toni swallowed.

“Just told me something before she walked out.”

Her eyes dropped to the box by her boots.
SOUNDPROOF, written in faded Sharpie. Half-built. Never installed.

“She said loving me felt like bleeding slow.”

---

 

Shelby looked down.
The floor was all glitter and grit, cracked concrete dressed in memory.
Dust in the lines of her shoes. Light catching on all the parts she used to hide.

“I didn’t know,” she said.
Not whisper-soft. Just honest in a way that made her throat burn.
“I didn’t know what you were carrying.”

She shifted, breath uneven. Like it didn’t want to stay in her lungs.

“I knew about the scholarship. The windshield. The version he let me have.”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“He didn’t call you dangerous. He called you sloppy.
Like—‘This is why God made rules for girls who wander.’"

Silence again.

Shelby shifted, but the floor didn’t give.

---

 

Then—

“Did you believe it?” Toni didn’t blink. But something in her went still.

Shelby looked at her. Barely.

“At the summit,” Toni said. “You said we—”

She stopped herself.

“You said I strayed.”

The overhead light buzzed once. Settled back into its hum.

Shelby twisted her bottle cap. Didn’t speak.

Toni didn’t ask again.

Just stepped away from the unfinished walls and let the silence hang.

Shelby was quiet. Then—

“Did you know the photos were coming?”

Toni shook her head once. Slow. Tight.

“Didn’t even know they were out until the cops showed me.”

Shelby blinked. “The ones from the article?”

“No.”

Toni ran a hand down her jaw. Didn’t look up.

“These had timestamps,” she said. “Numbers in the corner. Tagged. Printed.”

She didn’t say what kind of system they came from.

Didn’t say what it meant.

---

TONI’S JEEP — WEDNESDAY, 1:05 AM

 

The engine had been quiet for maybe five minutes.
Neither of them reached for the radio.

Toni tapped the dash. Then her phone.
The screen lit up.

🔊 SHINING M — CONNECTING VIA BLUETOOTH”

Shelby didn’t recognize the alias, she missed the joke.
Didn’t recognize the way Toni’s shoulders set, either—not relaxed, just… braced.

“Hey,” Toni said, like a breath she’d been holding too long.

The voice came through the Jeep’s speakers. Male. Calm.
Not local.

“Dot’s going. Minnesota. She said yes.”

Toni nodded like he could see her.

“Yeah. With Fatin and Leah too, I figured.”

Shelby blinked.

Toni’s fingers tapped the wheel—restless, but quiet.

“You doing okay with the photos?”

Toni didn’t answer right away.
Her jaw went tight.

“Define okay.”

“It’s the frame they chose,” he said.
“Her in your shirt. You shirtless. That distance between you—barely there.”

Shelby’s breath caught.
Not out of surprise—just the way it was said.
Flat. Factual. Like it had already been circulated.

She pressed her knees together. Tightened her grip in her lap.

Toni didn’t look at her.

“She was cold,” she said. Quiet. Clipped.
“That’s all it was.”

Mateo didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

“Didn’t look like ‘that’s all’ to me.”

Toni didn’t flinch. But something in her hand twitched—reached for the clipper between the seats like muscle memory.

Then:

“Make sure they don’t get another,” she said.

Not soft.
Not protective.

Flat. Like a threat with the heat taken out of it.
The kind of quiet you only use when you mean it.

The call cut out. The dash went dark.

Toni didn’t look at her.
Didn’t say anything.

Just sat there, still.

Then, like an afterthought—

“Shining M.”

Shelby didn’t respond.
She knew what that meant. Toni told her in the club.
Dot’s contact. The quiet kind.
The kind who made things disappear.

The Jeep kept rolling.
No music. No questions.

Then Toni’s phone buzzed again.

The console lit up. Bright, center screen. Unavoidable.

Text from UNKNOWN:

"Sixteen years old.
One broken jaw.
She kept quiet.
You didn’t."

Shelby didn’t mean to read it.
Didn’t want to.

But it was there.
Huge. Hung in the dark like a sentence with no appeal.

Her whole body locked.
Breath stuck. Jaw braced like she expected the car to crash.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Toni’s hand shot forward.
Hit the console.
The screen snapped to black.

Then she set the phone down.
Face-first. Screen still lit underneath, bleeding against the leather.

They didn’t speak.
Didn’t even look at each other.

They kept driving.

And the silence that followed had teeth.

---

PRIVATE STUDY — UNDISCLOSED LOCATION — WEDNESDAY, 1:41 AM

The photo was paused on the second frame.

Toni Shalifoe, turned just enough to suggest proximity. Shelby, on the hood of the Jeep. Backlit. Hands too close to explain.

David didn’t zoom. He didn’t need to.

“God does His best work in the shadows,” he murmured.

The printer exhaled behind him—slow, precise. Two copies. One color. One sealed case summary.

He read the first line aloud.

“Subject: Shalifoe, T. Age: sixteen. Charge: assault with intent.”

He set it beside the photo. A pairing. A parable.

Andrew waited by the door. Silent. Still in the tailored suit they’d all agreed on for press optics. No tie. Cross pin small but visible.

David didn’t look at him.

“Send the next message.”

Andrew hesitated. “To her?”

David smiled. “No. That part’s done.”

He walked to the window. Looked out over the city—clean glass, high above the streets that never slept.

“We’ve tried fear. It worked. Now we remind her she’s alone.”

He tapped the folder. The sealed case. The bruise.

“Start spiritual containment. Make it public.”

Andrew frowned. “Through which channel?”

David’s voice didn’t waver.

“Jadmani.”

Andrew blinked. “Fatin’s father?”

“He owes us a legacy correction,” David said. “And she’s already watching. We just give her something to see.”

He turned from the glass. Stepped into the dark like it belonged to him.

“Let the girl Toni bled for become her undoing.”

"Turn her into an example. One they won’t dare follow"

A pause.

“God forgives,” he said, “But not before we provide the lesson.”

---

Chapter 12: protect the girl

Summary:

the table cracks.
the truth isn’t offered — it’s carved.
marco leaves a voice.
toni makes a choice.
and the system hits send.]

they sealed the file.
they sold the girl.
called it recovery.
called it god.

but she remembers.
and she’s not asking anymore.

she’s starting with what burns.
and this time,
she’s not the one getting erased.

Notes:

the clipboard is intentional. so is the silence.
this chapter fractures the frame —
marco’s voice enters here for a reason.
not as a flashback.
not as a ghost.
but as a record.
toni wasn’t the only one watching.
and she’s not the only one on file.

In world docs here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTbC2eAeMFNoeUBrgp6ARqDn-lFwganUnGArQnfhReUw-q0kcidKqS1JyDLdV3bo9cqyFzsPbLHXOWl/pub

no one protects the girl.
they just rename the cage.

WEDNESDAY — BRENTWOOD, MINNESOTA — 8:00 PM

At the airport, Leah hadn’t sent the whole drive. Just the part she couldn’t carry by herself.

She told herself it hadn’t been her call. But it had. She’d skipped what she needed to—the sealed case, the list of donors, the child who never came back.

She hadn’t warned her. She’d just opened the door and stepped out of the way.

Pain passes like currency.

The chandelier flickered once above the table. Not enough to name. Just enough to remind Leah that nothing in this house—not the lighting, not the warmth—was earned.

She reached for her water glass. Not thirsty. Just something to hold.

Toni’s name wasn’t on any invitation. But she was still here. Still flickering under every question Leah didn’t ask fast enough.

“Is this halal?” she asked, flat.

Fatin didn’t look up. She poured from a silver flask into her wineglass—lazy, precise, like she’d done it before.

“No,” Fatin said. “It’s hypocrisy. Imported.

Her mother laughed, thin and practiced. “Fatin, really—” Her voice caught halfway through the name.

Dot leaned in slightly toward Leah, keeping her voice low.

“Who’s the guy?”

Leah didn’t look up from the clipboard. “Reeve Kallis. Unity counsel. Jadmani’s legal firewall.”

Fatin, without missing a beat, poured from the flask and said flatly, “Brought in for his bedside manner.”

Leah sat in front of them with a clipboard in hand.

“This is either a tax shelter,” she said, low, “or a hostile rebranding of spiritual warfare.”

Fatin raised her glass. “You brought the citations. We’re so blessed.”

Reeve shifted—small, deliberate, like he’d been briefed to hold his tongue until provoked.

“You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic,” her father said, chuckling.

“And you’ve always had a talent for plausible deniability,” Fatin replied without blinking. “We all lean into our gifts.”

Butter knives hovered. Silverware paused mid-air.

“We’re just so glad you’re here,” their mother said too brightly. “This is still your home, habibti.”

Fatin smiled. No teeth. “Only on paper.”

Fatin’s father cleared his throat—a cue, not a cough. “We understand there’s been… concern. With the media storm.”

“Headlines,” Fatin said. “Those pesky little mirrors.”

“There’s been confusion about our involvement—”

“Confusion?” Leah said, still flipping pages. Her tone didn’t rise. She didn’t look up.

The page she turned rasped like judgment.

“You mean the Jadmani Family Trust earmarked for therapeutic dorm expansion?”

She didn’t pause.

“Line item thirteen. Under the same shell org that funded New Promise Grove—the Modesto site that got shut down a month before your big redemption summit.”

“Galanis cross-checked it when we landed,” she added, quieter, sharper. “Sent the file. Your name’s on the permits. Stamped. Verified.”

Fatin froze. Then—without ceremony—spit her drink back into the glass. The sound was louder than it should’ve been. Her hand was steady, but her breath wasn’t.

“Whatever they were running… it wasn’t recovery,” Leah said, soft and cold.

“That’s… a loaded connection,” Reeve offered, measured. His voice was too neutral. His eyes were not. They tracked every move Leah made like she might flip the table next.

“And not a direct one, as I’m sure you know. Shell organizations overlap. That doesn’t imply knowledge of misuse.”

The room stilled.

Fatin’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

“Okay… then why seal the donation list six days after the facility closed?” Dot asked, quiet and pointed.

Reeve blinked. His jaw flexed once, tight. Dot didn’t flinch.

“If it was just a coincidence,” she continued, same tone, “why scramble the records?”

No answer.

Just silence and candlelight and a story they thought they’d buried.

“You used kids,” Leah said, calm and sharp. “To make what you funded look like recovery. Like it wasn’t abuse.”

She set the clipboard down like it might scorch the table.

“You built the stage. Don’t act surprised we started performing.”

“You know what’s funny?” her father said, lightly.

Fatin took a sip from the flask. Didn’t answer.

“That Dispatch contributor — Galanis. Jeffrey, wasn’t it? Graduated from your school a few years ahead. Did a guest lecture on creative nonfiction, if I remember right.”

He looked at Leah and smiled, like he was offering credit for her origin story.

“You were what—fifteen? Sixteen? You sent him your essays. Intake logs. Medical fragments dressed up as prose.”

“By the time Dispatch ran your first piece,” he said, “he already had the rights to your voice.”

The table dropped a degree colder.

“You really just sat there and called her trauma marketable,” Dot said, controlled and slicing.

No one answered. Because they weren’t supposed to. Because he hadn’t meant it as a question.

“You should sit this one out,” Fatin said quietly, dangerously.

“Excuse me?”

Fatin smiled. All knives. “I just think, if we’re discussing public shame… maybe the man who got caught sending dick pics to every third woman in his contact list shouldn’t be leading the conversation.”

Their mother went still.

“What was it—137 screenshots? Or just the ones that made it past your lawyer?”

Dot didn’t look away. Just stared at his plate like it might offer cover.

Reeve exhaled through his nose. One hand twitched near his glass but didn’t lift it.

“You want to talk about what people sell?” Fatin asked, still casual, still cutting.

Another sip from the flask.

“Let’s start with your redemption arc. The rehab retreat. The prayer statement. The PR interview about ‘sex addiction.’”

“You called it a spiritual awakening.”

“The papers called it a midlife crisis with a legal team.”

“Where exactly did you get the expansion contracts?” Reeve said, clipped, controlled.

His gaze moved—not panicked, but focused. Leah. Then Dot. Then the clipboard.

“That’s not public record. And the Grove site was scrubbed.”

Dot didn’t answer. Leah didn’t blink.

“Maybe you should’ve scrubbed harder,” Fatin said, smiling again, sharp.

“Does it matter where it came from?” Dot asked, quiet.

Reeve turned. Slowly.

“What matters,” Dot said in the same calm tone, “is what you funded.”

She didn’t raise her voice. But it landed anyway.

“Just for fun—are we still fasting in Ramadan while laundering through baptisms?” Fatin said breezy.

“Or is that just a Q2 thing?”

No one laughed.

Their mother swallowed.

Fatin stood. The chair didn’t scrape. The floors wouldn’t allow it.

“Mashallah,” she said softly, to no one and everyone.

She turned and walked out. No flinch. No glance back. Just the flask in her hand like punctuation.

And no one—not even Leah—tried to stop her.

---

3 YEARS AGO — BRENTWOOD, MINNESOTA — LEGACY FUNDRAISER — MARCO

 

The air in the Jadmani estate smelled like citrus and control.

Candlelight shimmered through cut-crystal hurricanes. White orchids lined the mantels like trophies. Even the string quartet sounded rehearsed within an inch of collapse—dragging Vivaldi across polished strings with the passion of a tax form.

Everything about Legacy Holdings’ winter fundraiser felt… pressed. Curated. Sterile.

Marco Reyes didn’t belong here.

Which, to be fair, was the point.

He moved through the foyer with a practiced ease—head down, presence quiet, always in motion. His suit was black on black, tailored just enough to pass. The look worked until you really looked: the way he scanned exits, the way he kept to the walls. And the ink—looped Spanish script winding beneath his collarbone, just visible if you caught the light right.

Si no estás listo para preguntar, no estás listo para la respuesta.

The ink had been there since his second year out. Before he knew how many answers he’d end up withholding.

He looked like what he was: a man with too many past lives and no patience for this one.

He wasn’t on the list. Hadn’t needed to be. He’d come in on a favor. Unity staffer, probably overpaid and under-watched. She thought she owed him. Maybe she was right.

The donors didn’t matter.

He was here for the daughter.

Shelby Goodkind stood beneath the staircase like a cutout from the brochure. White dress. Still hands. Chin tilted at the camera just enough to suggest grace. Her eyes didn’t track movement. They hovered. Fixed, like she’d found a way to keep herself half a second behind reality. Too perfect. Too still. Like a portrait trying not to exist.

Marco watched her for no more than ten seconds, and it told him everything.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was locked.

Not in danger, not yet—but frozen. Like a relic. Or worse—like someone trying to disappear into the version of herself they needed.

A photographer repositioned her beneath the Unity banner. The silver cross behind her head lined up perfectly. Halo effect. Not subtle. Shelby didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Just let herself be turned.

He didn’t know her. Not really. But he knew that silence. Knew what it took to hold it that long.

She looked like Toni had. Back before she stopped flinching. Back before she’d tuck her hands into her hoodie like a shield. Before she learned to glare instead of beg.

“Reyes.”

Marco didn’t turn. Not right away. Andrew always appeared like a bad smell—unexpected but somehow inevitable.

He pivoted just enough to acknowledge him.

Andrew wore a whiskey in one hand and a smirk in the other. Everything about him said wealth without weight. His suit was expensive, but too clean. His haircut was politician-tight. Eyes sharp, but only for weakness.

“You’re out of uniform,” Andrew said. “Didn’t peg you for a gala type.”

Marco’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t peg this for a gala. Feels more like absolution with a guest list.”

Andrew’s smirk twitched upward like he’d almost found that clever.

They both turned toward the staircase again.

Shelby was being led toward a donor, ushered like a trophy, not a person. Her father touched her elbow—held it just long enough to be instructional. She didn’t pull away.

“She’s twenty,” Marco said.

Andrew didn’t flinch. “She’s an asset.”

“She’s a child."

“She’s her father’s daughter.”

That landed like a slap. Not at Shelby. At whatever kind of man thought that was a compliment.

Marco’s eyes tracked her again. The way her breath stayed shallow. The way her spine held steady like it was wired into something.

She didn’t look confused. She looked practiced.

“She’s not the problem,” he said.

“No,” Andrew replied, tone cooling. “She’s the next wave.”

Marco’s jaw didn’t move, but something in his shoulders went tight.

Andrew swirled the whiskey, lifted his chin like he was offering advice instead of warning.

“Then we package her properly.”

Marco’s stomach twisted. Just slightly. Just enough to feel.

He didn’t say another word. Just turned. Moved past the windows, through the corridor. Past catering. Past the guests.

The coat check was quiet. The lights were dim. No cameras in sight. The coats hanging were expensive, untouched.

He leaned against the wall, pulled out a burner, and typed fast with one thumb.

draft:

shelby goodkind isn’t dangerous.

but they’re going to use her like she is.

she won’t even see it coming—not until they’ve already branded her a threat.

He stared at it. Thumb hovered over delete. Over send. Over some version of both.

But the cross behind her had been too perfect.

And the smile hadn’t looked like joy. It had looked like armor.

He saved the draft.

Then the phone buzzed.

One message.

toni’s out. same playbook. no appeal.

—M

Marco didn’t move. Just locked the screen. Slipped the phone back into his jacket.

Then stayed a moment longer.

Listening to the string quartet start again like nothing had cracked

---

3 YEARS AGO — BRENTWOOD, MINNESOTA — LEGACY FUNDRAISER — SHELBY

The hallway off the catering corridor wasn’t meant for lingering. It smelled like chilled wine and controlled airflow, dimly lit with polite gold sconces and absolutely nowhere to breathe.

Shelby stood at the edge of it, just outside the party’s heat—just outside the crystal-glass smiles and curated chatter.

She hadn’t expected to find anyone here.

She certainly hadn’t expected him.

He leaned against the wall like the building owed him rent—one shoulder cocked, foot crossed over the other, drink in hand, untouched. His suit was sharp—black on black—but it wore like armor on the wrong battlefield. On his neck, just above the collar, Spanish ink sloped beneath his ear and disappeared under the fabric. The kind of script that marked old affiliations. A story she wasn’t supposed to know how to read: 

Si no estás listo para preguntar…

If you’re not ready to ask, you’re not ready for the answer.

She didn’t know if he meant it as a threat. But it sounded like a promise.

He wasn’t old, but older than anyone here not holding a donation card—late thirties, maybe. Lean. Handsome in a way that didn’t ask permission. His face had angles, but not arrogance.

And his voice—when it came—was too clear. Too awake.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

Her voice didn’t waver, but her posture did—shoulders pulled straighter, like she was bracing for something she couldn’t name.

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head slightly, calm.

“Neither are you.”

She blinked, slow. Controlled.

“I’ve been coming here since I was fifteen.”

“That’s not the same as being welcome.”

She hated how much that landed. Mostly because it was true.

Her dress still smelled like starch. Her hair had been pressed into submission. Her father’s handprint still ghosted the inside of her elbow. Every inch of her had been calibrated—for photos, for donors, for legacy.

And this man—this stranger—looked at her like he saw every layer of polish as a warning sign.

“Are you press?” she asked, sharper than she meant to.

He smiled. A real one. Like the question amused him.

“Do I look like press?”

He didn’t. Not even close.

“No,” she said. “You look like trouble that shops at Nordstrom Rack.”

That actually got a laugh. Low. Unforced.

It stuck in her chest like static.

“And you,” he said, “look like a hostage who figured out how to smile through duct tape.”

Her grip on her glass didn’t change. But her knuckles ached.

“Did you come here to critique the decor,” she asked, “or just me?”

“Neither,” he said. The humor was gone. “I came to see what they turned you into.”

She flinched. Not visibly. But she felt it.

Because he said they, not you. And because it didn’t sound like a guess.

“You don’t know me,” she said tightly.

“No,” he said. “But I know the look.”

She went still. Too still. Pageant reflex—freeze, smile, wait it out.

From the ballroom, her father’s voice rose in fake laughter. Applause followed.

Something in her gut twisted.

“Don’t pretend you’re here to save me,” she said, softer now.

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

She turned. Took one step back into the golden light. Then paused.

Looked over her shoulder.

“You should go,” she said. “Before someone notices you don’t belong.”

He didn’t blink.

“Too late.”

And she believed him.

Because she’d noticed the second he walked in.

Which meant someone else had, too.

She walked away like nothing had happened.

But her hands didn’t stop shaking until the next morning.

And when she hears his voice again—years later, over cheap earbuds, in a dark room full of unsaid things—she knows it immediately.

---

UNNAMED CLUB – TWO DAYS AFTER

The air smelled like ozone and cheap primer.

That was Toni’s first impression of the basement. It wasn’t a club yet—not even close. Just a hollow shell in East LA: raw concrete floor, exposed wiring, and insulation foam peeling off the walls like the place was shedding skin. One speaker hung sideways from the rafters. The soundboard was half-covered in a paint tarp and looked like it had survived a small electrical fire. Barely.

She loved it immediately.

“Watch your step,” someone said.

Toni glanced toward the voice.

He was leaning against a support beam like it owed him something. Mid-thirties, maybe older. Puerto Rican, by the sound of it—by the way he stood, too. Relaxed, but not casual. Boots planted. Shoulders easy. Hair cropped close. Face handsome in a sharp, worn-in kind of way.

No smile. Just presence.

“You Marco?” she asked.

He nodded once. “You Shalifoe?”

She nodded back.

“I saw the flyer,” she said. “Stage manager. I didn’t come to hang lights and paint slogans.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Marco said.

“Then why am I here?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned toward the middle of the room, where a half-built riser sat crooked on cinder blocks. No labels. No safety tape.

“You ever tear a floor out?” he asked.

Toni frowned. “You serious?”

“A floor’s just a lie people agree to stand on,” he said. “I want one that doesn’t pretend.”

She stared at him. “You high?”

He shrugged. “Only on spite.”

That got half a smile out of her. She didn’t trust it, but it didn’t feel like a trick.

He walked to the back corner and picked up a roll of butcher paper. Blueprints, hand-sketched in thick marker—no rulers, no scale, just Xs and arrows and notes like keep the sound dirty and fire exit = trust exit.

He held it out.

Toni hesitated, then took it. Scanned the layout. Then again, slower.

No DJ booth. No spotlight. No bar.

Just a low platform. Baffled hallway. No cameras.

“What is this place?” she asked.

Marco didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Somewhere that doesn’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Toni folded the paper, sharp and clean.

She wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat. But it felt like the first honest sentence she’d heard since she got back.

“I’m not here to be handled,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “I’m not here to handle you.”

He walked past her, toward a breaker box in the corner. Flipped it. One light hissed to life overhead—bare bulb, buzzing faintly.

“I need a wall covered,” he said. “No saints. No slogans. Nothing safe.”

“I do murals,” she said. “Not assignments.”

“Then pick your own wall,” Marco said. “Make it loud.”

She didn’t answer right away.

She hadn’t told anyone where she was. Not Martha. Not Fatin. Not even Leah. She’d landed in LA two nights ago. Slept on a friend-of-a-friend’s floor. Woke up to a pin Dot had sent without explanation. Walked ten blocks. Knocked twice.

Now she was here.

“You building something?” she asked.

He handed her three keys. One brass. One black plastic. One chipped at the edge.

“You don’t have to build it alone,” he said. “But you do have to mean it.”

That part she understood.

She walked to the far wall. Picked up a half-full can of spray paint.

No sketch. No warmup.

Just pressure. Release. Line after line until the message took shape.

When she stepped back, it was already drying.

no one protects the girl.
they just rename the cage.

Marco didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He flipped the breaker again.

The light buzzed. The walls held. And the basement became something new.

Not a sanctuary.

Not yet.

But a place that could take a hit.

 

WEDNESDAY NIGHT — BRENTWOOD, MINNESOTA — FATIN’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM

Fatin stood in the doorway longer than she meant to.

The room looked like a Pinterest board based on a girl who used to live here. Curated. Controlled. Lifeless.

The bed was hotel-tight. The books on the shelves were still alphabetized. The cello case sat in the corner like a memorial.

There was nothing of her left.

The window seat where she and Martha used to rate dog-walkers and write fake marriages — sanitized. The rug she and Dot ruined with drugstore dye at 3 a.m. — replaced. The crooked heart she and Toni spray-painted near the floorboards — buried under two coats of beige.

And the carpet? The exact patch where she and Leah had almost kissed — where Fatin had hesitated, blinked, said nothing, and let it slip — spotless. Like silence never cost anything.She sat on the edge of the bed. Palms braced on her knees. Trying to feel real.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look.

“I thought you’d want the truth,” Leah said.

Fatin stared at the cello case.

“You know what I mean,” Leah added. “Don’t make me explain it.”

Fatin’s voice was low, tight. “Then don’t say it like it was for me. You waited to hand me a match, not a fact.”

She exhaled through her teeth.

“And I’m tired of hearing Galanis’ name come out of your mouth like he owns any part of you. I’m not crawling through his shadow to reach you anymore.”

The quiet that followed was sharp. Not awkward. Just… jagged.

“I didn’t want to see you break again,” Leah said.

Fatin finally looked up. Her voice was quiet. Flat. “I already did.”

Leah stepped inside. Closed the door behind her.

Fatin didn’t move. Just watched her.

“You think I wanted this?” Leah asked.

“No,” Fatin said. “I think you wanted control. Like always.”

“And you wanted to disappear.”

“I wanted a choice.”

They didn’t raise their voices. But the room was getting smaller with every line.

“You never said anything,” Leah snapped. “I had nothing. Not the club. Not after Dispatch. You had Dante. Toni. Leo. You had movement. And I had silence.”

Fatin stared at her for a second too long.

“Because lying to you is the only way I’ve ever been allowed to stay,” she said.

She stood. Slowly. Not dramatic. Just done sitting.

“If I’d said anything, I’d have begged,” she said. “And I’ve never had to do that before.”

Leah’s breath hitched. “You think I didn’t know? I thought I was a risk worth taking.”

Fatin tilted her head. “You were. You still are. But by the time I let myself want you—it was already past tense.”

They were too close now. Too quiet.

“So what?” Leah said. “We just stand here?”

Fatin’s voice barely registered. “We already did. That was the problem.”

She hesitated. Then added, rougher:

“I could only sleep with Toni because Regan made her give up on love. Because she didn’t ask me to mean it.”

She looked straight at Leah now.

“You do.”

Leah stepped forward.

“I’m not doing almost.”

Fatin laughed under her breath, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’re not doing almost?” she repeated. “You’ve been doing almost since the first day you met me.”

Her voice sharpened. Cut.

“You buried what you felt in a clipboard and a red string murder board and called it love. You chose a man who ghostwrote your trauma and called it truth. And now you want to talk about risk?”

Leah swallowed. Said nothing.

Fatin exhaled. Shook her head once.

“You still make me want to believe it,” she said, quieter. “Even now. That’s the part I can’t forgive.”

No dramatics. No warning. Leah kissed her.

Not careful. Not sweet. Like she was tired of asking for permission in a room full of ghosts.

Fatin made a sound in her throat—more reflex than response—but her hands were already in Leah’s jacket, clutching fabric like it might slip through her fingers. Leah’s grip was firmer. Waist, ribs. They didn’t fumble.

They landed like a fight that knew how to end in forgiveness.

Because it wasn’t about proving they survived.

It was about choosing what came after.

---

THURSDAY — LOS ANGELES — 1:17 A.M. — TONI

The buzz from the downstairs motion sensor went off at 1:17 a.m.

Toni didn’t look up. She was sitting on the floor, back against the safe, a half-finished cigarette burning between her fingers. The only light came from a desk lamp bleeding across the ashtray and Shelby’s curled form on the couch. Blanket pulled to her chin. Earbuds still in. Some indie choir bullshit playing—soft, reverent, maybe religious. Toni didn’t know the name. Didn’t care.

The buzzer went again. Longer this time.

She sighed, stood, cracked her knuckles, and walked to the monitor.

The black-and-white security feed flickered.

Mateo.

Standing outside the side door in a hoodie too thin for the hour, backpack slung like a quiet warning, face tilted up to the camera like he knew she was watching.

Toni pressed the intercom.

“Seriously?” she said.

No response. Just a shrug.

She buzzed him in.

Didn’t wait at the door. Just left it open and walked back to the desk, lighting another cigarette she didn’t plan to finish.

Mateo stepped in. Closed the door. Dropped the backpack on the floor without a word.

Shelby stirred on the couch but didn’t wake.

“You’re supposed to be in Minnesota,” Toni said.

“I’m supposed to be a lot of things,” he replied.

He crossed the room and pulled out his laptop. No explanation. Just unzipped the sleeve, powered it on, and pulled a flash drive from his jacket.

“It’s from Leah,” he said. “She sent it this morning. Said Galanis bought it off the black market. Probably Marco’s. Probably Legacy.”

Toni stared at the screen. The filename wasn’t hers. But the weight was.

“She imported it from Marco’s drive,” Toni said, voice flat. “That’s what she said?”

“She didn’t tell me either,” Mateo said. “Not until last night. Just said there was one file she couldn’t open. Password protected.”

Toni’s voice turned sharp. “And no one fucking told me?”

Mateo didn’t flinch. “You didn’t reply to her text.”

Toni didn’t answer right away. Just inhaled. Let the silence stretch.

Then: “So she had it. This file. She had it last night. And she still didn’t tell me. Not when she messaged me. Not even after she opened it.”

Mateo looked at her. Tired. Clear.

“I’m not defending her,” he said. “I’m here because I knew you’d need someone who wasn’t lying to your face.”

Toni said nothing.

She reached for the keyboard. Hands steady.

“She didn’t mind leaking Marco’s last note to Dispatch,” she muttered.

Mateo didn’t answer right away. Then: “I think this one scared her.”

She stared at the screen.

“He never called me shovelgirl,” she said quietly. “That was after.”

She typed in the password.

protectthegirl

The screen held.

Then clicked.

A waveform bloomed across the monitor.

And Marco’s voice filled the room.

Shelby stirred on the couch, half-curled, one earbud still in. She blinked hard, eyes adjusting to the low light, to Marco’s voice.

She didn’t speak.

But her lips parted. Her whole body went still.

She knew that voice.

She hadn’t heard it since the fundraiser.

Toni didn’t move.

She didn’t look at Mateo.

She just stared at the screen. At the sound waves rippling across it.

No image. No body. Just voice. Just him.

⸻.

🔊 AUDIO FILE — FTWCSI_002_HIDDEN.WAV

[Initial static hum. A scrape, like a chair leg. Then—]

MARCO (quiet):

If you’re hearing this…

[Pause. Soft exhale.]

MARCO (restarting):

If you’re hearing this, then I didn’t make it out.
Or maybe I did. Maybe I’m just somewhere I can’t get to you anymore.
Which is worse, in a way. Not being dead. Just—quiet.

MARCO:

I thought I had more time. I always think that. That’s the lie, right?
Time’s just the space where you tell yourself the next decision will be the right one.

[He laughs. It’s not a joke.]

MARCO:

Three years ago, I thought I could stay close to the fire without getting burned.
I thought if I built something clean inside the filth, it would survive.
I was wrong.

[Audio dips, breath caught in silence.]

MARCO:

They were never going to let you win. That was the part I didn’t see fast enough.
You could dance perfect, perform perfect, bleed perfect—and they’d still frame you like a threat.
Because you were.
Because you still are.

MARCO (softer):

Toni.
I should’ve told you everything.
From day one. From the first time you stepped into that dead-ass basement with your hands in your pockets like you were trying not to shatter the world.
I knew then.
Knew what they’d do to a girl like you. What they’d call you.
How they’d twist you.
Knew what kind of shape your rage could take if someone didn’t misfile it.
So I gave you keys.
But I didn’t give you truth.
That’s on me.

[Pause. Just breath.]

MARCO:

You think this started with the clubs. It didn’t. It started with the camps.
The ones with nice names and medical codes and gospel stations on the intercom.
Retention.
Three-day sedations. Isolation. Rebranding.
They called it a wellness arc.

[Toni exhales—slow. Not relief. Just release.]

MARCO:

I watched it happen. Watched it get cleaner. More efficient. Less noisy.
Until kids started not coming back.
Until they said nothing—because silence photographs better than grief.

MARCO:

I sent some files out. You’ll find them. Probably already did.
The money’s real. The zoning. The shell companies. Even the footage.
But they’re just bones.
This—
This is marrow.
What I never told anyone.
What I waited too long to say.

[Paper rustles. A photo, maybe.]

MARCO:

This girl? The one I’m looking at—didn’t make it out.
They called it a relapse.
Said she left AMA.
Her mom’s still waiting for a call that won’t come.
And I said nothing.
Because I thought I could build you a room with padded walls and open doors.
Because I thought Noć could be louder than a body count.
But Toni—

[He swallows. Audible.]

MARCO:

They already had your name on a list.
They’ve had it since you were sixteen.
Unity. Legacy. Redemption Hills. Doesn’t matter what face they wear.
They marked you. The minute you were loud in the face of a man.
The minute you succeeded on a court full of men.
They were always going to come for you.
And I should’ve warned you.

MARCO (steadier):

I don’t know who’s with you now. If anyone.
Dot, maybe. She’ll know what to do.
Fatin—she’s sharp. Scared in all the right places. A bit cold.
Leah? Don’t trust her too fast.
But if she’s still there, it means she’s choosing to stay. That matters.
Shelby…

[His voice cracks. Brief. Real.]

MARCO:

She was the first one I didn’t save.

[Metal clinks softly.]

MARCO:

This still opens the sound booth at Noć. If they haven’t gutted it.
Inside the left wall—behind the second foam panel—there’s a false vent.
You’ll find a micro-SD card. Hardline. No cloud. No name.
And a printed list. Real names. Real dates. Retention protocols.
Three facilities that don’t legally exist.
One in Texas.
One in Arizona.
One in a town you already escaped once.

MARCO:

I’m not asking you to finish this.
I’m asking you to remember I tried.
Too late.
But I tried.

[Final breath. A line delivered soft, almost as prayer—]

MARCO:

Protect the girl.

The waveform dipped to silence.

Toni didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then she snapped the laptop shut. Hard.

Mateo flinched.

Shelby sat upright on the couch, hoodie half-zipped, eyes still fogged from sleep.

Toni stood like she’d just been lit — fast, ugly, all limbs.

“Don’t,” she said. Not to anyone in particular. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

She was already out the door.

Down the stairs. Out into the cold. The alley behind Dante’s swallowed her like it had been waiting.

Then—

She screamed.

Raw. Full-body. Nothing held back. Like the silence Marco left behind had to be ripped out of her throat.

It didn’t echo. It just landed.

Shelby stood at the top of the stairs. Barefoot. Frozen.

Toni bent at the waist, hands on her knees like she might throw up from the noise she couldn’t make in words. Then she pushed off the wall. Walked back up like gravity was personal.

She didn’t stop when she passed Shelby. Didn’t look at her. Just said—

“You heard it?”

Shelby nodded.

Toni didn’t ask what she thought. Didn’t care.

She dropped back into the desk chair. Lit a cigarette with shaking hands and didn’t smoke it.

“You told Dot to go to Legacy Path.”

Mateo didn’t answer.

Toni turned, slowly.

“You knew Marco was one of them.”

Still no denial.

“He helped me get out,” Mateo said.

She laughed once. Sharp. No joy in it.

“So you didn’t think I needed that warning? You thought I’d be fine just walking in blind—again?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be the threat,” Mateo said.

“Neither was I,” she snapped.

The silence that followed wasn’t calm. It was judgment.

She turned to Shelby now. Finally.

“You good?”

Shelby nodded again. Slow. Honest.

“Then we’re done here.”

Toni stood.

“I don’t want apologies. I don’t want explanations. I want names. I want every fucking wall they thought I wouldn’t climb.”

She looked between them. Clear. Cold. No more questions.

“I’ll start with what burns.”

And they didn’t stop her.

Because they couldn’t.

---

THURSDAY — LOS ANGELES — GALANIS

The house was too quiet. All concrete edges and curated light. Galanis liked it that way. No echoes. No fingerprints.

David Goodkind didn’t sit.

He made one slow pass across the open-concept room, scanned the skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass, then turned back toward the tablet in Galanis’ hands like it might still change his mind.

“She fractured his jaw,” Galanis said, scrolling. “Orbital displacement. Partial hearing loss. No de-escalation recorded. No weapon recovered.”

David said nothing.

“She was sixteen,” Galanis added. “And you want to leak it without context.”

“She’s twenty-five now,” David said. “And influencing young people to abandon their values and do whatever feels good. No morals. No consequences.”

Galanis swiped to the image. The gas station frame. Cropped. Grayscale. Shelby on the Jeep. Toni in profile. Knees close. Hands almost touching.

“You know she didn’t even touch her,” Galanis said. “Right?”

David didn’t blink. “She didn’t have to.”

“It was just proximity.”

“No,” David said. “It was proof.”

He took a step forward. Calm. Cold.

“She’s corrupting her generation. A forsaken, wayward kid who learned how to survive inside failure. Just like Marco is.”

Galanis looked up. “Like Marco is? Or was?”

That landed heavier than anything else had.

David didn’t answer.

He pulled a printed copy from a leather clipboard and set it on the table. Legacy Holdings watermark. Case header in bold.

Resolve Institute | Anonymous Submission — Published 8:00 a.m. PST, THURSDAY

FOUNDER'S SEALED RECORD RAISES CONCERNS OVER YOUTH-FACING SPACE

A newly unsealed record from Legacy Youth Wellness has reignited scrutiny around the founder of a controversial Los Angeles club project known as Noć.

Toni Shalifoe, 25, was tried as an adult in a 2016 criminal assault case after fracturing a donor liaison’s jaw in the presence of a 14-year-old minor. The juvenile witness declined to testify, but trauma markers were flagged at intake. Though the case was sealed via proxy petition, recent disclosures cite medical injury, witness exposure, and what internal documentation classified as an “optical hazard.”

The venue is located in a neighborhood previously zoned for youth rehabilitation services connected to the Jadmani Trust.

Resolve Institute issued a statement early Thursday:

“We support rehabilitation. But we do not ignore risk.”

[Full record and classification index included.]

CONFIDENTIAL — UNSEALED RECORD

Legacy Youth Wellness Program

CASE FILE: 4401-C

SUBJECT: SHALIFOE, TONI (AGE 16)

Status: Processed as adult under Provision 8B

JUV-1294 (sealed)

INCIDENT: June 12, 2016 — Hennepin County

Victim: [REDACTED], donor liaison

Injuries: Mandibular fracture, orbital displacement, partial hearing loss

WITNESS: Minor (female, 14) — Refused to testify; trauma flagged

Statement: None provided. Subject showed no visible remorse

SEALED BY: Proxy petition — [REDACTED]

CLASSIFICATION: Optical Hazard — Level 3

“She was tried as an adult,” Galanis said. “They’ll call it a cover-up.”

“They should,” David said. “That’s what it was.”

He tapped the edge of the page once.

“They buried it so she could be repackaged. I’m just digging up what they left behind.”

Galanis glanced at the signature line. Blank. Intentionally.

David said nothing. Just watched the file like it might complete itself.

Galanis glanced at the zoning footer. “You pulled the Jadmani Trust in to make it stick.”

David didn’t blink. “They owe us the optics.”

Galanis swiped to the press memo. Resolve Institute. Headline already filled:

Founder’s Sealed Record Raises Concerns Over Youth-Facing Space

“We support rehabilitation. But we do not ignore risk.”

He scrolled through the press memo. Funding credits. Distribution path. Zoning language tied to the Jadmani Trust.

“So this was the play,” he muttered. “Use the family for the cover fire.”

“They will,” David replied.

Galanis scrolled down the memo. “And when it turns out the minor never filed a complaint?”

David didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t matter. The shape of the damage is already enough.”

Galanis exhaled through his nose. “You know this is a career-kill. Not just hers.”

David reached for his coat. Paused in the doorway.

“She wasn’t failed by the system,” he said.
“She was the reason they invented warnings.”

Then he walked out.

And Galanis, after one long, exhausted breath, tapped SEND

---

Chapter 13: they don't end, they just change shape

Summary:

Toni wakes up to the fallout she can’t outrun. The leak of her sealed juvenile record is only the beginning — the Resolve Institute labels her a Level 3 Optical Hazard, and her past becomes public property. Shelby, caught in the blast radius, makes a choice. Fatin breaks. Leah doesn’t flinch fast enough. The group fractures. And somewhere in the background, Marco’s voice still echoes. They recover his drive. It doesn’t fix anything. But it proves everything

Notes:

IN WORLD DOCS HERE!!

CW: mentions of institutional abuse, conversion therapy, sedation, trauma fallout, and media harassment.

[ the knee / the lighter / the look that couldn’t be taken back ]
[ Dispatch receipts / no one asked why / she vanished / so Leah filled in the blanks ]
[ Fatin saw the fault lines / but still offered her hand ]
[ Dot watched the narrative build / didn’t speak until it was already too late ]
[ legacy wore pearls / unity wore scripture / she wore it all like penance ]
[ they said she smiled / they didn’t ask why her hands were shaking ]
[ no one touched / but the still burned ]

⸻

Inspiration for casting:
If Smoke and Mirrors were ever adapted for screen, I’d cast Devin Wesley as Dante James — his vibe and presence are everything.

And for Marco Reyes? Shalim Ortiz, no question. Puerto Rican perfection with just the right intensity.

⸻

Endless gratitude to my beta — for the line edits that cut deeper than the Dispatch drop, for emotionally clocking the subtext before I could name it, and for being emotionally on retainer through every rewrite. You made this sharper, sadder, and somehow more alive.Find them here: @indubitablythebest (Tumblr) & briedoesnotcare (AO3)

---

---

 

[TONI] - DANTE'S CONDO - 4:17 A.M. Thursday 

Toni hadn't really slept.

Just lied there on the couch, as if she were owed something.

As if the stillness might make it stop.

The ceiling fan clicked.

She’d fallen asleep shirtless, in a pair of Dante's TEXAS A&M sweatpants. The couch stuck to her skin in places.

Her ribs ached, like they’d been holding tension all night and had nothing left to brace against.

Marco's voice wouldn't shut up.

Still looping behind her eyes, even with the screen dark.

Even after she powered the phone down.

they already had your name on a list.

That was the part that stuck.

Like maybe it had always been true, and she'd just needed someone to say it.

She'd played the file twice.

Three, if you counted letting it run while she stared out the window.

Didn't cry. Just let it echo.

they've had it since you were sixteen.

didn't matter what face they wore.

Legacy. Unity. Resolve.

She didn't care what they called it anymore.

Same mask, different name.

The night was still too quiet.

Faint street sounds through double-paned glass.

Her chest didn't feel like it belonged to her.

She shifted.

The movement made the couch creak.

Made her feel real again, but just barely.

Three facilities. Real names. Real dates. Retention protocols.

She hadn’t gone yet — not because she didn’t believe him, but because she did.

Because if she stepped inside Noć again-while the investigation was live, while Marco's name was still being whispered like a question-

someone would see her.

Someone would assume.

Guilt and grief looked the same from a distance.

And she didn't know how to explain carrying someone's instructions like a gun.

She didn’t know if she wanted to.

She'd been trying to decide for hours.

Marco's voice:

"You don't have to finish it. Just remember I tried."

But what the fuck did remembering fix?

Then-

A sound.

Not hers.

Sheets. Breathing. Something soft caught mid-panic..

She moved.

Bare feet. No hesitation.

Didn't think - thinking never helped.

Not when the walls were already closing.

The guest room door was half-open.

Shelby had said she couldn't sleep with doors closed.

Toni hadn't asked why.

Inside, the room was low light and too much blue.

Shelby was twisted in the blankets.

Hand clutched around a pillow like it meant something.

Her mouth moved like she was still inside it.

"no,"

"no-please-"

Toni crossed the room.

Dropped to one knee beside the bed.

Her hand moved slow, careful, as it touched the curve of Shelby’s back — not enough to startle, just enough to ground.

Didn't speak until she was down by the bed.

“Hey.”

Shelby jolted.

Wide eyes. Chest rising like it forgot how.

"You're not there," Toni said.

"You're here, B."

Shelby blinked. 

More of a tremor than a breath.

 “What in the world does B mean?

Toni tilted her head.

Didn't smile.

"Figure it out."

The silence after felt delicate.

Like something balancing too close to breaking.

"Did I wake you?"

"No," Toni said. "I was up."

Shelby's voice scraped like gravel.

"You ever sleep?"

Toni's fingers curled into her palm.

"Only when I want to remember things."

A beat.

"Like how they marked me the second I raised my voice.

The second I didn't back down."

Shelby's eyes darted away - too fast.

She pressed her hand to her mouth like she could hold something in.

"I hate that it still happens.

I got out. That should've been the end of it."

Toni sat back on her heels.

"They don't end," she said.

"They just change shape."

Shelby almost laughed. Almost. Toni saw it — the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the breath that didn’t follow. Whatever it was, it didn’t make it out.

"You always talk like that?"

Toni looked down at her hands.

At the space between them.

At nothing.

"Only when I'm trying not to say something worse."

Silence again.

Thicker this time. Unspoken things swelling in the dark.

"You didn't have to come in," Shelby said, too fast.

"I'm fine."

Toni didn't blink.

"You didn't scream."

A beat.

"I don't scream anymore."

"Not yet," Toni said.

She stood.

Moved like it didn't matter what stayed behind.

"But when you do-"

She paused. Just long enough for it to sting.

"Don't bury it in a pillow. Let the fucker echo."

She left the door half open.

Didn't look back.

---

[SHELBY] - DANTE'S CONDO - EARLY MORNING - 9 AM

Shelby stepped out barefoot, sleeves pulled over her hands like that could undo anything. The air smelled like weed and garlic and something else she didn't want to name. Her hair was tangled. Her mouth tasted like sleep and guilt.

She cleared her throat into the silence. Nothing.

The condo was too still - that kind of still that comes after something has been broken and nobody's decided how to say it out loud.

She padded into the kitchen.

Dante was already there. Shirtless. Reading the back of a cereal box like it might tell him something new. Stirring eggs in a pan with the kind of bored confidence that made you forget he noticed everything.

"Morning, Goodkind. Sheets alright? Regret and lavender's a strong combo."

Then he glanced over. Grinned like he hadn't seen the article. Like he wasn't halfway through reading her.

"Great," she said. "Thank you kindly."

Shelby blinked. The pageant smile came before the rest of her did.

"Smells good in here," she offered, too lightly. "Like someone actually lives here."

He didn't look up right away. "What, no Southern breakfast critique? I was expecting a monologue about grits."

She took the mug with both hands. Tried not to look like she was shaking.

"You want breakfast? Or just caffeine and that look like God subtweeted you in all caps?" 

She smiled-quick, crooked. "Not before caffeine. I'm trying to pace myself."

Dante nodded like she'd just confirmed something cosmic. Poured coffee into a chipped mug and slid it across the counter like peace.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she said. "For letting me stay. I'm trying to figure it out. Might end up back in Texas, but-"

Dante cut her off. "If touching someone on the shoulder meant you were fucking them, half this city'd be on antibiotics."

Shelby blinked.

He arched a brow. "I saw the exposed photo from my balcony. I'm sorry - that probably isn't what you needed right now."

Dante shrugged. "Didn't read the whole thing. Didn't need to- They picked a hell of a shot. Made y'all look like a Sundance short with a body count."

Shelby didn't have a bruise. Toni did. The camera hadn't cared.

"They make you the story so they don't have to hear the real one," Dante added.

Shelby stared into her coffee like it might help.

"They blew that photo out of the water," he went on, "because it looked like desire and damage at the same time. Because you're blonde and beautiful and she's bleeding and brooding and nobody wants to believe both of you are people."

"I'm not ga-" she said, too fast, too automatic. Like it would still protect her. Like she hadn't outgrown the lie, just learned to say it quieter.

Dante cut her off, like he'd heard that line too many times from too many girls who thought it might save them. "I don't give a damn what it looked like. Doesn't mean I bought the story they wrapped it in."

Shelby put the mug down. "So what do you believe? That I set her up? That I smiled like it was a dare?" Mateos words from his call with Toni still rang sharp in her head.

He tilted his head, a crooked smile. "I think you're still figuring out which parts you wrote and which were handed to you in Sunday school."

He flipped the burner off like it was punctuation. "Bisexuals exist. So do lesbians. So do straight girls who spiral in someone else's t-shirt."

A pause. Just long enough to sting.

"This is L.A., Goodkind. Nobody has it figured out. Especially not the ones pretending they do."

Then, like he hadn't just cracked her chest open:

"You want toast? Or do y'all only do biscuits in Fort Travis?"

She blinked. Her drawl slipped for just a second. He confessed, "I was born in Harris County."

Dante grinned. "So, two eggs or three?"

She squinted. "How did you wind up in L.A.? Why would you-?"

"Imagine being a straight half-Black, half-Japanese man who likes CrossFit and exfoliates. They tried to make that a punchline. I let them-for a while. Smiled, posed, played the part. But that thing they do-where they think your story belongs to them just because it photographs better? I left before they could finish it. CLUB SOFT is my baby. Out here, you're what you do. Everything else is just noise."

Before she could answer, the door clicked.

Toni.

She walked in like she was trying not to. Hoodie. Cropped sweatshirt. Hair scraped back. The bruise on her cheekbone had faded from violet to rust.

She didn't look at Shelby. Didn't look at Dante.

Just poured water. Drank it like the glass might fix something.

Dante didn't say a word. Tossed her a piece of toast.

She caught it. Ate it like a dare.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Running."

"It's cold as shit."

"I'm from Minnesota, James."

Dante poured her coffee without asking. "I knew you were a masochist."

She drank. Didn't fidget. Didn't talk.

Shelby stayed still.

The TV was already on - low volume, just enough to ignore.

Then the anchor's voice cut in. Clipped. Too clean. The kind of voice that makes you hate how well it carries.

"Developing now - Marco Reyes, a prominent figure in L.A.'s underground performance scene, has been officially reported missing."

Toni didn't move. But the air did.

A picture of Marco now flashed on the screen. 

"Reyes was last seen Friday evening, just hours before the Noć - the controversial venue he co-founded - and a Unity Outreach summit now under investigation for alleged laundering and cartel-linked activity."

Shelby looked at Dante. He didn't meet her eyes. Just folded his hands like he was bracing for something.

"Adding to the growing scrutiny, Reyes' longtime collaborator, 25-year-old Toni Shalifoe, is facing renewed backlash after a sealed juvenile assault case was made public."

Toni set her glass down. Not hard. Not loud. Just done.

Her eyes didn't flicker. Marble stillness. The kind of quiet that knew exactly what was coming and didn't feel like performing for it.

Dante didn't speak.

"According to documents published this morning by the Resolve Institute, a so-called 'risk mitigation watchdog' built on data collected by Legacy Holdings and funded in part through Unity-aligned health initiatives, Shalifoe-then sixteen-shattered a man's jaw in front of a 14-year-old girl, who later suffered partial hearing loss. Shalifoe, had to be involuntarily sedated at the time, per facility protocols."

Shelby's mug felt heavier. Like it wasn't coffee anymore - just heat and weight and consequence. The Wednesday text from her dad came back in pieces: This is who she is.

"Though the case was sealed via proxy petition, recent revelations have raised serious concerns about misconduct and what Resolve is calling 'optical hazard risks' in youth-adjacent spaces."

Toni stared at the toaster like it might explain something. Like heat had ever meant warmth.

"Neither Shalifoe nor any representatives for Noć have issued a statement. Reyes remains missing. LAPD has declined to confirm whether the events are connected."

A new image appeared onscreen. Crystal-clear.

Front-facing surveillance. The angle was intentional. So was the framing.

Toni stood between Shelby’s knees. One more step and they would’ve been kissing.

Shelby perched on the hood of the Jeep, knees drawn up, thigh grazing Toni’s. Her chin tilted up, gaze locked with Toni’s — daring, deliberate.

There was no physical contact. But the proximity was damning. Their bodies fit together like a secret mid-confession.

ANCHOR (V.O.):

“Newly surfaced surveillance footage appears to show Shalifoe and Shelby Goodkind — daughter of Texas pastor and Unity Outreach advisor David Goodkind — outside a gas station in Brentwood late Tuesday night.”

Shelby didn’t look at Toni.

“The still image, captured by multi-angle security software and leaked anonymously, shows Goodkind seated cross-legged on the hood of a black Jeep. Shalifoe stands nearby, partially shadowed. Both appear mid-conversation. Proximity and body language suggest a private moment — one some sources are already calling ‘provocative.’”

“Goodkind is dressed in cutoff shorts and a cropped tee. Shalifoe is visibly bruised. The photo shows her holding a lighter. The two appear locked in close eye contact.”

More photos from the night appeared in quick succession across the screen. 

“Though no physical contact is confirmed, the image — paired with the recent Resolve Institute advisory and Shelby Goodkind’s ties to Unity-funded initiatives — has reignited public scrutiny.”

“LAPD has declined to confirm whether the footage relates to the disappearance of Marco Reyes. Resolve, in a supplemental report, suggests the encounter may demonstrate what it calls ‘optical hazard proximity escalation’ — a classification tied to Shalifoe’s newly disclosed juvenile case.”

“Neither party has issued a formal statement. The image was captured several days after Reyes’ last confirmed sighting. 

Dante walked over. Turned the volume down. Didn't say a word.

Then, dryly: "Funny how Resolve just happened to borrow their threat levels from the people funding the threats."

Toni picked up the toast. Bit off the corner. Chewed. Swallowed.

Like it didn't taste like anything at all.

Nodded once.

"Of course they did."

She stood. Not fast. Just like there was nowhere else to go but up.

Dante stretched his arms once. Rolled his neck.

Then, gently, turning to Shelby,

"I'm gonna go out and burn some sage before one of y'all punches God. Come with."

Shelby didn't move right away. Her hands were still wrapped around the mug like it might give her something to hold onto.

She licked her bottom lip. Like she was bracing for a punch.

Pressed her mouth shut. Like she was trying to swallow whatever excuse was crawling up her throat.

Then- "My dad just said you had a record. Said you were dangerous."

A pause, then quieter: "I didn't care to hear more."

Toni's jaw flexed. Once. "That's what they count on."

Shelby nodded. Twice. Like it hurt. Like it should.

Toni didn't look at her again. Just reached for her coffee.

Shelby's voice - still there, thinner now: "Everything they did to me... and I still turned around and handed them you."

Toni didn't flinch. Didn't rage. Just heard him again - They were always going to come for you. And maybe she believed it now. Just said:

"That's the part I already knew."

And maybe that was what Marco meant-when he said she was the first one he didn't protect. Like the warning came too late. Like it always does.

She took her coffee to the balcony.

Shelby followed.

She stepped out quietly, like the balcony might reject her if she came in too loud. The morning air was thin and cold.

She took out a pack of cigarettes. Hands shook just enough to make it obvious. She offered one to Toni.

Toni didn't take it right away. Just looked at her - really looked.

Shelby had recoiled before — at headlines, at half-truths, at the image of herself beside Toni when she wasn’t ready to be seen  - recoiled at the implication associated with being seen beside her.

Cringed when she'd seen the text on Toni's phone: 

Sixteen years old. One broken jaw. She kept quiet. You didn't.

But not now.

Now, her hand stayed steady. Not brave - just different. Like maybe fear didn't get the last word this time.

Toni reached out. Let their fingers brush. Not a full touch. Not forgiveness. Just contact.

Shelby lit hers first. Then cupped her hand around Toni's lighter like she was protecting something.

Their shoulders barely touched. But neither pulled away.

Toni gave her a small smile. Like she was impressed.

"Legacy and Unity - is there a difference, or just branding?"

Shelby looked up. "What?"

Toni still didn't face her. "Are they actually separate? Or is that just PR language?"

Shelby exhaled. "Depends who's asking. Publicly? Legacy's a holding group. Real estate. Transport. Legal logistics. 'Faith-adjacent' nonprofits. But behind the scenes?"

She paused.

"They're the same beast. Legacy launders the money. Unity blesses it."

Toni turned. Her face unreadable in the soft morning light - the kind that made everything look more honest than it wanted to be.

"So Marco worked for Legacy."

Shelby hesitated, then nodded. "Kind of. He was brought in through one of the logistics fronts - technically Legacy-affiliated, but masked through third-party consulting work. Not on paper, but he was in the system. Moving things. Protecting people."

Toni's voice sharpened. "Does that mean he believed what Unity was doing?"

Shelby's chest tightened.

She took a step forward, hands curling into her sleeves. Her eyebrows furrowed. 

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"He's the reason you're not in prison."

That stopped Toni cold.

Shelby kept going, voice steadier now - like she was finally saying something she wasn't supposed to know.

"There was a file. From years ago. A sealed juvenile case - sixteen, group home, assault with intent. It almost ruined someone."

A beat.

"There were redactions, but the metadata was clear. Marco Reyes authorized the seal. He moved money. Quiet money. Unity-funded legal cover. He made it disappear."

Toni blinked. Once.

Shelby took another breath. "He didn't do it for a cause. He did it for you. Just like he said in the message - 'they already had your name on a list.' He knew. And he tried to make sure no one else ever saw it."

Toni's jaw clenched.

“They sedated me. After it happened.”

She glanced over the balcony rail, voice flat.

“I didn’t even know what Unity was. Wasn’t part of a church. Never had parents — forget having ones who cared enough to send me to a conversion therapy camp.”

“I was in a group home. They flagged me for being loud. For not backing down. Called it a behavioral issue. And they sent me to a place that looked like help and felt like a fucking holding cell.”

She looked out at the street, eyes hard.

“The last thing I remember was being strapped down. A needle in my thigh. I don’t know how long I was out — just that when I woke up, no one asked what happened. Just if I was calm enough to stay.”

A beat.

“They made sure I didn’t get to tell it my way.”

Toni turned. Finally looked at her.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?”

Shelby didn’t look away.

“You don’t get to know why."

Toni waited.

“So why haven’t you run yet?”

Shelby blinked. Her mouth opened, closed. Then:

“Because I was, once. And I think you were the only one who didn’t make it my fault.”

A breath. Then quieter, not quite a wound, not quite a warning:

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.

It’s what I would’ve wanted—”

She glanced down at her hands, sleeves pulled tight.

“They sent me to a camp.

Drugged me so I’d stay quiet.

Marco kept you from that…

but somehow you still ended up in the same kind of room.”

Toni didn’t answer. Just flicked ash off the edge of her cigarette and let it burn itself out.

A breeze came through. Not cold — just enough to remind them they weren’t invisible.

Toni pushed off the railing first.

She didn’t say anything — just opened the balcony door and left it there, wide enough to mean follow.

Shelby stepped in after her.

Inside, neither of them spoke.

Toni reached for her sweatshirt — the one she’d ditched over the couch — and handed it over without looking.

Shelby took it. Pulled it on.

Not forgiveness. But warmth.

Not an ending. Just a change in shape.

She was about to head back to the guest room when she turned around.

“I met Marco once. Years ago. Some donor fundraiser in Minnesota.”

Her voice softened.

“He saw right through me. And at the summit — when you called me out — it felt like that again.”

A pause. Then, almost to herself:

“He gave me the benefit of the doubt, too.”

---

---

[FATIN]-Mateo's Car - Thursday 10:00 A.M.

Mateo's car hummed like it hadn't noticed the sky was falling.

Fatin sat in the middle seat, sleeves of her oversized knit shrug shoved to the elbows, thumb scrolling out of habit. Nothing stuck. Her brain buzzed with white noise.

Dot had the window cracked. Leah sat stiff beside her, arms crossed like a shield. Judgment, maybe. Or fear disguised as control.

Silence stretched long. Tense.

Then Leah leaned in.

For half a second, Fatin thought she might say something real. Or kiss her again. Something reckless. Something stupid. Just enough to quiet her mind.

But then-

"So what are we going to do?" Leah asked.

Fatin didn't look up. "About what?"

"Your parents," Leah said. "The investments. The files Jeff gave me?"

Dot's body shifted. Listening now.

"I'm thinking," Fatin said.

Leah's tone sharpened. "You're thinking. They funded a conversion therapy camp. In Modesto. You said this was our backyard."

Fatin stared out the windshield.

"I've got two little brothers," she said. "They didn't ask for any of this. They need parents. Stability. Or they'll end up like-"

She cut herself off.

"Like someone who got thrown to the wolves and taught themselves how to bite."

She didn't blink.

"They still think my dad's a hero. They don't deserve this, Leah."

Leah cleared her throat, leaning toward the front. "So... did she open the file? Marco's message?"

Mateo didn't look back. "Ask her. Not me."

He started the car.

"I'm not the messenger. If Marco trusted her, maybe we should too."

He looked at Dot. "All of you."

Silence fell again.

Then Mateo's phone lit up: six missed calls from Dante.

Fatin leaned forward. "Why is Dante blowing you up?"

Leah: "Maybe he's lonely."

Dot: "Maybe you're projecting."

Bluetooth chimed.

Incoming Call - Shelby Goodkind

The air changed.

Dot: "Are you practicing evangelism now?"

Fatin: "I am so fucking confused. What is happening?"

Mateo answered. "Hey, Shelby. Everything okay?"

Shelby's voice slid through, smooth and sweet. "Howdyyy... Are you with anyone?"

Fatin: "What?"

Mateo now serious, responded,"Is Dante okay?"

Shelby: "Yes, I'm dead serious. Are you alone right now?"

Dot: "The hell does that mean?"

Leah: "It means we're not supposed to be here for this."

Mateo: "I'm driving them back from the airport."

Fatin, whispering: "Why does she know that?"

Dot: "I have no fucking clue." 

Leah blinked like something stung her eyes.

Silence pressed in.

Mateo pulled to the shoulder.

"Is it about Toni-"

Shelby cut in, sweet and sharp: "Mateo, honey-bless your heart, but I need you to take me off speaker and step outside. Right now."

Dot: "You're kidding."

Fatin just looked at him.

Mateo tapped off speaker. Got out. Shut the door.

It sounded final.

Then-

Dispatch Alert - 10:04 A.M. PST

Fatin's face dropped. She turned to Leah. "Your boyfriend's at it again, Rilke."

She tapped the screen. "I can't read it."

Leah: "What?" She took the phone. Began to read.

---

📎 THE DISPATCH

SHALIFOE CASE SPARKS RENEWED CONCERN OVER PUBLIC SAFETY AND INSTITUTIONAL OVERSIGHT

by Jeffrey Galanis in partnership with the Resolve Institute | 10:04 A.M. PST

The Resolve Institute has published a statement and accompanying advisory regarding a previously sealed 2016 criminal case involving Toni Shalifoe. The file, released this morning through Resolve's public-risk mitigation portal, outlines the incident as "an escalation of aggressive behavior in a high-stress environment without provocation or procedural clearance."

According to internal documents and leaked intake records, Shalifoe — then sixteen and under placement review in a county-monitored group home — forcibly entered a behavioral evaluation room during a conflict mediation session at a Legacy-affiliated intake facility in Minnesota. The evaluator, a contracted donor liaison, sustained compound injuries: a fractured jaw, broken orbital socket, and multiple facial lacerations. A 14-year-old witness was reportedly present.

Shalifoe was sedated involuntarily in the aftermath of the event, in accordance with therapeutic compliance protocols overseen by Unity-aligned medical advisors. Facility notes reference the sedation as a "preventative stabilizing intervention," followed by 72 hours of escalation monitoring. No formal statement was taken during this window.

The case was later sealed via proxy petition by an unaffiliated third-party representative. Internal audit logs confirm the legal motion was filed through a Unity-affiliated compliance firm specializing in juvenile rehabilitation defense.

Resolve classifies the act as "altruistic violence,” defined by Dr. Elaina Mercer — Resolve's senior forensic psychiatrist and former clinical director of the Jadmani Trust's Behavioral Compliance Program — as:

“Trauma-informed disruption presented as protection, often without regard for boundaries, escalation protocol, or consequence.”

“What concerns us isn't just the incident,” Mercer said. “It's the risk trajectory. When violence becomes a moral defense, it stops recognizing lines. Especially in public-facing roles.”

Resolve maintains the Level 3 Optical Hazard classification reflects "a pattern of behavior documented across multiple institutional placements."

Noć, the now-closed nightclub co-founded by Shalifoe, had no formal safety oversight procedures in place — despite her sealed criminal record and proximity to security-exempt performance licenses.

 

---

 

The car turned cold. Not quiet-dead. Like something sacred had been taken.

Fatin stared at the screen like it had slapped her.

"What the fuck is this?" she breathed. Her voice was all static and disbelief. "What the fuck is Resolve?"

Leah didn't look up. "It's a policy think tank. Security, ethics, liability-all tied to public safety infrastructure. They partner with Unity. And now apparently with Jeff."

Fatin blinked. "Okay, but what does that mean ?"

Dot: "It means we're not just losing control of the story. We were never in control to begin with."

Dot hovered over her screen. "She never told us," she whispered. "Not a word. I-God, I should've seen something coming."

Fatin shook her head. "You couldn't have. That's the point."

Quieter: "She was sixteen. They locked her down before she could speak. And now they're painting her radioactive."

 

Leah's arms folded tighter. "She didn't just snap. She crushed someone. In front of a kid. That's not trauma. That's a decision."

Fatin, sharp: "That's survival. That's what it looks like when no one shows up for you."

Dot's voice trembled. "This... explains a lot," she said quietly. "Why she never lets anyone in. Why she acts like emotions are liabilities."

Then, more certain: "She was always reckless. This isn't new. It's just... worse than we thought."

Leah: "She blew all right. Just like with Regan. Didn't hesitate. Didn't hold back. That wasn't instinct-it was intention."

Dot exhaled. "Yeah... she's always been like this...I thought this was her baseline honestly"

A pause.

"And maybe I didn't ask because I was scared of what I’d find."

No one replied.

Silence filled the car like smoke.

Fatin looked between them. "We don't even know if this is the whole story," she said. "It could be fake. Or a distraction. A smoke screen to keep us looking the wrong way, away from all the shit Unity Outreach has done in the ‘name of God’."

Dot didn't answer.

Leah snorted, quiet but sharp. "Then they picked one hell of a distraction. This isn't some rumor, Fatin. It's receipts."

Leah's phone buzzed.

"Okay. No. You have to see this."

She turned the screen.

Fatin didn't look right away. Just breathed out, slow.

Then she saw it.

🗞️ EXPOSÉD EXCLUSIVE

The Siren and the Saint's Daughter

They were never supposed to be in the same frame.

But the photo doesn't lie: Shelby Goodkind — daughter of Unity megachurch advisor David Goodkind — caught sitting on the hood of a Jeep that doesn't belong to her, in a crop top that would get her kicked out of any donor brunch.

The girl beside her? Toni Shalifoe — co-founder of Noć, recent subject of a Resolve Institute optical hazard warning, and allegedly, a walking contradiction of everything Unity calls pure.

The photo was taken Tuesday night, outside a gas station in Brentwood. Shalifoe is bruised. Backlit. Staring down at Goodkind like she's the only thing left worth burning for. Goodkind doesn't seem fazed. Almost like she's enjoying herself.

Sources close to the scene describe the moment as "tense, private, and lit like confession."

The EXPOSÉD editorial team received the image anonymously. Metadata confirms multi-angle surveillance software — not your average cell phone slip.

Whether the two are romantically involved is, technically, unconfirmed. But the body language is harder to deny. The framing? Even harder.

"It looks like someone about to fall," one insider said. "Or maybe someone who already did."

Unity has declined to comment. So has the LAPD.

But in a news cycle where Shalifoe is already being cast as a threat, one question remains:

Was this a rescue, or a reckoning?

 

Leah swallowed.

“It looks like Shelby wanted her to go for it.”

Fatin’s mouth tightened.

“No. It looks like Toni took it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was loaded. Framed. Waiting to break.

Fatin added, voice low, rough: "What the fuck is Toni doing with her?"

"What if this isn't just bad luck? What if Toni's working with him?" Leah started.

Dot leaned in. "Look at the angle. That's front-facing. Stable."

She tapped the screen.

"Someone bought that footage. Or they were already watching."

Leah blinked.
“What if she’s playing some kind of long game with the Goodkinds? I don’t know — keeping them close, making sure Marco stays alive?”

Dot didn’t answer right away.
Just frowned, like the thought hadn’t occurred to her — and now it wouldn’t leave.

Fatin turned on them, sharp.
“Are you hearing yourselves?”
A beat.
"You really think she’s out here making deals with the people who drugged her? Get the fuck out of my face".

And from the moment Mateo got in the car, nobody said anything else, and Leah didn't ask anyone any more questions. 

---

[SHELBY] NOĆ - SOUND BOOTH - THURSDAY 12 PM

The side entrance stuck. Toni shoved it open with her shoulder, didn't wait to see if Shelby followed.

Inside, Noć was hollow.

It wasn't quiet, not really. Just stripped. Like someone had pulled the music out by the roots and left the shape of it behind.

Toni didn't pause. The path to the booth lived in her bones. She could've walked it with her eyes shut.

Shelby caught up at the edge of the stairs. "You think it's still here?"

Toni didn't answer. She crouched at the booth. Marco had called it "the basement." Not literal. Just buried. The part no one dances on. She peeled up the loose panel beneath the console, and there it was - matte black, no markings, taped to the underside with a single strip of red gaffer.

Marco's version of subtle.

She didn't hesitate. Slid it into the drive port. The monitor flared to life.

One file.

No label. Just a timestamp.

She clicked it.

The screen blinked. Then Marco appeared - muscle tank, veins arm veins blue underlit, tired. Not looking at the camera so much as through it.

"If you're watching this, it means you've already seen too much. And I didn't get there fast enough."

His voice was raw. No music. No edits.

"I tried to keep it clean. Tried to keep you out of it. But they already had your name. Since you were sixteen."

"That case? The one you never talk about? It was never sealed for you. Just from you. They knew they'd use it. All they needed was timing."

Toni didn't move. Didn't blink.

"This drive has names. Contracts. Site maps. Retention protocols. Funding flowed through churches, logistics fronts, rehab grants. But it wasn't just God's money. Veracruz, Meridian Group Holdings, Orquídea West Freight-washed in donations, laundered in patience. The camps weren't just ideological. They were profitable. There's a girl in Modesto who never made it out. Her file disappeared before her body did."

"Three sites. None of them legal. And none of them just about conversion. It's not just gay kids - it's foster kids, poor kids, loud girls, the ones who don't fold.Anyone who scares the system into looking back at itself. Girls like Jasmine."

Toni fidgeted, back straining. Shelby's eyes darted from her jaw to the screen, then back.

"All of them built on the same language: correction, purity, faith."

"They think this is a crusade. And they think people like you are a warning."

Shelby shifted beside her. Didn't speak.

"I didn't seal that file because I was covering for you. I did it because they were building the pipeline around you. You weren't supposed to make it out… "

"I couldn't save her. But I moved the money. Buried the link. Signed the proxy petition myself."

"It wasn't about erasing you. It was about keeping them from erasing what you hadn't even built yet."

"You don't owe me a damn thing. But if this gets out, if people see it-don't let them make you the threat."

"You were never the threat."

"You were the one thing they couldn't classify without lying."

The video cut.

The silence in the booth was sharp around the edges.

Toni didn't move for a full beat. Then she ejected the drive and slid it into her pocket.

She didn't need to open the files.

Marco had already read her the verdict.

Shelby's voice came quiet. "That wasn't just evidence."

"No," Toni said. "It was a map."

Shelby swallowed. Her voice cracked just slightly. "He said her file disappeared before her body did. Toni-"

Toni didn't answer. She pulled her phone from her back pocket. Didn't open it. Just held it. Like she already knew the list of names she'd have to call.

Outside, a car door slammed. Not near, but close enough to hear through the alley.

Shelby looked toward the soundboard glass. "We're being watched."

Toni didn't even blink. "Good."

A man stood across the street. Not security. Not press.

Her stomach turned before her brain caught up.

Shelby stepped back like her skin recognized him before her eyes did. Serrano. Still as glass. And smiling.

Toni glanced at Shelby. Just once. Not fear. Not a plan. Just asking, without asking-Are you still with me? Shelby didn't nod. But she didn't look away either.

They didn't run.

They just sat in the dark, empty club - the one that used to belong to them - holding the next chapter in their hands, knowing the cameras were already rolling.

The side door creaked again. Heavy steps. Familiar weight.

Mateo.

"Figured you were here - Dante said if I didn't see you by noon, I should check the basement."

He didn't ask what they found. Just held out a Mateo shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Dante says you’re not picking up your main. Since you’re lit up.”

The burner phone landed on the table like a challenge. Plain. Waiting.

“He’s been out there ten minutes,” Mateo added, voice low. “Watching. Wanted to see who’d come out first.”

Shelby stiffened. “You know who that is?”

“Legacy’s lapdog,” Mateo said. “Too clean to be coincidence.”

Toni didn’t flinch. “You followed us?”

Mateo’s eyes moved between them. “I figured someone should.”

He looked at Shelby now. Not unkind. Just steady. “You good?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her gaze drifted toward Toni — and maybe she didn’t mean to lean in that fraction. Maybe she didn’t mean to breathe like that.

“I’m fine,” she said, barely above a whisper.

And Toni—Toni moved before she could think. Her hand found the curve of Shelby’s back, fingers brushing soft up her spine. A quiet claim. A reflex, maybe. Or something older than that. Like she could anchor them both by touch alone.

Shelby didn’t move.

For a second—just a second—nothing else existed.

It was the kind of contact that crackled. Charged the space between them. A promise, unspoken. I got you. Said without words, said too loud anyway.

If Mateo saw it, he didn’t say.

“Didn’t ask if you were,” he murmured instead. “Just making sure you’re not in over your head.”

The spell broke. Toni’s hand dropped. The moment shuddered—like power flickering in a storm.

Toni’s voice came quieter now. Harder. “We all are. That’s why we’re still here.”

She reached for the burner. No hesitation. Just muscle memory.

Scrolled.

Found the number Marco had made her memorize. Just in case.

She hit call.

One ring. Two.

A voice answered. Low. Scratchy. Awake.

“Harlow.”

Toni didn’t blink. “I have a drive. Legacy. Unity. Resolve. Real names, real sites. You want it or not?”

A pause. Then: “Send the location.”

Toni hung up. No thank you. No pleasantries. Just the taste of smoke in her mouth.

She looked at Mateo. Something sharpened in her spine.

“We don’t wait.”

---

 

[DOT] — THE COMPOUND — FRIDAY, 1 P.M.

 

The coffee mug had gone cold.

Dot didn’t bother pouring it out.

She’d already rinsed it three times.

Still felt like something was stuck under her skin.

The phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown number.

She answered anyway.

Her voice came out steady.

“Dot Campbell.”

A beat. Then a voice — clean, professional, too calm for today.

“Hi, this is Janelle Fowkes with VibeWire. We’re following up on the Resolve Institute leak. Can you confirm whether Toni Shalifoe accessed restricted property at Noć yesterday morning?”

Dot blinked.

“…What the hell are you talking about?”

“There are reports she retrieved materials from the sound booth. No direct source — just building chatter. Surveillance picked up movement. A Shelby Goodkind and a Mateo Ruiz were allegedly with her.”

That hit.

Harder than she expected.

“Excuse me?”

“Resolve flagged the footage this morning. You know, Shelby is David Goodkind's daughter. And Mateo’s… prior affiliations to legacy and  Orquídea West were already circulating, authorities are looking into Palmers as another money laundering hub. The advisory is going national.”

Dot’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter.

A crack climbed up the glaze of her mug.

“Who’s circulating that?”

“Resolve’s public alert went out twenty minutes ago. It’s already with national affiliates.”

Dot didn’t answer. She just hung up.

She stared at the screen. Didn’t move.

Then, automatic, low:

“What the fuck even is Resolve?”

From the other room, Leah called back — already keyed up:

“They’re Legacy’s clean-up crew. Funded by Unity. Wrapped in data and dressed up like concern.”

Dot opened her phone.

Missed Call — LAPD Investigator.

She didn’t touch it.

In the living room, Fatin was folded into the couch, laptop glowing, inbox overflowing.

Leah sat cross-legged on the floor with a hard copy of the memo, red pen out like she could still revise the damage.

Dot stepped into the doorway.

“They saw her.”

Fatin looked up.

“Toni?”

Dot nodded.

“Surveillance picked her up at Noć. Resolve’s spinning it. Press is running with it. And the cops called me.”

Leah stood.

“You answer?”

“I picked up the reporter. Not the cop.”

She hesitated.

“They said Shelby and Mateo were with her.”

That quieted the room.

“Shelby’s name’s getting dragged because of her dad,” Dot said.

“Mateo’s being labeled an ex–drug dealer. They’re building a narrative. One where anyone standing near her goes down with her.”

Fatin’s jaw clenched.

“So they're all collateral now.”

Dot nodded, slowly.

“Yeah. And Resolve just made it national.”

Leah’s red pen dropped onto the floor with a soft clatter.

“Of course they did.”

Dot didn’t answer. She just rubbed the back of her neck.

Felt heavier than before.

“Dante called while you were upstairs,” she added.

“He wants Fatin at Club SOFT tomorrow by five. Said the showcase is still on.”

Fatin blinked.

“And Toni?”

“She’ll be there,” Dot said.

“He’s putting her on floor logistics. Press flow. Where the cameras land. I’m running security. Full crew.”

She paused. The next part sat wrong in her mouth but needed to be said.

“Noć was always a risk. Dante’s been building SOFT as a fallback since the first Unity leak. He knew if the wrong people came knocking, we’d need somewhere that could hold.”

Leah let out a breath that sounded more like disbelief.

“But Toni hasn’t even reached out to us? Not one word to explain?”

Dot shook her head.

“Not to me.”

Fatin didn’t look up.

“Maybe she’s done explaining.”

Leah scoffed.

“That’s convenient.”

Dot stepped back, arms crossed. Not defensive. Just done.

“Or maybe she knows nothing she says would matter right now.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was crowded.

With doubt.

With damage.

With the weight of what still hadn’t come undone.

---

 

[LEAH] — SATURDAY 12 P.M. — THE COMPOUND

Toni hadn’t reached out.

Not a call. Not a text. Not even a burner breadcrumb.

She vanished after Noć. Not hidden — just absent, in the way that makes absence feel like a message.

Mateo knew more than he was saying.

When Fatin asked, he said, “Let her come to you.”

Like they owed Toni something.

Like silence was the truest kind of loyalty.

The two days since the Resolve leak had been chaos wrapped in stillness.

Leah and Fatin veered between kissing like they needed it to stay alive and fighting like it might kill them.

They argued about everything — the file, the bruises, whether Toni even had a reason to break someone’s jaw, or whether it was just who she’d always been.

Leah wanted to call the landlord. Wanted to say it out loud:

“Take her off the damn lease. I can’t live with someone who hides something like that.”

It wasn’t just about the file. It was about trust.

About how long she’d been lying by omission.

Dot agreed.

The four of them had been friends since fucking high school — through college, through hell.

They’d all opened up. Peeled their pasts back like old wallpaper.

Messy. Fragile. Still stuck in places.

But Toni?

She ran.

And now they were learning from the press — not just about the trauma, but about the violence.

That she didn’t just survive the system.

She hurt people inside it.

Since Noć closed, Fatin threw herself into work. Picked up wedding gigs again.

Dot added shifts at two dispensaries and started bartending at Palmer’s.

None of it helped. Not really.

The door creaked like it was warning them.

Dante James never needed to knock.

Toni had given him a key.

Leah hadn’t even known there were spare keys.

Fatin treated him like a memory she didn’t regret.

Toni trusted him like family.

Leah never got it — 

but then again, they probably didn’t get Jeff either.

Especially now.

Now that he could be held almost single-handedly responsible for Toni’s demise.

Dante walked in like he’d been summoned by the storm itself and dropped a sleek black envelope on the table.

“Club SOFT,” he said.

“Tonight. Fatin’s on at eight. I need all of you there by five.”

He glanced at Leah.

“Unless you’ve got a story to file with your co-author. Jeffrey, was it?”

The smirk was small. Dry. Not playful.

Dot looked up from the microwave, one brow raised.

“You’re a manager. Since when do you run the door?”

“Since no one else is showing up,” Dante said.

“And the press is writing Toni’s ending for her.”

Leah crossed her arms.

“So now we’re supposed to fix it?”

Fatin didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling.

“So… she’s still staying with you?”

A beat.

“Is she eating? Drinking? Smoking everything in sight?”

Then, softer — not joking anymore:

“Has she gone on a bender?”

Dante stayed still.

“She’s safe.”

Then, after a pause:

“Not great. Not sleeping. But focused.”

His voice leveled out.

“She’s curating the floor. Press flow, crowd energy, where the cameras land. She’s not hiding — she’s shaping what they see.”

Another beat.

“It’s the one thing she can still control.”

Fatin’s lips pressed together. That didn’t answer the question.

Leah leaned against the counter.

“Safe?”

She said it like the word offended her.

“You think hiding behind Shelby Goodkind counts as safe?”

Fatin turned toward her, but didn’t raise her voice.

“Leah, come on—”

“She disappeared.”

Leah wasn’t shouting. She didn’t need to.

“No explanation. No denial. Just vanished. Silence isn’t neutral. It’s an answer.”

Dot spoke quietly from the doorway.

“Or maybe she’s scared no one would listen if she did speak.”

That landed.

Fatin turned toward her — surprised, maybe even grateful.

Leah didn’t move.

“She’s not hiding,” she said finally.

“She picked a side.”

Fatin’s eyes narrowed.

Pain flickered underneath.

“You don’t believe that.”

Leah didn’t answer.

Dante didn’t move. Just looked at her like he was trying to figure out if she meant it.

“You think she picked this?”

His voice didn’t rise. That made it worse.

“You think she looked at everything they did to Marco, and Noć, and her — and thought, yeah, that looks like safety? I don’t know what lies that pathetic journalist’s been feeding you—”

He took a step closer.

Dot stepped in — not blocking, just placing herself in the space. A quiet buffer.

Dante didn’t push it.

“She’s lying low,” he said.

“Because she has to. After what Jeff did to her — after what came out? She’s not running. She’s recovering.”

Leah’s laugh came too fast.

“Jeff didn’t break a man’s jaw. Or get classified as a hazard to youth.”

Fatin closed her eyes.

Like she could take the words back for her.

Dot stayed still. Watching.

“Distancing yourself from her won’t fix any of this,” Dante said.

“You’re not helping her by pretending she’s already gone.”

He looked at each of them in turn — Dot, Leah, Fatin.

Then, quieter:

“You’re losing her. Do you really want that?”

A beat.

Then his gaze landed on Fatin, steady.

“It’s Toni.”

And that was it.

Fatin didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just stood there in the doorway, jaw set, arms wrapped tight.

Leah had never seen her cry —

Not until that day.

Dante didn’t say anything else.

Just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Fatin.

Leah watched her stiffen — then fold.

Not all the way. But enough.

He held her like he’d done it before.

Like he knew when to ask and when to just be there.

Like he didn’t expect her to hold the weight alone.

Leah didn’t look away.

She couldn’t.

Not because it was touching —

but because for the first time all day,

Fatin let someone else hold the line.

And Leah finally understood just how close she’d come to snapping.

 

Chapter 14: tracklist

LINER NOTES
The songs that helped shape the tension/character arcs—character intentions etc.

1. DEADROSES – BLACKBEAR
Not everything that blooms was meant to survive.
TONI × REGAN
Regan said it was Toni’s anger that ruined them. Toni remembers the silence that came first.

2. BAGS – CLAIRO
They both knew what it meant. Only one of them kept pretending it was just a song.
LEAH × FATIN

3. COLORS – HALSEY
Leah calls it love. Jeffrey calls it mentorship. The bruises don’t care what name you give them.
JEFFREY × LEAH

4. I FOUND GOD – MAINLAND
The only thing holy that night was the way Toni looked at her — like she wasn’t afraid to burn.
SHELBY × TONI
Shelby used to think faith was obedience. On the balcony, barefoot and shaking, she realized it might be surrender.

5. DRIVE NORTH – DEM ATLAS
Marco never asked her to change. That’s why she almost did.
TONI

6. RACE CAR – ARIES
They don’t fight about the speed. They fight about the direction.
MATEO × DOT
Mateo’s foot’s on the gas. Dot’s not sure he knows where they’re going. She stays anyway.

7. HAMMER – NOTHING,NOWHERE.
She held the line until her hands bled. No one noticed until she dropped the hammer.
DOT
Dot always did what she was supposed to. It’s the consequences no one prepared for.

8. EMPTY HOME – KEVIN ABSTRACT
He built something beautiful. It still didn’t keep him warm.
DANTE
Black. Japanese. Texas-raised. He was always too much and never enough for the rooms he walked into.
Noć was supposed to be the answer. Instead, it’s a monument to a boy he couldn’t save. And a man he doesn’t quite recognize anymore.

9. SO APPALLED – KANYE WEST
He smiled like he belonged. That was the easiest lie to sell.
MARCO
He knew how dirty the game was — because he played it better than anyone.
That’s what made walking away so hard.
He built the whole house. And then he burned it down from the inside.

10. LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL – LIL PEEP
He didn’t die. He disappeared.
MARCO (CONT'D)
And maybe that’s worse — because it means he’s still out there, watching the world he tried to save keep burning.

11. BURN IT DOWN – DAUGHTER
They never started the fire. But they never walk away from it either.
EVERYONE

Notes:

Any feedback - even anon helps <3

Chapter 15: almost a sex tape

Summary:

Leverage works best when it feels inevitable.
Nothing was staged. Nothing was altered.
They made the choices.
We captured the consequences.

Public interest demands transparency.
The rest is sentiment

Notes:

***THIS CHAPTER TAKES PLACE ALMOST ONE WEEK AFTER THE SUMMIT [SUMMIT WAS LAST SATURDAY]******
the song bags by clairo is central to this chapter, I’d check it out before reading!

[TONI — FRIDAY NIGHT / CLUB SOFT / 7:42 P.M.]

Club SOFT wasn’t open to the public the day before the showcase. Just crew. Staff. A few clip-boarded producers whispering in corners. But it still sounded like too much.

The walls weren’t meant for silence. Not here. Not in this room. They swallowed sound like secrets. The air smelled like cables, dust, and something about to go wrong.

It used to be storage. Now it was forgotten. Perfect for conversations that couldn’t survive daylight.

The only light came from Harlow’s phone and the faint LED strip along the console, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to work or give out.

Toni sat on the edge of a single chair, spine rigid, thumb pressed against the SD card in her palm. Not the original — that one was hidden. This was the copy. The one she was willing to burn.

Harlow stood by the mixing console, scanning a club floor plan on his phone like he wasn’t the most dangerous person in the room — because he didn’t need fists or fame. Just knowledge, timing, and the quiet promise that he knew exactly where to strike.

He looked like something carved out of dusk — dark curls cropped close, olive skin sharp in the low light, cheekbones that caught shadow like they meant to cut. His eyes didn’t blink without purpose. They tracked everything. Assessed. Remembered. A face you might forget at first glance but not after you felt it watching you.

He didn’t posture. Didn’t soften. The stillness was calculated — like a man who’d been trained to take up less space until it was time to strike.

Most people didn’t even know his real name. But Toni did. Harlow Nassar. Back when he hadn’t yet learned how to lock his face down. When raised voices still made his shoulders twitch. Before the calm was a tactic, not a trait.

Marco had introduced them once — barely a handshake, barely a name — but that had been enough. Enough for Toni to know who to call when it all started collapsing. Enough to recognize the way danger quiets a person over time. Back when he used to talk about Palestine and photography in the same breath, like beauty and brutality were just different exposures.

She’d known him before the aliases, before he sharpened himself into what the world demanded. Back when he was just another shadow in someone else’s war, trying to stay afloat without being seen.

Toni did.

She didn’t wait for him to speak.

“This is what you wanted,” she said, holding the card out.

He didn’t take it right away. Just looked at her.

“This is what Marco left for you,” he said.

Her jaw flexed.

“You said you’d know where to aim. So aim already. Unless you’re just here to watch me flinch.”

Then, quieter—more fragile:

“Have you heard from him?”

Harlow didn’t answer at first. He stepped closer, took the card from her hand, and turned it between his fingers like it might confess something she hadn’t noticed.

“If I had,” he said, “you’d already know.”

He didn’t pocket it. Not yet. Just studied it like it had a fuse.

“You made a copy.”

“You think I trust you?”

“They already discredited me with my file. Mateo said they’re scrubbing everything Marco touched. I don’t even know what’s left to expose. But if there is—”

She looked at him, steady.

“You’ll know what to do with it.”

His mouth curled — not a smile. Something meaner.

“Marco was right. You’re too smart for your own good.”

A beat passed. The bass from the main room vibrated faintly under their feet. From here, the world felt far away. That was the danger.

Harlow nodded once.

“Good. Because if what’s on here is what I think it is, I won’t just leak it. I’ll aim it. Names. Timing. Platform. It’ll hit where it hurts.”

He paused, gaze still on the card.

“They’re already moving. Legacy’s had Shelby in their sights for a while. This—” he held up the card, “—just confirms what they’re willing to do.”

“She’s not even—” Toni started.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They don’t need facts. They need leverage. They’ve got Galanis framing the narrative — she’ll look like a defector. Or a relapse case. Whatever lands.”

Toni’s spine went straighter.

“Serrano followed us last night. At Noć. After we broke in.”

That got his attention.

“He didn’t get out of the car,” she said. “Just watched. Like he was waiting to be invited.”

“That’s not surveillance,” Harlow said. “That’s a message.”

Toni’s voice sharpened.

“Yeah. I got it.”

She stood. The chair creaked behind her like it didn’t want her to leave.

“Is Jeff just doing this for money, or is he in bed with David?”

Harlow didn’t flinch.

“He’s got Legacy ties. Deep ones. Donor circuits. Overlapping boards. He’s not just covering for them — he’s a mouthpiece. David gives him access, not cash. Leverage. Enough to keep his hands clean.”

Then, lower:

“Jeff knows what he’s doing. And what he’s choosing to ignore.”

Toni didn’t blink. But her jaw clenched — slow, deliberate. Like she was chewing glass.

Marco had warned her. She just hadn’t let it in.

Of course.

David handed over the sealed file. Leah leaked Marco’s note. Galanis played the middle.

Clean enough to sell it. Dirty enough to benefit.

Maybe worse.

Maybe Serrano didn’t find her — or Shelby — on his own.

Her voice cracked.

“Can you protect her?”

“I can slow it down,” Harlow said. “But if she keeps standing next to you, they’ll keep firing.”

Toni’s hands balled into fists.

“They’ll do to her what they couldn’t finish in that camp,” he said. “Only this time, they’ll have footage to prove she wanted it.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“They don’t need to hurt her physically. Not when they can humiliate her on your behalf.”

A beat passed.

Then, almost softly:

“She’s not the first girl they’ve tried to erase by making her the problem.”

Upstairs, someone laughed. Sharp. Male. Familiar.

Toni winced.

Shelby’s face flickered behind her eyes. The way she looked last night — open, trusting, not afraid.

Jasmine had looked at her like that once.

She’d been fifteen. Quiet in the way that came from survival. She followed Toni like a shadow. Never spoke in groups. Never cried.

Until the day she did.

Toni remembered the man’s hand. The slick voice. Jasmine’s flinch when he smiled.

And then:

Bone meeting jaw. The sickening crack. Blood on her sleeve.

Jasmine never came back after that. Toni never found out where they sent her.

Harlow finally slipped the SD card into his pocket.

“They’ll bury you for this,” he said. “If Shelby doesn’t fall in line — if she so much as flinches — they’ll make you the sin.

The one they couldn’t scrub out of her.

And they’ll do it in headlines.”

Toni flinched.

“You didn’t call me to make it stop,” Harlow said. “You called me so you’d know how bad it was.”

He moved toward the door.

“It’s bad.”

Then he was gone.

Toni didn’t move.

Not for a full minute.

She hadn’t planned to. Just kept walking, past the main room, past the crowd, until the bass gave way to something smaller. Something she could disappear into.

It was too quiet.

Toni didn’t want to move.

She stepped into the hallway.

The noise met her like a verdict.

—

[TONI × SHELBY — BACK HALLWAY / FRIDAY NIGHT / CLUB SOFT]

She didn’t go back to the floor. Just kept walking until the bass thinned out and the lights got mean. Somewhere behind the booth, the dark found her first.

A small red light blinked faintly above the doorframe. Probably dead. Probably leftover from the remodel. But it made Toni’s shoulders tense anyway. Too narrow, dimly lit, thick with heat and static from the bassline bleeding through the walls. It reeked of fog machine residue, sweat, and the metallic tang of anticipation — like the air before a lightning strike.

Shelby didn’t knock. She stepped in and let the door close behind her with a click loud enough to sound like a verdict.

Toni stood with her back to the room, motionless. Not just still—tense. Shoulders high, fists clenched. She didn’t turn. But she knew.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“You said that yesterday,” Shelby’s voice cut through.

“This time I mean it.”

Toni turned slowly. No anger in her face — just dread. Her eyes were unreadable, dark and heavy under the jaundiced flicker of the hallway light. Her mouth opened, almost said something. Then closed again.

“You should go,” she said. “From Dante’s. From me. All of it.”

But Shelby was already moving. Two steps closer. She felt the heat rolling off Toni’s body before they touched.

“Don’t pretend this is about me,” Shelby said. “This is you—trying not to watch yourself break it.”

“It is for your sake.”

Shelby stepped closer, close enough to feel the tremor in Toni’s breath.

“Because I’m so fragile?” she asked, with a bitter smile.

“Because they’ve already decided how my story ends,” Toni said. “They just need you in the shot to sell it.”

Shelby stared at her for a long moment, her chest rising and falling fast. There was something in her eyes Toni hadn’t seen before. Not defiance. Not even courage. Just the kind of certainty that made everything else irrelevant.

“You think I haven’t already been broken?”

Toni’s expression cracked. Just a little. Not grief. Not surrender. Just the strain of trying to hold it all in and failing.

Shelby’s hand rose, slow and deliberate, fingers grazing Toni’s jaw like she was testing the sharpness of something dangerous.

“Tell me who Jasmine is.”

Toni froze. Eyes sharp now. Guarded. Wounded. Like the question had cut deeper than anything else tonight.

“Was she just another body in the fire?” Shelby asked, voice quieter now. “Or the first one you couldn’t save?”

Toni’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked away—but only for a second. Then locked back on Shelby’s.

“You keep trying to protect me like I’m a case file. Like I’m already gone. But I’m not. I’m right here. And you don’t get to choose what ruins me.”

Toni exhaled like it hurt.

“You need to leave.”

“No,” Shelby said, and then—without warning—she grabbed the front of Toni’s shirt and kissed her like a threat.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was mouths colliding with the force of everything unsaid, everything denied. Tongues sliding deep, fast, wet—Shelby moaned into her mouth when Toni bit her lower lip and dragged it slow between her teeth.

Toni shoved her backward into the wall, hand flat on Shelby’s chest, pinning her there. She paused. Taking in the sight of Shelby—not how she’d looked at the summit, clean-lined and prepped and guarded. No, this was different. This was Shelby stripped of all performance. Her lip gloss smudged, eyes wild, breath ragged. She looked like a wayward LA girl who’d burned her debutante dress in the backseat of someone else’s car. Like someone who’d stopped asking for permission.

Fuck—every day since the gas station, she’d been shifting. Swaggering more like a Bay Area queen than the southern belle Toni met less than two weeks ago.

And the worst part? It looked good on her. It fit like something she’d grown into—dangerous, bright, untouchable.

Toni’s hand trembled where it held her. This wasn’t control. It wasn’t some planned unraveling. It felt like inevitability—like the moment you realize the thing you’ve been holding off has already started to burn.

“Tell me to stop,” Toni’s voice rasped. “You don’t want this… you don’t need this…”

But the girl standing in front of her didn’t look like someone who needed saving. Not anymore. Not like she had at the summit, all posture and politeness. This Shelby—this version—was unvarnished. Mouth red and smeared, breathing hard, eyes fierce with want. A girl Toni might’ve met in a booth at Noć three years ago, already halfway through ruining her life. A girl who didn’t flinch when things burned.

Shelby kissed her again harder—hot, open, hungry—until Toni gasped and arched, grinding against her. There was nothing hesitant about Shelby’s touch. She moved like someone who already knew how this would end—and wasn’t afraid to want it anyway.

Toni didn’t hold back. She palmed Shelby’s breast through her shirt, squeezing rough and full, thumb brushing over the nipple until Shelby whimpered into her mouth. Then her other hand slid down, fingers curling between Shelby’s legs through her jeans—pressing, circling, claiming.

Shelby bucked into her touch with a sharp cry.

“God, yes. That feels so good.”

Toni shuddered against her neck, voice rough and low.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” Shelby choked out, her hands tugging at Toni’s jacket, then under it, nails scraping skin. She clawed the shirt up and over Toni’s head, dropped it to the floor, and kissed her again, wetter this time, sloppier, their bodies grinding together in a sync that felt like it had always been there, waiting.

Toni’s hands were ruthless now—one yanked open Shelby’s jeans, the other shoved them halfway down her thighs. She dropped to her knees, grabbing Shelby by the hips to anchor her, and pressed her mouth between her legs without hesitation.

Shelby gasped like she’d been hit. One hand slammed against the wall, the other tangled in Toni’s hair.

“Oh—fuck—”

Toni licked slow at first, then fast—slick, focused, devouring—her mouth working in hard, perfect rhythm, her tongue relentless. She groaned into Shelby’s cunt like she was drunk on it, dragging every sound Shelby made out of her throat like a promise.

Shelby’s thighs shook. Her head thudded back against the wall. Her breath broke into stutters and high, helpless cries.

“Toni—Toni—don’t—oh my god—”

Toni didn’t. She pushed deeper, fingers now joining her mouth, curling just right, pumping with brutal, beautiful precision.

Shelby was unraveling—hips jerking, moans rising—right on the edge.

—

After, the silence hit like gravity. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Shelby sagged back against the wall, breath stuttering, jeans still tangled around one ankle. Toni didn’t move right away. Her mouth was slick, hands still on Shelby’s hips, forehead pressed against her thigh like she’d forgotten how to be upright.

Longing twisted low in her chest — raw and real and inevitable. Not regret. Not exactly. But the terrifying clarity that she’d never felt anything this pure and this doomed in the same breath.

Neither of them spoke.

Then, softly — Shelby’s fingers slid into Toni’s hair. Not to pull. Not to provoke. Just… to stay connected. Her touch didn’t ask for forgiveness. It just said: I’m still here.

Toni looked up slowly. Her eyes were glassy, unreadable.

“We shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Shelby whispered. “Don’t ruin it yet.”

Toni swallowed. Nodded. She stood, helped Shelby straighten her jeans with fumbling fingers, kissed her one more time — gentler, this time. Like a promise or an apology. Maybe both.

Then: the sound of a door opening. Distant, but real. Somewhere else in the building — close enough to be a problem.

They froze.

The moment snapped. Like a thread pulled too tight.

Toni didn’t turn her head, but something in her spine locked up.

This wouldn’t stay between them. Not now. Not in this place.

By tomorrow, it wouldn’t be a memory. It’d be used. Played. Framed. Proof of something they never agreed to show.

Toni reached for the knob.

“We have to move.”

Shelby nodded. But her hand lingered on Toni’s wrist for a second longer than it needed to.

The air felt heavier now. Like it had learned something it wasn’t supposed to.

—

[FATIN — CLUB SOFT, MAIN FLOOR / SATURDAY 6:10 P.M.]

The club was at capacity. Not Noć, not home — but familiar enough. The air was thick with borrowed cool, all curated chaos and too-smooth lighting.

Fatin hadn’t seen Toni since the fallout. Since the article.

They called it a showcase. Industry-adjacent. Soft launch vibes. But the floor felt like a stage, and every beat felt like a countdown.

They were being watched.

Not in a paranoid way — more like the casual kind that followed Fatin everywhere. The kind that came with her face, her set times, her history. A few people nodded in recognition. One guy at the bar tried to catch her eye like she still owed him a text from February. Another whispered something to his friend that made Dot roll her eyes.

No one came up, though. Not yet. Not when she was standing next to Dot with a drink in one hand and nothing in her expression.

Just long enough for it to sting.

She wasn’t on until later — Dante had her slotted for the emotional climax — but standing still felt foreign. Like her pulse didn’t know what to do without a beat to ride. Like the silence might swallow her if she let it.

She missed Noć, in the way you miss a version of yourself. The weddings had better lighting, sure, but they felt like background music to someone else’s story. This — club air, strobe haze, the chance to own the room — was the closest she’d gotten to normal in weeks.

Her fingers itched for the mixer, the slide of faders, the throb of control. She was used to taking up space with sound, not silence. The waiting made her feel like someone else.

The music shifted — just enough to tell something was happening. A sparkle of synth, a beat that felt like a held breath. The kind of track Dante used when he wanted you to turn and look.

Dot was already watching the entrance.

“No,” she said under her breath.

Fatin followed her gaze.

Dante walked in first — of course. Then Toni. Then Shelby.

They weren’t holding hands, but they didn’t need to. Proximity said enough — but so did the rest of them.

Toni looked nothing like the girl who used to work the booth at Noć. Her hair was down—sleek, deep-parted, curling slightly at the ends like it didn’t dare misbehave. The jacket was cropped and razor-cut, black with a flash of contrast trim—precise, archival, impossible to place. Beneath it, a bandeau top revealed just enough skin to make you wonder if it was intentional. The skirt hit mid-calf, a clean slit slicing up one thigh like punctuation. Sharpened. Stylized. Like a warning rendered in fabric. Her arm hovered near Shelby’s back only when she thought no one was watching—selective comfort. Like she wanted someone to give her a reason. Her eyes moved in a slow sweep—calculating, calm, the kind of stillness that made people nervous. She looked like someone who’d memorized every exit and marked every threat before she even stepped into the room.

Shelby, by contrast, glowed. She wore soft gold silk, something vintage and a little too delicate for a night like this — skin bare at the collarbones, lip gloss luminous, mascara full. Her beauty wasn’t just visible, it was curated: deliberately femme, deliberately fuck-you. But there was a tension in her posture, the kind that said she knew exactly how many eyes were on her, and exactly who she wanted to notice.

But Toni never let her out of reach.

Then—

“Hey.”

Fatin clocked Leah too late. Too close, too lit.

She wanted to step back — but didn’t.

And then it was too late.

Leah leaned in and kissed her.

Quick. Clean. Almost casual.

Not for cameras. Not for press. Just… because she could.

Fatin didn’t move. She didn’t kiss back — didn’t even flinch. Her breath caught mid-inhale and held there, suspended like the moment might still decide what it meant. Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes shifted — like her brain had filed the kiss under the wrong name and didn’t know where to put it.

Leah smiled.

“You looked like you needed it.”

For a second, it didn’t feel like anything.

No gasp. No lights. No soundtrack swell.

Just Leah’s breath on her cheek and the taste of mint left behind. Just the flicker of a thousand unreadable eyes.

Already moving on.

No scandal. Not even the promise of virality. Just the kind of forgettable spectacle that passed for intimacy in this city.

Fatin didn’t know what she’d expected — a spark, a scene, something worth the risk.

But all it gave her was silence.

And the sick sense that she’d just stepped into the wrong version of herself.

Across the room, Toni’s gaze landed.

And stuck.

Not on Leah. Not on Fatin.

On both of them.

Dante blinked, visibly thrown, like someone had swapped the script without warning. He was used to curating drama, not watching it unfold in a language he couldn’t translate.

Shelby noticed too. She leaned in slightly like she was asking if everything was okay.

Toni didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just kept watching.

Fatin felt the moment fracture. Like glass under pressure — quiet, but irreversible. A tension line behind her ribs snapped, sharp and invisible, like she’d been holding her breath for too long and only just realized it.

Dot’s voice cut through the haze.

“If that was grounding,” she said flatly, “you’re about to watch her burn.”

Toni nodded once — sharp, unreadable. Like she was checking a box and closing a door at the same time.

As if she were saying: oh, you’re playing bored girlfriend now? Keep it.

Not severed. Just… unreturnable.

Fatin’s chest tightened, breath catching somewhere between a sigh and a choke.

Fatin didn’t feel nothing.

She felt too much — in the wrong order.

And that scared her more than anything else.

[LEAH] MEZZANINE - SATURDAY FATIN'S SET

Leah watched the spotlight slice the room open. Fatin stepped into it like a blade.

She didn’t recognize the song at first.

Then the chords shifted—off-key, warped—and the lyrics crept back into her memory.

Walkin’ out the door with your bags.

Walkin’— distorted, doubled, unraveling.

A ghost of the phrase bending wrong in Fatin’s hands—familiar, but off.

Walkin’ out the door with your bags.

Not a refrain. A fracture.

It was Clairo.

But it had the unmistakable nuance of a challenge.

Fatin’s bow cut clean through the air. Her expression didn’t change. Her body barely moved. She looked like someone playing from muscle memory—like she’d already left, but her ghost was still finishing the song.

Leah tracked the line of her gaze.

Not at her.

At Toni.

And Toni? Toni wasn’t moving.

No.

One tear slid down Toni’s cheek.

Toni didn’t wipe it away.

"Pardon my emotions", she thought. "I should probably keep it all to myself".

And Fatin didn’t look away.

Behind them, the crowd wasn’t still anymore. Heads down. Screens lit. A ripple of motion where reverence had been.

The kind of silence that came after something started burning.

Can you see me? I'm waiting for the right time.

Leah’s phone buzzed—sharp and sudden, cutting through the cello’s lowest note. A few heads turned, frowning. Then another buzz. Then another.

Some reposted link—no handle, no caption, no trace. A dead TikTok. Already deleted.

But the clip lived. Auto-looping. Screen-recorded. Passed from phone to phone like a curse.

A single preview lit the screen—no context. Just motion.

Her thumb hovered.

Then tapped.

And there it was.

The hallway.

Shelby’s back against the wall. Toni’s mouth on her neck. A soft gasp, not meant for anyone else. The low slide of breath. The whisper. The trust.

It wasn’t just exposure.

It was spectacle.

Violent.

Intimate.

Designed to humiliate.

Leah’s breath hitched. She told herself to look away. She didn’t.

Her eyes stayed locked as the video played. Flickers of motion etched themselves into her mind, ugly and holy. A hand on a hip. A moan. A smile that hadn’t been for anyone else.

It didn’t feel like footage.

It felt like violation.

This wasn’t light. It wasn’t justice.

It was cruelty.

Cold. Clean. Catastrophic.

Not a consequence.

A crucifixion.

She blinked, hard.

Lowered the screen.

The images burned behind her eyelids.

Her hands trembled as she opened a new message.

For a split second, she thought of Shelby’s laugh, the softness in her voice when no one else was listening. Then the image from the video sliced it all away.

She didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

Tell me this wasn’t you.

She hit send.

To Jeffrey.

Not because she knew it was him—

But because someone had to see it.

Someone had to answer for it.

---

[SHELBY — DANTE’S OFFICE / SATURDAY - Post Performance]

The walls felt too smooth. The desk too clean. The low thump of bass from the main room barely reached this far—just enough to remind her how close she still was to being seen. Like the party hadn’t ended. Like the consequences hadn’t started yet.

She was still in the gold silk. She hadn’t fixed her lip gloss. Her heels were off. Her toes curled against the cool floor, like grounding might still work. Like pressure could hold her inside her body. Like she could still belong to herself, even after.

Her skin felt too tight. Her reflection in the window caught her off guard—a blur of gold and mascara smudge, like a stranger trying to look intact.

She kept seeing Toni’s face. Not the kiss, but the moment before it. That flicker of uncertainty. The stillness. The decision. And Shelby choosing her back.

She was trying not to think about what came after. Not to think about what they hadn’t said. The silence had been tender. It had felt like safety. Like choice.

But it didn’t feel like that now.

Her phone buzzed.

She reached for it without thinking. Just habit. A distraction. Maybe a text from Toni. Or Mateo. Or Dante. A reason to stop replaying the sound of her own voice in that kiss. A reason not to spiral.

Just one image. Blurred. Grayscale. A timestamp in the corner. A shape that might be her back pressed against a hallway wall. A shoulder that might be Toni’s.

No message. No name.

Then another. This one wider. Clearer.

From somewhere past the door—through the walls, from the hallway or the floor below—she caught voices. Half-laughed, already spinning viral.

“It’s from a burner—like, X or Telegram or something. Auto-delete in twenty-four. Doesn’t matter—people already ripped it.”

“No tags. No trace. But it’s her. That’s them.”

“Holy shit—they posted all of it.”

Her fingers slipped. The phone nearly fell, but she caught it.

She didn’t open the third image. She didn’t have to.

The video auto-played anyway.

Her back against the wall. Toni’s mouth on her neck. Her own breath hitching, caught too close to the mic. Her fingers fumbling at Toni’s collar. The half-laugh she’d made when Toni bit down. Not posed. Not performative. Real.

And then—

That smile.

Not coy. Not careful. Just soft. Like she meant it.

The video didn’t stop.

Toni’s shirt falling. Her knees lowering. The sound—her own voice catching, breaking, pleading softly.

No edits. No fade to black.

They posted everything.

Shelby turned away from the screen, but the sound kept playing. The wet slide of breath. The hush before the next beat. Her own voice, low and wrecked, whispering something she couldn’t take back.

There was no context. No safety. No after. Just footage. Just proof. All of it.

And then the texts started.

First one. Then three. Then fifteen. Notifications tumbling over each other in waves. Group chats. Mentions. Screenshots. “Is this you?”

A DM from someone she hadn’t spoken to in two years: girl wtf.

She dropped the phone. Literally. It hit the floor with a soft thud and kept vibrating. Every buzz felt louder. Like a siren in her bones.

Toni wasn’t here.

And for one horrible second, Shelby thought: maybe she did this. Maybe this was Toni punishing her—for hesitating. For not choosing sooner. For being afraid.

The thought landed like a slap. Shame bloomed instantly, curling tight in her stomach. She tasted it. Heat rising too fast. Breath skipping.

Maybe this was the warning. Maybe this was what Toni meant when she said it would get worse.

Shelby, gold dress wrinkling beneath her knees, covered her mouth with one shaking hand and started to cry.

That was how they found her.

Dot saw her first and froze—sharp, stricken, like the floor had just dropped out from under her.

“Shelby,” Dot said, low and clipped. Not surprise—diagnosis.

Dante was right behind her. He didn’t ask. Just moved. Dropped to his knees beside Shelby like gravity made the choice for him.

“You’re not alone,” Dante murmured, grounding his hand near her shoulder.

Mateo came next. Silent. Two long strides across the room, jaw tight, hands curled into fists like he didn’t know where to put them.

Then Fatin. Standing in the doorway, breath shallow, cello case still slung over one shoulder, half opened. Her phone was in her hand, the screen flickering with alerts she hadn’t opened yet. She looked pale with fury, confusion blooming fast underneath it.

“Okay, what the fuck is happening,” she muttered, tapping rapidly. “Is this—this is a — no. No fucking way did-?”

She scrolled once, twice. Froze.

Then she looked up—expression folding from disbelief into fury—and crossed the threshold like she meant to tear the room in half.

Shelby didn’t lift her head. Just kept shaking, hands pressed hard over her face like she could hold it all in. Silent sobs that didn’t make sound until they broke something open.

Dante knelt closer, voice steady. “You're going to be okay.”

“I’m not,” Shelby choked. “It’s everywhere.”

Dante’s voice dropped. “We stopped the feed. But the upload was mirrored. Off-site.”

Dot’s eyes darkened. “This is how they do it. They don’t silence you — they strip you. They make your story look like scandal, not survival.”

Mentions lighting up the screen like embers. A digital flood.

Fatin stepped forward finally—sharp, livid, shaking with it. She grabbed the tablet from Dante’s hand and shoved the paused video into his chest with force.

Her voice was no longer a whisper. It was a blade.

“THIS WAS TAKEN HERE?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Her glare flicked from Dot to Dante to the door like she was daring someone to lie.

“Who the fuck let that happen? Who signed off? Who was asleep? WHO BENEFITED?”

She wasn’t asking questions. She was demanding names.

Dante stood. Sighed. Nudged Dot and Fatin slightly aside as Mateo stayed close to Shelby, steady.

“Yesterday. A guy slipped in—Legacy ties, yeah, but no pass I signed off on. Some of my staff got leaned on. One of the old hallway feeds was supposed to be dead.” He rubbed his jaw. “I only caught him on the master loop after the leak. Too late.”

Mateo’s voice was low. A verdict.

“Serrano.”

Dot’s eyes snapped to Mateo, sharp and immediate. “You mean Serrano. From the Unity shipments? The one Toni went after outside Palmer’s?”

Fatin blinked hard. “Wait—what?” She turned to Dot, then Mateo.

“What are you talking about? You’re acting like we all got a memo and I missed it.”

She took a half-step back, hands raised. “Toni fought someone? When? Why? Who even is this guy? And how am I the last person to find out she’s apparently out here taking swings at secret ops creeps?”

Shelby’s breath hitched. Her whole body flinched, like the name itself cracked something open. She turned and wretched once, violently, onto the polished floor beside her. There was nothing in her stomach—just bile, just heat, just the sound of her own gasp as she curled tighter in on herself, hand scrabbling for something that wasn’t cold tile.

Dot stepped forward instinctively, but didn’t touch her. No one did.

A pause.

Shelby lifted her head, voice hoarse. “Where’s Toni?”
Not anger.

Not curiosity.

Fear.

Like she already knew the answer and didn’t want to be right.

Fatin let out a sharp, exhausted laugh—no humor in it. “I am still so fucking confused.”

She threw her arms out. “Why does every day come with a new name and a fresh nightmare like we’re supposed to just keep up?”

Her voice cracked, then sharpened. “And why do these people sound like the motherfucking Mafia? Serrano? That’s not even a real name, that’s a sandwich.”

A beat.

“And when the hell did Toni become a gang banger? She’s literally still scared of coyotes.”

Dot didn’t laugh. She didn’t flinch. She just exhaled slowly through her nose, then stepped forward, voice like a gavel. “There was no guy at the gas station, Fatin. He’s the one who did that to Toni’s face. The night of the summit.”

Fatin nodded, rage cutting through her confusion. “Okay,” she said coldly. “So he’s dead.”

And for the first time since the video, Shelby felt something steady inside her.

Like belief.

—

[GALANIS × SERRANO — SAT. / BACKSEAT / OFFSITE STREAM MONITORING HUB]

Two blocks from SOFT, the Buick faced away from the floodlights and velvet ropes. Tinted windows. No plates. Just quiet. Too quiet.

Inside: the low hum of a cooling fan. The soft, endless loop of playback on Serrano’s tablet.

Shelby’s gasp. Toni’s hands, trembling. A beat—then teeth. A smile that didn’t belong on tape.

The moment before control slipped. Before the footage became a weapon.

Serrano leaned back, a cigarette burning low between two fingers, eyes locked on the screen like he was waiting for it to confess.

His jaw twitched. Not quite protest. Not quite guilt. Just enough to suggest this wasn’t the version he’d signed off on — but not enough to stop it.

The hallway behind the booth wasn't meant for secrets, but it kept them anyway.

“This isn’t what David signed off on,” he said, voice clipped. “He wanted control. Not revenge porn.”

Serrano didn’t flinch. Just exhaled smoke through his nose, slow and satisfied. “David wanted optics. This is pressure. This is control.”

He let that hang. “Just like your friend Leah said—Shalifoe would burn for the attention.”

Galanis didn’t correct him. Didn’t blink. Just watched the flicker of the tablet light catch the edge of Serrano’s grin.

Serrano nodded at the screen. “You want to break someone like Shalifoe? You don’t shame her. You unmake her. Public. Intimate. Irrevocable.”

He tapped the screen to pause it—right on Shelby’s face. Mouth parted. Eyes shut. Soft. Trusting. Unprepared.

“Shalifoe needs to remember she doesn’t belong at a table with respectable men,” he said. “Not in our arena. Not after Minnesota.”

“Goodkind girls don’t burn,” he added, almost lazily. “They cry. They go dark for a week. They issue statements. Then they’re back in the fold.”

“She can go back to camp. Blame Shalifoe’s seduction. The trauma. Maybe even get a scholarship out of it.”

He smiled without looking at Galanis.

“But Shalifoe? She was born disposable. We just reminded her.”

“Besides,” he added, “they were going to talk. About the camps. The transfers. Jasmine.”

A beat of silence passed.

“You think letting that go public ends with articles?”

Galanis’s voice dropped. “How’d you get the footage?”

Serrano smiled. “You think SOFT doesn’t have weak links?”

He dragged the playback bar again, the screen jumping in silence. “Some of Dante’s people owed favors. Some just liked the cash. Back hallway cam. Private loop. They thought it was decommissioned after the remodel.”

A pause. Then: “It wasn’t.”

Outside, the crowd surged—cheering. Oblivious.

Inside, the screen went dark. Serrano didn’t blink.

Galanis didn’t speak again. He just reached forward, tapped the screen—rewind—and let it play.

—

[INTERLUDE: LEAH: WRITER'S LOFT : 11 PM SATURDAY]

She hadn’t spoken to anyone since the kiss. Not because she didn’t have anything to say. Because she’d seen something she couldn’t explain.

The press feed had cut out fifteen minutes ago. That meant it was already clipped, repackaged, re-captioned. There’d be ten versions of the sex tape online by now.

Toni and Shelby had gone viral within three hours.

Leah opened the folder she’d avoided.

RETENTION.

The one Marco flagged.

The one she’d skimmed on Tuesday and couldn’t bring herself to open again.

The file wasn’t dramatic. No red flags. No blinking warnings.

Just a PDF titled “Q4 Confirmations – Personnel & Protocols.”

She opened it.

Page one: a staffing chart.

Page two: a signature log.

Page three—

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t a name. It was a badge number, a precinct code, and an incident summary:

Minor intake – Compliance sedation authorized via on-site medical. Sheriff present. Incident not documented in external report.

Page four:

Internal note — footage exists but not retained.

Legacy transfer requested.

Timeline expedited post-incident.

Media escalation expected.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t breathe for a moment.

She just closed the laptop like a lid on something already dead.

Then she opened a new tab.

Searched an encrypted mail client Marco once told her about. Attached the file.

To: [redacted]@maskmail.cc

No subject. No message.

She didn’t sign it.

She hit send. Closed the laptop. And sat there, staring into the stale light.

No byline. No spin.

Just heat, and the shape of something finally burning the right way.

—

TONI — CLUB SOFT SECURITY ROOM / SATURDAY NIGHT

She sat alone in the security booth, lit only by the glow of two monitors and the low throb of the backup generator.

One showed the hallway, the evidence of yesterday.

The other showed them: Dante’s office.

Fatin pacing. Shelby on the floor.

Dot. Mateo. The tablet passed hand to hand.

She watched Fatin shove the screen across the room.

She watched Dot realize something too late.

Muted. But she didn’t need sound.

 

And on the other screen:

She watched herself—mouth on Shelby’s neck.

Can you see me using everything to hold back?

Spine tight. Mouth dry. Fists pressed hard against her knees.

 

There was no safety left in silence.

But there was no safety anywhere else either.

She closed her eyes.

The footage burned behind them anyway.

Savor this with everything I have inside of me.

—

Notes:

Chapter Notes: On Leah’s End Scene

Leah’s final moment in this chapter isn’t a break. It’s a continuation. Earlier in the week, Marco left her the file. She didn’t open it fully—skimmed the folder marked RETENTION but never read past the first few pages. Then Fatin walked in, and Leah let it go. Told herself if it mattered, Jeff would include it. That she’d catch up later. But Jeff ran Toni’s file without her. No conversation. No vetting. Just spectacle.

Now, with the clip circulating like a curse and the fallout closing in, Leah opens the file. And what she finds isn’t a bombshell. It’s worse. It’s silence by design. Sanitized bureaucracy. A timeline that confirms Toni’s sedation—without mentioning the man she fought, the reason it happened, or who authorized it. No incident summary. No badge number. No accountability. Just a blank space where Serrano’s name should be.

This isn’t Leah learning what happened to Toni. It’s Leah realizing how carefully someone made sure no one else would.

So she forwards it. No spin. No byline. No ask for credit.

Not justice. Not even courage. Just heat.

TY to my beta for dealing with me spiraling about this chapter and the many, many drafts... Find them here: @indubitablythebest (Tumblr) & briedoesnotcare (AO3)

Chapter 16: she saw me when you didn’t

Summary:

Evidence hides in plain sight.
They erased her. They denied it.
We followed the bracelet.
We listened to her voice.

Accountability demands every witness.
The rest is consequence.

Notes:

if you didn’t listen to saint pablo (kanye × sampha) before reading this—go back.

use the link/just listen to Sampha's parts.
this chapter doesn’t work without the night sky.
⸻

coming up next:
shelby’s chapter [set in between these scenes] is up after this! i need to give her processing enough space—i don’t want to understate what coming out means for her. i’ll upload it as soon as i’m sure she’s ready for what’s coming. stay tuned.

⸻

non-canon character references:
marco reyes: shalim ortiz
harlow nassar: adam bakri (yes, fatin totally knows)

⸻

beta love:
huge thanks to my beta for putting up with my endless drafts and panic spirals: find them on tumblr at @indubitablythebest and on ao3 as briedoesotcare. you’re the real mvp.

enjoy, and see you under the night sky. ❤️

[TUESDAY 7 AM -- FREEWAY OVERPASS -- DOT POV]

Dot drives with both windows cracked, like air could fix what's wrong.

The podcast drones on -- some overpaid voice calls it "accidental erotic activism." "Queer spectacle in the age of surveillance."

Like they've ever been on the wrong end of a headline.

She pulls over before she throws the whole car into a ditch. Unplugs the phone. Hurls it into the weeds.

Because it’s not just a spin. It’s two people’s story, told in a sensationalized voice. It’s trauma repackaged as narrative — flattened, edited, sold.

She thought the headlines were bullshit at first. Two angsty girls getting fucked over by the mistakes of men, bonding despite Shelby's complete off the rails homophobic rant at the summit.

She lights the blunt Fatin gave her the night of the Club Soft Showcase, a reconciliation gift after she had walked a hysterical Shelby Goodkind to Dante's car. Shelby could barely hold on. Toni and Leah were both nowhere to be found.

She doesn't smoke the swisher. Just watches it burn, like it's got a debt to repay.

Toni's voice comes back like a bruise you forgot was there.

Toni: "You didn't trust me to make the right decision."

Dot didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just said it like it had been loading in her chest for weeks.

Dot: "No. I trusted you to do the wrong one."

That was the last time they spoke. Toni hadn't raised her voice. Dot hadn't walked it back.

And now? Now Toni had done it again -- the wrong thing that might've actually been right.

The girl was fourteen. A foster kid. An orphan.

Dot hadn't been in foster care. But she knew what it meant to lose both parents before you had a chance to get it right.

Her mother -- cancer, gone by eight. Her father -- hospice, just months before high school ended.

She was the one who administered the injections. Measured doses. Morning, night. Then the one that stopped everything.

No one told her what it meant. But hey, let her do it.

She knew the space grief left. And how fast the world filled it with shame, pity, and rules you didn't write.

The kind of right she used to believe in. And now, it chokes her.

She used to live in Texas. Before Minnesota. Before she was Fatin's roommate.

Before she watched Shelby pray with her eyes open and decided not to hold it against her.

Dot never blamed Shelby for the views she was raised with. She was just thankful her own father hadn't believed that way. Didn't preach it. Didn't punish her for being soft-spoken or sharp-jawed.

But now--

Now she feels responsible. Like she aimed the spotlight without checking who it might burn.

Like she's the one who put Toni back on Resolve's radar. Put Jasmine's silence on speaker.

The guilt presses in from all sides, sharp and unrelenting.

Saying: You knew. You handed them the match. And now you want credit for smelling the smoke.

She thinks of Jasmine -- a girl whose name was nearly erased. Of Toni, taking the hit so Jasmine didn't have to.

She thinks of Leah, holding Marco's voice in her hands like it meant strategy. Dot gave her the note. She thought he was in trouble, that he got into the same shit Mateo got into, and she didn't want another person manipulated into selling drugs.

She didn't know Leah's high school sweetheart -- or in Fatin's words, high school pervert -- was Legacy.

She didn't know she'd handed ammunition to someone who didn't know which way to point it.

The sun rises behind her. Too soft. Too warm. Wrong mood for this kind of guilt.

She exhales smoke and static. Flicks ash out the window. Rolls the windows up. Doesn't turn the podcast back on.

Just drives. Toward the Compound. Toward whatever's next.

---

[MONDAY -- OUTSKIRTS OF A CLOSED SITE, TEMPE ARIZONA | LEAH POV]

Two men exit. One holds a clipboard. The other wears a badge.

She steps back, quiet. Follows the fence until she finds the break Marco marked.

The admin trailer's door is half-splintered. She pushes it open, slow.

Someone's inside.

A girl. Sitting on the floor, knees hugged to her chest. Half-shadowed.

"You're not Resolve," the girl says.

Leah nods. "Neither are you."

"Used to be. Now I'm clearance delay. Or trash. Depends who you ask."

Beat.

Leah stiffens. "I'm looking for someone. Maybe you knew her."

The girl glances down -- at the patch on Leah's bag.

Speech and Debate Team | Minnesota State University, Mankato.

Something Toni and Fatin used to tease her about.

Fatin said Leah didn't need help being more right.

Toni said, "What's the point of arguing with people who've already made up their mind?"

The girl's voice cuts in:

"You from Minnesota?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I used to live there..."

A longer pause.

"Toni?" the girl asks.

Leah freezes. "What?"

"Are you looking for Jasmine?" she says. "Jasmine said she had a sister named Toni in Minnesota."

Leah's breath catches.

She remembers three months ago -- Martha ignoring Toni's calls. Toni saying she felt like she lost a sister when she moved to California. Fatin holding her.

That wasn't her first time losing a sister.

It would've been her second.

Leah's voice comes out small.

"I'm not... I'm a friend of Toni's."

Then quieter, under her breath: "I think."

Because she doesn't know if that's still true.

Because she was so fucking wrong. About all of it.

She clears her throat. "You knew Jasmine?"

The girl shrugs. "As much as anyone could. She didn't talk much. Just... hummed sometimes. Sang in her sleep."

"What did she sing?"

"Frank Ocean. SZA. One line over and over again from 'Saint Pablo', Kanye and Sampha. She said it made the quiet feel less empty."

She looks up, mouth twitching.

"She sang it the night before they moved her. Over and over. Like a message."

Leah crouches. Not close. Just enough to see her face.

"What happened to her?"

"They said 'transfer protocol.' That's code for: don't ask."

"I asked."

Beat.

"They locked me in solo for a week. When I got out, her bed was made. Her name was gone."

Silence settles. Heavy as dust.

"Why are you still here?" Leah asks.

The girl snorts. "I came back. Wanted my journal. Dumb, right?"

She holds up a torn spiral notebook. Then sets it down.

Crosses to the wall. Pulls something from beneath a loose floorboard.

A pink plastic bracelet. Hospital-style. Half-faded.

JAS_____

She holds it out.

"I kept it. In case someone ever came."

Leah takes it gently.

Then frowns. "Where did she get this?"

"Standard intake ID is a barcode. But Jasmine's was different. Hers was handwritten. 4127."

Leah's pulse skips. "That means she wasn't officially logged."

"Exactly. Off the books. No record. No oversight."

Leah stares at the bracelet.

"They made her disappear before they even started - I have never seen a girl go from Minnesota to Arizona to... I don't know where now."

The girl nods. "They called her noncompliant. Said she was 'morally dysregulated.'"

A beat.

"She just wouldn't lie."

Leah exhales through her nose.

"This is enough. To start."

The girl watches her, tired and wary.

"You gonna save her?"

"No," Leah says. "But I'll make sure no one forgets she was here."

Ray doesn't smile.

But she nods.

And that's enough.

---

[TUESDAY MORNING - COMPOUND]

The folder was already on the table when Mateo walked in.

He didn't touch it. He knew what was inside.

Dot did too--now. She'd caught him outside with Harlow the night after the leak, the two of them locked in hushed argument. When she stepped closer, she saw the screen flash--a file open, not Marco's, but something else. She didn't press. Just said, "I'm not stupid." Mateo had nodded, but she could tell from the way he stood: it wasn't just loyalty. It was guilt.

She knew what had happened at Noć. She knew why Mateo, Shelby, and Toni had broken in at exactly the wrong time. She knew there was an SD card -- ticking like a time bomb, or a Hail Mary delivered too late.

She knew what was on it.

She knew Toni gave it to Harlow because he was the only one she trusted to carry the full weight of what had been done to her--what was still being done, in secret, to girls like Jasmine--what was being done in camps to not just gay kids, but foster kids, loud kids, so many girls.

The Compound kitchen smelled like burnt toast and Lysol. Somewhere behind the walls, an old radiator hissed and clicked like it was trying to warn them.

Now they were waiting for Fatin.

Dot leaned against the fridge, jaw locked. An unopened beer sweated on the counter beside her. Mateo stood behind the chair instead of sitting. The air in the Compound always felt still right before it cracked.

He could still hear Toni: He'll know where to aim.

Not him. Not Dot. Not even Leah.

Harlow.

Fatin entered like a gust that hadn't picked a direction--hoops, crop top, old eyeliner, sharp-edged mood. She scanned the room, clocked the folder, clocked the man standing beside it.

"Okay," she said, one eyebrow up. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Harlow," Mateo said, quietly.

Dot didn't glance up. "Harlow Nassar. Used to be a journalist. Resolve blacklisted him after he published what no one else would touch. Now he's a fixer--he buried whistleblower files, unsealed audit trails, cleared the name of that girl in Idaho you thought was a hoax."

Fatin tilted her head. "That's supposed to make me trust him?"

"It's not," Dot said. "It's supposed to make you listen. He's the one Toni gave the SD card to. Not me. Not Leah. Him. And he already knew what was on it."

Fatin's gaze narrowed, shifted to Harlow. A quiet scan--hoodie, still jaw, the kind of stillness that meant whatever was underneath wasn't.

"SD card?" she said, dragging a hand through her hair. "Dot, it's nine a.m. I've been spinning at quinceañeras and soul-crushing app launches all week. What fucking SD card?"

Dot didn't flinch. "Leah passed a file to Mateo when we were in Minnesota. Toni decrypted it. That's what sent them to Noć."

Mateo added, "Marco left her an audio message. What Leah had was just a teaser. The real evidence was buried deeper. Marco needed Toni to decide what to do with it."

Harlow spoke then, tone even. "I'm not here for trust. I'm here because Toni asked me to aim."

Fatin gave him a slow once-over, a teasing glint in her eye. "Is he single or just severely repressed?"

Dot rolled her eyes. "Fatin--"

"I'm just saying," she said with a crooked grin, "he's giving serious Adam Bakri energy--"

Harlow flinched. His fingers twitched at his sleeve cuff, a flicker of discomfort he couldn't quite mask. He glanced--just briefly--toward Dot, then back.

"Jesus," he muttered, half to himself. "I'm way too old for you. That's gross."

Then sharper: "I'm not here to flirt with you."

He stepped forward, laying the folder on the table with deliberate care, like he was consecrating evidence.

Dot stepped forward. "Tell her."

Fatin exhaled. "If I hear that man's name one more time--"

Harlow pulled a single page and slid it across the table.

Mateo didn't speak as she opened it. Didn't speak when she flinched. Didn't speak until she said:

"What is this?"

"Pre-Summit email chain," Harlow said. "Legacy donor network. Galanis was already in the loop--or close enough to pass. The line you're looking at? That's a comms director talking about you."

Fatin read it again. Then again.

If she's still DJing at those optics-heavy spaces, we can spin it as legacy alignment. Galanis still owes us a favor. Use the Jadmani. She's already branded.

"Branded," Fatin echoed. Her voice was flat. "Like I'm a fucking--"

"Accessory," Harlow supplied. "Exactly."

"You weren't at the Summit," Mateo said, low. "But your name was close enough. You'd played Noć. Been tagged. Shared. You had the aesthetic. They used it."

Dot's tone went colder. "You made it look safe."

Fatin's voice sharpened. "So Jeffrey Galanis is involved with Legacy? Did Leah know?"

Mateo shook his head. "We don't know what Leah knew. But she had the drive."

Harlow stepped in. "She sent it to me the night of the video leak. And on it? There was a file Toni recognized. Jasmine."

"Jasmine?" Fatin echoed.

"Fourteen. A minor. Resolve patient. She was kept in one of the donor-funded retreats--for foster girls." Mateo's voice was careful.

"Toni and Jasmine were both from group homes," Harlow said. "Toni had a temper she refused to sand down. Group to group--angry, queer, loud. Played point guard like it was war. That alone got her flagged.

Jasmine? Her file read different. No outbursts. Just... refusal. She wouldn't follow dress code. Wouldn't say 'sir.' Filed a grievance when she saw another girl get grabbed.

And she didn't back down. Just stopped talking. Stopped answering 'right.'

That's when they marked her.

'Moral dysregulation with social contagion risk.'"

He let it sit.

"Which is policy-speak for: she made us look bad. And the other girls started listening."

Dot's voice came quiet. "That's who Toni was protecting. The night she broke that man's jaw."

Mateo nodded. "She never told anyone. But the full report is on the SD card. Unredacted. I thought it was weird she didn't want to open it when we broke into Noć--but now it makes sense."

"Even Regan makes sense now," Dot said.

Fatin blinked. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I think Jasmine was being--" Dot began.

Mateo cut in. "One of Galanis's buddies was feeling her up. Donor liaison. Toni walked in. Broke his jaw. Simple as that."

Fatin's voice rose. "So you're telling me Leah handed her press-daddy this whole machine--Legacy's wires still hot--and didn't clock who he really ran with?"

"Galanis kept his name clean," Harlow said. "Probably part of the deal Goodkind brokered. But the payroll doesn't lie."

He paused, tone softening.

"And Leah... she could've buried this. Pretended it never landed. But she didn't. She sent it to me."

A beat.

"She sent me the entire fucking drive 45 GIGABYTES of data. The one Galanis claims he got off the black market. Personally? I don't buy it. I think Serrano gave it to him--and counted on Leah to want to burn Toni."

He let that settle.

"But she didn't. She passed it to me instead. And that... that matters."

Fatin didn't speak right away. Her jaw twitched. She cracked open a LaCroix and took a long pull.

"So she did one decent thing," she muttered. "That doesn't erase what came before."

Dot shifted off the fridge.

"No," she said. "But it's not nothing either."

Fatin looked at her.

"You saying we trust her now?"

"I'm saying we trust the truth. Whether she meant to hand it to us or not."

Dot looked to Harlow. "What else was on the drive?"

"Toni mentioned she had camp locations," Mateo offered.

"They're gone," Harlow said. "Every site. Texas. Arizona. Minnesota. Sanitized. Bleached."

Dot turned. "How do you know?"

Harlow didn't hesitate. "Because Leah got there first."

"You want to go to the cops?" Harlow said flatly. "Half of them are on payroll. The rest are too scared to ask why their pensions are backed by the same trusts laundering sedative trials through Legacy sub-holdings."

He crossed his arms, jaw clenched. "You think they don't know who pays for their promotions?"

Leah's voice came from the doorway before anyone registered the sound of it opening.

"You think the cops don't know?" she said. "They're the ones who made sure no one looked too closely in the first place."

She stepped inside. "They're at every damn camp. Making sure no journalist gets in. Making sure no one makes it out."

The others turned to look.

She held something small in her fist. Plastic. Pink. Half a name scraped off.

JAS_____

And she didn't let go.

"She didn't have a barcode. Just this."

"They never logged her."

Dot's jaw tightened. Fatin's breath caught.

"She was off the books," Leah said. "No oversight. No intake report. Like she didn't exist."

A pause.

"But she did. She had a bed. A girl who still remembers her humming 'Saint Pablo' the night before they moved her. Like she knew no one else would tell the story."

She placed the bracelet down -- careful, deliberate -- beside the open folder.

Her hand hovered for a second too long.

Then she pulled it back.

"I don't know what you're going to do with this," she said. "But Jasmine was real."

She didn't ask for forgiveness.

Didn't sit down.

Just turned -- hoodie sleeves dangling past her hands -- and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Like punctuation.

Dot didn't speak. Just stepped forward and pulled the folder from beneath Harlow's elbow, its spine creaking like it remembered being sealed.

Page 4: January intake list.

Page 7: Arizona logs.

 

Her fingers paused. Then turned again. Faster now. Page 9. Page 12.

No Jasmine. No JAS_____ No match.

Nothing.

She flipped once more, scanning the supply codes in the margins. Then looked at the bracelet again.

One detail. Faint but legible: a four-digit intake number. Handwritten. Slanted.

Dot exhaled through her nose. Low. Measured.

"They wiped her," she said. "No name. No record."

She held the bracelet up to the light.

"But they missed the intake number."

She turned to Harlow, steady.

"If we can match it to shipment logs--drugs, IDs, whatever Resolve scrubbed--then we've got proof."

She let the bracelet fall back on the table with a soft plastic clink.

"You said you like patterns," she said.

A beat.

"Help me find one."

---

[TUESDAY -- UNDISCLOSED LOCATION -- MARCO POV]

The room is too clean.

Not sterile--that would be honest.

This is curated discomfort: soft halogen lighting, a pitcher of water no one touches, a chair that doesn't quite recline.

Someone's idea of "neutral."

Marco's wrists aren't cuffed.

But the pressure hasn't left since they pulled him off the highway the day of the summit -- a chemical kind of tension, like sedative residue clinging to the skin.

Across from him: Serrano.

No uniform. No smile.

Just a remote. And a folder.

The screen behind him flickers to life.

 

Grainy footage. Cropped. Wrong.

Toni and Shelby.

Marco knows the room. Knows the angle. Club Soft. Hallway. That camera shouldn't even be on. Dante stopped paying for security feeds a year ago.

Someone had to go back in. Rewire it. Make it work for one night only.

Not for safety. For leverage.

This isn't memory. It's choreography. Designed angles. Intentional damage. A violence dressed in documentation.

The edit is clean--too clean. No audio. Just breath and motion, chopped for effect.

Clothes peeled back like narrative.

Toni's hand at Shelby's jaw--a freeze-frame waiting to be condemned.

A beat later: Shelby's shirt half-off. Toni mid-motion. One frame forward, Shelby leans in.

To Marco, it doesn't read as lust or control. It reads as betrayal--of privacy, of care.

Used. Recut. Reduced.

Packaged into proof of guilt.

The red hallway camera light blinking like it's judging them both.

 

Marco turns away before it finishes.

"THIS WAS YOU, JOSÉ," Marco declares, his voice steady and commanding without the need to raise it.

Serrano pauses, just long enough to confirm it. A small smirk.

Marco continues, cold:

"You cut the camera feed. Edited it down. No audio. No context. Then let it drop in the middle of a press cycle."

"You wanted fallout. You wanted her labeled before she could speak."

Serrano exhales through his nose. Calm. "We wanted the truth visible."

Marco laughs, bitter. "No. You wanted her punished. For surviving the first time."

Serrano studies him. Voice softening, not out of kindness--out of calculation.

"She saw the camera was there. She made a choice. Recruited Shelby. Weaponized the intimacy."

Marco clenches his jaw.

Remembers Toni flinching when someone touched her elbow too fast.

Remembers her scanning rooms for exits like trust was a breach.

Remembers Jasmine's silence--how she trailed Toni like gravity, how she only ever sang when she thought no one could hear.

Serrano keeps going, easy now:

"She's not a victim, Marco. She's a variable. A threat."

The tape doesn't pause.

But Marco does.

His throat is tight. Palms damp.

He forces the words out:

"That's not what happened."

Serrano leans back, nodding like that's progress.

"The story's already out there, Marco. You know how this works. It doesn't matter what's true--only what spreads. We can still shape what sticks. But only if you help us do it right."

Marco says nothing.

He's already read the folder.

Correctional Statement--Marco Reyes. Header: Resolve Legal Division. Footer: Already signed. Just not by him.

The body: A fiction draped in facts.

Toni seduced Shelby under false pretenses. Toni showed signs of delusion before Resolve. Toni assaulted a donor liaison. Toni doctored documents. Toni mistook Jasmine's report for evidence instead of anger. Toni endangered lives.

Marco's hands shake.

Serrano watches.

"This isn't betrayal," he says, gentle. "This is triage. If you care about her, help us control the fallout."

Marco's voice comes low. Hoarse.

"That what you told Jasmine?"

That lands. Briefly.

Serrano's face doesn't change.

"You're not the villain here."

"You're the only one who can save anyone."

Marco closes the folder.

He looks up, furious now.

"You leaked the tape, spun the narrative, then came here asking me to clean up your mess."

He shoves the folder an inch forward. "You don't need a confession. You need complicity."

"You want me to make it look like she was always the problem."

"Like we all just missed the signs."

"Like Jasmine wasn't a witness. Just a cleanup detail. While the real victim is the creep you and David Goodkind play golf with on weekends."

His voice is low now. Steady.

"No. I'm not giving you that. Not again."

Serrano doesn't flinch.

"We need you to stabilize the narrative."

Marco inhales. Holds it.

His eyes flick to the flash drive beside the water pitcher--the one they confiscated, copied, returned.

He knows they scrubbed it.

He knows what was on it before.

Serrano clicks the remote again.

The screen flickers to life. Static, then clarity. Then Marco.

New footage, old Marco

A backroom. A high-end club made to look underground. Dim light. Slick surfaces.

Marco's younger. Laughing. Drink in hand.

It’s the version of himself he doesn't wear anymore.

A room. Low light. One camera, deliberate. Marco at a table. Button-down, sleeves rolled, smile like he knows exactly what the frame is for.

Across from him: a Legacy rep whose face has been blurred out and a tattooed man, whose back is to the camera.

The Tattooed man asks, "So it moves clean? No interference?"

Marco doesn't hesitate. Just leans back, arms loose, like none of it could touch him.

"Legacy doesn't do interference," he says. "We do redemption. Wash it through a church, then a school. Two weeks later, it's a community grant."

"Or a campus expansion."

Marco again, still smiling: "Or a detox program. Depends what optics you want."

The laugh that follows is almost fond.

"You make sin look holy."

Marco's voice doesn't waver. Not then. Not yet.

"That's the business model."

The clip ends there. Sharp. Cut clean. No time stamp, no watermark. Just implication. Just blood in the water.

 

Serrano watches him without speaking.

Marco doesn't flinch. Just exhales slow.

"Context matters," he says.

Serrano smiles like a man who already knows what the article will say.

"It always does."

Marco doesn't move.

He remembers that night. The arrogance. Saying "That's the business model" like it was clever -- not already a confession.

He remembers the holding cell. The offer. David Goodkind's lawyer handing him a sealed manila envelope and saying, "You're lucky someone still sees potential in you."

He'd signed before asking what the job was.

Legacy didn't free him.

They bought him.

And he let them.

Because back then, it was just math. Just optics. Just someone else's kid.

Now?

Now it's Jasmine's face burned into his skull.

Now it's Toni's voice cracking through static.

Now it's a second deal, dressed as a lifeline.

Serrano says, soft,"This is who you were."

Marco's fists clench. "No," he says--too loud now, voice cracking at the edge.

"I was trying to survive. I had to be there. I had to smile, and sell, and say whatever the fuck they needed--"

His hand slams the folder shut.

"--because that was the price of getting out of fucking jail."

Silence.

He's shaking. Not from fear--from memory. From the sting of knowing it was true.

"They said I was lucky," he mutters. "Said someone saw potential in me."

He looks up. Eyes sharp now.

"But it wasn't potential. It was obedience. And I gave it to them."

Serrano doesn't flinch.

Just says, quiet:

"David always said you were smart."

A beat.

"Called you the kind of friend who knew when to pivot. Since high school, right?"

Marco stares at him.

"You didn't just cut a deal," Serrano continues. "You cashed in history. Loyalty. Your own name."

He leans back.

"That's what makes this so disappointing. We thought you understood the game.”

Marco:

"I do."

"That's why I'm not playing it again."

Marco leans forward.

"You set her up to look dangerous. And now you want me to cosign it?”

Serrano gestures to the folder.

"Sign the statement. Give them a villain they can swallow."

Marco looks down.

Then says, voice steady:

"If I sign this... she disappears."

Serrano, quieter now:

"She's already halfway gone."

Silence.

Marco blinks. Feels the weight of it all: Jasmine. Toni. The things he once did for ease.

Then:

"No."

He stands.

Pushes the folder across the table. Sharp.

"She survived too much to be erased by me."

Serrano doesn't stop him.

But as Marco reaches the door:

"You really think silence is going to save her?"

Marco doesn't answer.

But he doesn't sit back down, either.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And somewhere else, a different file waits to be found. Something Jasmine never got to finish.

---

[TUESDAY -- 10:00 A.M. -- MARCO'S OLD CRASH UNIT -- TONI POV]

Toni did not go to Dante’s after the leak. Instead, she raided Marco’s burner phone.

In his Notes app, she found:  
An address. A keypad code. A laptop password—all under a single Apple Note titled “safe?”

She’s not sure it is.

The place smells like dust, disuse, and sleep deprivation.  
The mattress lies stripped. The walls are covered in stale soundproof foam.  
One outlet works. An unplugged router has a sticky note that just says: don’t.

Toni does not cry when she sees the footage.  
It isn’t the footage that breaks her. It’s how easily the world believes it.  
She spent the morning after the drop scrolling every site, every tweet, every thread that calls her a predator, a liar, a seductress—none of them asking who filmed it, or why.  
She didn't throw anything—at least, not then.

Instead, she disconnected the Wi-Fi.  
Destroyed the SIM in her phone.  

Now she waits.

She erased herself in Minnesota after college—changed her name, unfriended everyone. What’s one more time?

The old laptop buzzes to life. Marco’s last local sync pings open—  
corrupted PDFs, flagged donor lists, metadata shards.

Then one file stands out:

JASMINE_TRAUMA_INTAKE.wav

She does not press play.  
She just stares at it.  
Like it might stare back.

She was always smaller than she should’ve been.  
Not because she was fourteen—but because she learned to fold early.

Jasmine did not talk for the first three days.  
She just followed Toni from rec to med checks, like her silence was a leash.

No one told her to.  
Toni never asked her to.  
But she didn’t mind.

Before Jasmine, no one ever looked at Toni like she wasn’t a problem to solve.  
Not the foster moms.  
Not the group home staff.  
Not her actual mother—twitching on the kitchen floor while the paramedics stepped over Toni’s backpack.

But Jasmine just watched her.  
Like she expected her to still be here tomorrow.  
Like staying was a thing a person could do.

She remembers once—Jasmine curled up on the floor during lights-out, whispering through the vent:

“If I tell them he touched me, they’ll say I’m lying.  
If I don’t, he gets to keep doing it.  
So what do I do?”

Toni did not have an answer.  
She just said:

“You don’t need to say anything.  
I saw it.”

The next day, she broke his jaw with her bare hands.  
She was sixteen.  
Jasmine was fourteen.  
And no one ever looked at her with that much trust before.  
And no one has since.

Her jaw locks. Her throat burns.  
The kind of rage that doesn’t yell—it calcifies.

She thinks about the camera.  
The red light above the hallway door.  
Shelby’s mouth.  
Her own breath caught between someone else’s teeth.  
And the sound.  
That fucking sound.

She slams the laptop shut.  
Not hard enough to break it.  
Just hard enough to stop herself from breaking.  
She exhales—sharp through her nose.

Then she grabs a broken piece of rebar from behind the shelf.  
No warning. No hesitation.  
Drives it into the wall—hard. Once. Twice. Again. 

Dust falls. The sound echoes.  
She does not stop until her knuckles split.  
Not because it helps.  
Because it almost does.

---

[TUESDAY -- DEAD ZONE LOT -- FATIN POV]

It's almost dark by the time Fatin finds her.

She hasn't seen Toni since Minnesota. Since before the drive. Since the sex tape that made them all mythology. Since she said, You're full of shit -- a line too easy, too sharp, meant to wound but not to scar.

Apparently what Toni last said to Leah was worse. So. Points?

The lot behind the old school smells like scorched rubber and abandonment. Chain-link fences hum like they're trying not to scream. Marco once called it a dead zone -- no cameras, no ghosts. Just rust and rot and the kind of silence that doesn't ask anything of you.

Toni's already there. Sitting on the hood of a car that's more grave marker than vehicle. Elbows to knees. Body coiled and still, like she finally stopped pacing the perimeter of her own ruin.

Fatin walks up slow. No music. Just her own breath and the sound of asphalt cracking beneath her boots.

She stops close, not touching. Feels the heat coming off Toni like a warning.

"You're hard to find," she says.

"That's the point," Toni replies, not looking at her.

Fatin doesn't press. Just leans against the fender. Quiet gathers like dusk -- thick, indifferent.

"Dot's holding the line," she offers. "Mateo's spooked. Leah's--"

"Don't tell me about Leah."

It's not anger. It's erosion.

Fatin exhales. Lets it go. "Can I ask about you?"

Toni turns slightly. Her profile catches the last light like a knife someone forgot to clean.

"I don't feel like a person."

"Then I guess we match."

Toni doesn't say anything. But she shifts -- the smallest lean. Like gravity remembered her.

"I didn't believe the file," Fatin says. "What they wrote about you -- altruistic narcissism or whatever."

Toni: "Doesn't make it false. I did break his jaw."

"Yeah. And Jasmine gave Ray the bracelet. Said she wasn't coming back."

That makes Toni flinch. Memory like shrapnel.

"You didn't make that story up," Fatin says, voice threading softer. "You just made sure someone remembered it."

"It doesn't matter. People don't listen."

Fatin looks at her soft at first, and then smirks. "Then let me be louder."

That pulls a sound from Toni -- half laugh, half exhale, scraped from somewhere inside her ribs.

She drops off the hood and pulls Fatin in. No buildup. No warning. Just need.

Fatin lets it happen. Buries her forehead in Toni's shoulder. Listens to the heartbeat she once mistook for defiance.

When they break, Toni kisses her. Not soft. Not symbolic. Just real -- mouth to mouth, like truth, like apology, like she didn't get to say goodbye the first time.

"Is Leah gonna beat me up now?" she murmurs.

Fatin raises an eyebrow. "You had a sex tape leak, Shalifoe. Are you seriously--"

"I'm fucking with you."

They laugh -- short, bitter, startled. It feels illegal.

Then Toni pulls something from her jacket. A drive. Cracked casing. Half-gone label.

She puts it in Fatin's hand like an offering.

"Don't treat it like evidence," she says. "Treat it like her."

"What is it?"

"The part they didn't scrub."

She turns. Walks off. Doesn't wait for permission.

Fatin stays.

She holds the drive.

And listens.

---

[TUESDAY -- THE COMPOUND -- FATIN POV]

The laptop's whine is low and constant, like it's trying not to scream.

Fatin clicks play.

The file Toni gave her isn't labeled with a name. Just a string of numbers and a folder Marco shouldn't have still had access to. She doesn't know what she's expecting--surveillance, maybe. Another leak waiting to happen.

What she hears instead is a girl's voice.

Not loud. Not angry. Just... steady.

She doesn't say her name like it matters.

She says it like it's the only thing they didn't take.

First: static.

Then:

[FILE NAME: JASMINE_TRAUMA_INTAKE.wav]

Recovered from: Marco's local drive sync folder

[ARCHIVE > CRASH_UNIT > RESOLVE_BACKUP]

Metadata: Legacy Site MN-02 | Intake ID: 4127 | Status: OFF-LEDGER

Transcript generated by auto-log

Note: Audio degraded. 17-second skip at

[1:14]

⸻

STAFFER (M, Resolve-affiliated, filtered voice):

This is Intake ID 4127. Pre-Transfer Eval: MN to Tempe. Begin verbal evaluation.

State your name for the record.

JASMINE (F, minor):

Jasmine.

STAFFER:

Full name.

JASMINE:

Just Jasmine.

That's what they called me when they moved me.

Or "noncompliant."

Or "watchlist."

[pause -- 2.1 sec]

STAFFER:

What do you believe you are being reassigned to Arizona?

JASMINE:

I kept my hoodie up.

I asked what the pills were.

I watched a girl get touched and didn't pretend I didn't.

STAFFER:

You attempted to file a grievance?

JASMINE:

I asked for the form.

They told me I had to earn the right to use it.

Said "false reporting" would make things worse.

Gave me chores instead. Told me I was breaking trust.

STAFFER:

So you didn't file one.

JASMINE:

I wrote it anyway.

Left it in the med bin.

It was gone the next day.

Then she was too.

STAFFER:

You've been observed humming during med checks. Why?

JASMINE:

Because the light in there buzzes too loud.

Because quiet isn't always empty.

Because if I hum, I don't have to answer.

STAFFER:

What do you hum?

JASMINE:

Frank Ocean- sometimes. And Saint Pablo - Kanye and Sampha.

Just the one line.

"Yeah, you're lookin' at the church in the night sky."

I say it in my head.

Wonderin' whether God's gonna say hi

Like if I stop, something worse happens.

STAFFER:

That's not listed as approved therapeutic material.

JASMINE:

That's why it helps.

[brief static -- log skips 17.3 seconds]

STAFFER:

Let's return to Thursday. Conflict mediation.

You were present?

JASMINE:

I didn't speak.

I didn't scream.

I just saw her step in.

She didn't even look scared.

STAFFER:

Her? You mean Shalifoe?

JASMINE:

You know who.

STAFFER:

We need clarity for the report.

JASMINE:

You're not writing this for me.

You already decided what you want it to say.

[final 4 seconds -- silence, then faint hum]

JASMINE (soft, barely audible):

If this cuts out--

Know that she saw me when you didn't.

 

That last line won't leave her alone.

She saw me when you didn't.

Like a hook. Like a wound. Like proof.

Fatin breathes it in. Loops it. Layers it.

Then she digs into her archive -- the place she never opens -- and pulls a voice memo from Toni. Labeled: draft.

"You never needed me to explain it. You just turned the volume all the way up."

She overlays it with Leah's raw clips -- a girl's voice saying Jasmine sang in her sleep, the sizzle of a fence line at dusk. She doesn’t sample Kanye. Just Sampha. Just the hum, the ache, the space between piano and breath. It loops like prayer. Like the roof Jasmine imagined. Like the night sky itself was holding its breath.

The mix ends up sounding like heatstroke and aftermath. Bruises you don't show your parents.

She saves it under:

SHE_SAW_ME_WHEN_YOU_DIDNT.wav

---

[TUESDAY -- PARKED CAR OUTSIDE THE COMPOUND -- LEAH POV]

It's dark enough that the windows reflect them back at themselves.

Shelby sits in the passenger seat, knees drawn up, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. She hasn't said a word since they pulled up.

Leah taps the brakes once. Like it might break the silence.

Then finally:

"I thought the video was fake."

Shelby doesn't move.

"I thought it was AI or smear or--I don't know. It just didn't feel real. Not at first."

Shelby's voice, low:

"It was."

Leah nods. One beat. Then another.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know that Jeff. was in bed with Legacy. That's not me covering -- that's just me being stupid."

"All I knew was... your dad. What he was funding. Who he was protecting. I thought if I could just get the right file--expose that--maybe the rest would fall apart."

A pause.

"I thought Marco might've been partnered up. For money. For optics."

Another beat.

Leah swallowed,"He always did had a a past...served time.."

Shelby finally turns her head.

Their eyes meet in the reflection, not real life.

She doesn't argue.

Just nods.

"Yeah."

"My dad framed it the same way..."

She looks back down at her phone. The recorder app is open.

"And then I saw what he did for Toni."

Silence again. But it's a different kind now. Not suspicion -- recognition.

Leah exhales through her nose. Eyes on the dashboard.

"If you do this... you're not coming back from it. Your dad- or legacy - or unity - will retaliate,"

Shelby lifts the phone. Steady now.

"I know."

She hits record.

"My name is Shelby Goodkind."

Leah doesn't interrupt.

Silence stretches, her name hanging in the air as the night sky watches.

# # END # #

Chapter 17: no scripture for that

Summary:

She disappeared before the lights came up.
They called it foreplay. They called her a liar.
But silence was never consent.
And shame was never scripture.

Dante names what she survived.
Nora listens like she already knew.
Together, they hold space for the unspoken.

She remembers the prayers.
She names the wanting.
She does not apologize.

This is not redemption.
This is testimony.

Notes:

Interlude / companion piece to Chapter 16
Set between scenes from Chapter 15

This chapter exists in the liminal space between fallouts. Shelby is not yet okay — but she’s closer to the truth than ever. If you’ve come through any part of this: you’re not alone, and you were never meant to carry it in silence.

TY to my beta for dealing with me spiraling about this chapter and the many, many drafts... Find them here: @indubitablythebest (Tumblr) & briedoesnotcare (AO3)

companion to chapter 16 / set between scenes

[TUESDAY — 11 a.m. — DANTE’S SPARE ROOM — SHELBY POV]

Shelby is curled up on the bed in Dante’s guestroom, wearing Toni’s Minnesota State tank — not the sweatshirt. They already had pictures of her in the sweatshirt. And Shelby is tired of reading the same fucking story. The same narrative. The same myth turned cudgel.

She’s also tired of her phone vibrating. Again. And again. And again. So she lets it. Doesn’t scroll. Doesn’t move.

The footage replays in her bloodstream like it’s been coded into her. Not just the image of Toni. The sound. Her own voice — looped, fragmented, all breath and disbelief. Her body bent into meaning. Her want, turned spectacle.

There’s a voice message from her mom in her inbox. She hits play by accident. Her mother’s voice floods the room — syrupy and rehearsed, tight with strain, always a weapon masked as care.

“Shelby, baby,” her voice trembles — surgical — “they don’t need the full story. Say she seduced you. Say she lied. Say you were manipulated. That you froze. That it was too fast. God forgives weakness, sweetheart. They will too, if you give them a version they can forgive.”

She deletes it halfway through. Too late. The words have already settled like sediment. Heavy. Permanent. A plea disguised as grace that still tastes like punishment.

She remembers the moment after the video released at Club Soft — someone’s hands under her arms, the slap of her feet on concrete, voices she couldn’t name pulling her upright while her legs buckled like paper. It wasn’t Toni. Toni was already gone. It was Dot, maybe. Dante helping. Someone sobbing. A siren in the distance. The flash of a phone screen. She doesn’t remember who said her name first. Just the cold. Just the sound of her own voice, still leaking from the phone speakers — moaning, pleading. Holy. Ruined.

Shelby didn’t know where she was.

What she did know was this: she needed someone.

She doesn’t hear the knock. Just the door creak, soft and sure.

Nora steps in like she’s done it a hundred times — messy bun, bare face, hands. Water. Something warm in a chipped bowl. She doesn’t say Shelby’s name. Just:

“This room’s still too quiet.”

She sets the mug down. Taps her phone.

And suddenly it’s Kanye and Sampha. A slow, familiar sound — the bridge of Saint Pablo already mid-spiral.

Shelby lets it play. Doesn’t ask.

Nora shrugs, casual. “Jessica used to put it on when she couldn’t talk. Said it sounded like the inside of her throat.”

That one hits. But Shelby doesn’t flinch. Just nods — barely.

Nora sees it, and just goes on. “Reframe wasn’t something she talked about. Not even with me. But the few times she did… it felt like remembering something through scar tissue.”

Kanye’s verse hits — faint, insistent:

When I turned on the news and they was buryin’ me

One set of footsteps, you was carryin’ me

From behind the closed door, Dante’s voice rises — measured at first, then clipped. Shelby and Nora can’t see him, only hear the pacing, the occasional creak of floorboards, the sharp rise and fall of his words like a storm held just out of reach.

“No, she hasn’t come back. She left Club Soft before your performance ended, Fatin...” A pause. Footsteps.

Shelby tenses, barely breathing. She keeps her eyes fixed on the water glass, the surface trembling slightly each time his voice sharpens. Her fingers twitch at the hem of Toni’s tank top, kneading it like fabric could hold her still.

Dante: “She disappeared before the lights even came up. One second she was there, the next she was gone. It’s what she does best.”

Shelby presses her back deeper into the bed. The fabric feels too thin, like the walls between her and the world have worn down to nothing.

Dante: “No, Fatin, I haven’t called the cops.”

A beat. Nora asks, “Whose Fatin?”.

Shelby tries to answer but Dante’s next answer comes like a slap.

Dante: “Toni doesn’t go missing. She pulls back when it gets loud. She knows how to keep herself safe — quiet, out of reach, until it passes.”

Another pause. His voice dips lower, like a threat shelved just behind his teeth.

Dante: “Yes, Shelby’s still here.”

Dante: “No, I don’t think she’s playing damage control.”

Dante: “No, I’m not gonna throw her out.”

Nora doesn’t speak. But her body shifts — alert now, not with surprise but memory. Like she knew this was coming. Like she’s heard someone else say it before.

Dante: “Fatin — that asshole Dave Goodkind cut her off last week. Before the tape. Before Club Soft. Over that fucking balcony photo — are you—”

Shelby stares at the floor. At the grain in the wood. At the shadow of her own knees. There’s no version of this where she feels real.

Then: the sound of breath held too long, finally exhaled.

Dante: “You’ve seen the memes, right? The tweets? You think she’s got anywhere else to go? They’re slowing Shelby’s voice down, subtitling it like it’s fucking pornography. And Toni — fuck. I don’t even know if she’s meant to come back from this. They’ve already cast her as the villain in a story they don’t plan to rewrite.”

Dante: “You’ve only ever seen her through headlines. Or Toni’s mouth. Or that damn sex tape. You know what you’ve never seen? Her truth.”

The floor creaks again. Another step. Another silence.

Beat.

Dante: “She was at a conversion camp - Unity-funded. They called it ‘restorative discipleship.’”

Nora’s eyes flick to Shelby, then away. She doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t need to. She just listens harder — like every word from Dante’s mouth is unspooling a map she already knows. Like the names he’s saying aren’t just Shelby’s. Because they weren’t just Jessica’s either. Same doctrine. Same bruises. Different girl. Same ghost pacing the hallway.

Shelby’s stomach curls. Her hand tightens into a fist in her lap. She doesn’t know if she’s shaking or just noticing it for the first time.

Shelby winces. The only person she’d told — besides her family, besides Nora — was Toni. She could do the math. But to her surprise, the next thing they heard was:

Dante: “No — Toni didn’t tell me."

A beat.

Wait. What?

Dante: “Mateo did.”

Mateo? Shelby’s brows furrow. The name knocks something loose — not betrayal, exactly. More like a shift in gravity. She’d trusted Toni with the truth. Had Toni handed hers to Mateo? Or had she needed to?

Her breath snags at the thought — that maybe the whole story had been moving without her. That maybe they all already knew the parts she hadn’t said out loud. Not even to herself.Now it wasn’t just Toni, it was Dante, Mateo, Fatin… she might as well put it in her instagram bio.

Dante: “Dallas. State-sanctioned. Legally covered. Conversion therapy. And people online are calling it foreplay.”

His voice tightens, just above a whisper:

Dante: “This isn’t a setup. This isn’t a scandal.” “She is a survivor.” “Who got ostracized the second she stepped out of line.”

Neither of them moves. Because when someone names your pain out loud, you don’t interrupt. You brace for the echo."

Shelby closes her eyes. Presses her fingers to her sternum, as if she could hold the fracture shut. As if she could stop the loop from taking root again.

Foreplay.

She swallows hard.

That’s what they’re calling it now. The meds. The silence. The prayers whispered too close. The hands that hovered too long. The rooms she begged to be let out of.

She should laugh. Or scream. Or punch a windshield like Toni did once, back when Shelby still believed girls like her didn’t do things like that.

Instead, she just stands there. Frozen. Listening to someone else try to translate her damage into something palatable. Something legible.

Dante’s voice, steady as always, cuts through again— “If you think she showed up to ruin Toni’s image instead of survive her own story, then you’re not listening.”

CLICK

That one hits the hardest.

Shelby doesn’t breathe for a full five seconds.

She presses her forehead against the cool wall. Lets it anchor her. She doesn’t cry.

She thinks about how long it took her to stop apologizing for surviving. How easily people still found new ways to shame her for it.

It burns.

Nora doesn’t reach for her hand right away. She sits closer, slow and grounded, like proximity alone might be enough. When she does reach, it’s palm-up, an offering, not a demand. “Hey.” Her voice is soft, not pitying. “You’re not alone in this.”

A pause. Then: “Not anymore. And not just because of history. Because of now.”

A tear slips down Shelby’s cheek.

I spent my whole life choosing silence. And now my silence has a voice, and it sounds like me moaning.

There’s no scripture for that.

The song’s still playing.

She didn’t realize it looped.

Sampha’s voice hums back in — slow, worn, unmistakable:

Please face me when I speak

Please say to me somethin’ before you leave

You’ve been treatin’ me like I’m invisible, now I’m visible to you…

It doesn’t feel like background music anymore. It feels like confession. Like someone finally wrote a gospel for the ones who got left behind.

Shelby exhales, shaky. She’s not sure if she’s hearing it or feeling it.

I’m cryin’ at the bar / I’m wishin’ that you saw my scars, man…

I’m wishin’ that you came down here and stood by me

And looked at me like you knew me

She thinks of the hallway. The look on her face. The one they’ve memed into shame.

But it wasn’t shame.

But I feel so alone / Like I don’t know anyone except the night sky above…

Nora shifts, just slightly. Not closer. Just steadier.

“Jess used to say that verse felt like prayer. Not the church kind — the real kind. The kind you whisper when nobody’s listening but you still hope someone hears.”

“Reframe wasn’t something she talked about. Not even with me. But the few times she did…”

A pause. A breath.

Heavy.

“You’re not the only one who got good at that.”

“She said the worst part wasn’t what they made her do. It was how good she got at making it look like it didn’t hurt. Like she could pass for okay.”Shelby swallows. Hard.

But she doesn’t look away.

The door opens once more. Dante behind the door. His voice isn’t cold — just tired.

He scrolls, then shoves the phone toward her.

“They’re calling you the Prodigal Slut,” he says. “Hashtag’s trending.”

She doesn’t touch it. Just stares at her tea. Or water. Maybe nothing.

Still trying to rewrite it in her head —

The version where Toni set her up.

Planted the camera. Bit her neck on cue.

She tries to believe it. That it was choreography. That she was cast. That none of it was hers.

That version cracks halfway through the first moan.

Her moan.

Looped. Captioned. Uploaded.

She mutters, “Purity princess gone feral. Thirteen thousand likes and counting.”

They’ve said worse.

Said she looked coached. Said she liked it.

Said this is how lesbians groom.

She grabs her phone again.

Just to punish herself.

“If you let a dyke in your mouth, you let the devil in your house.”

There’s a meme: her face mid-orgasm. Captioned: Holy Ghosted.

Nora squints. “Honestly? Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been The Second Coming.”

Dante winces. “Please. Don’t give them ideas.”

She doesn’t laugh. But something in her cracks.

Nora: “Let them trend. You’ll trend louder.”

A beat.

“God works in mysterious memes.”

Shelby lets out a laugh that’s part sob. It slips out too fast, too loud —

Like her body couldn’t tell the difference between breaking and breaking free.

Silence again.

She stares at her reflection in the black mirror of her phone.

Blurred. Half-formed. Like it’s trying not to be her.

She closes her eyes.

Sees the hallway. The unbuckling.

The breath before “ please.”

The sound Toni made — not a word. Just breath. Like she’d been waiting to want her back.

She opens a blank message. Types. Deletes.

She’s written the same line to Toni two thousand ways.

None of them right.

Earlier this morning, she watched a sermon clip of her father.

The same pulpit.

The same voice.

“We pray for all our children — especially those deceived into confusion.

We believe in restoration. In mercy. In consequence.”

Nora murmurs, “They should’ve gone with #blessyourheart. At least then it’d feel honest.”

That gets her.

A laugh bursts out — raw and involuntary.

Not joy. Just the absurdity of survival.

It dies in her throat.

What’s left is stripped down and shaking.

“I did lie,” she says, voice small but sharp.

“Every sermon. Every vote. Every time I looked the other way.”

“I thought if I hated it loud enough, it would drown out the wanting.

If I lied with conviction… maybe it’d start to feel like truth.”

A pause.

“But I wanted it.”

Shelby shifts. Dante stills — like he’s holding his breath through a punch he didn’t see coming. His face doesn’t change, but something in the room does. The air shifts. He blinks once, slow, like he’s memorizing the words before they vanish.

“I wanted her.”

Nora doesn’t blink. She knows too well. She watched Jessica struggle with this in New York…

Of course you did,” she says. “She looked like the kind of girl who’d kiss you like a dare — and mean it.”

Shelby huffs.

It still hurts.

Shelby’s voice drops, quieter now. Like she’s not sure if she’s confessing or just thinking aloud.

“I didn’t just want her,” she starts, fingers twisting in her lap. “I—God. It was more than that.”

A pause. The words gather behind her teeth.

“It felt like hunger. Like I’d been starving for something I couldn’t name, and she was the only thing that… tasted like truth.”

Her eyes stay on the floor. She swallows.

“Like… wanting her meant breaking everything I’d been taught was holy. But I still—”

She laughs, bitter and breathless. “I still wanted her anyway.”

Then, barely a whisper: “Like a spark in a room full of prayers… soaked in gasoline.”

Nora, calm, speaks first, like a prophet. “Wanting isn’t shameful. They just made you believe it’s easier to starve than feel full. That’s not holiness. It’s control. You get to unlearn it now.”

Dante puts his hand up, stopping Nora, “You know now that you get to want without apology. But are you ready to say that…? Not just to us — to everyone acting like Toni took something you didn’t give.”

She remembers the hallway. The warmth.

And her face — the one they’re screen-recording into shame now — wasn’t pain.

It was peace.

It was real.

Oh, you’re looking at the church in the night sky

And you wonder where is God in your nightlife

She scrolls back to the sermon clip. Pauses it.

Her father, mid-blessing. Palm lifted like absolution.

He’ll forgive her — the second she apologizes for being who she is. And she almost would’ve.

Almost called. Almost begged.

Almost let them write the story first — if it meant she didn’t have to bleed alone.

But now?

Now she’s on every timeline with her mouth open and her knees apart and her voice mid-prayer.

And the only thing worse than being seen like that

— is letting them be the ones who explain it. She turns the phone over.

Then she stands. Her knees shake.

Her mouth tastes like rust. She hates it. She needs it.

And if she can’t undo what happened —

Then she’ll speak it loud enough to split the silence they’ve tried to bury her beneath.

And this time, the echo will be hers.

So she calls Leah a few hours later.

Not just because she owes Toni, but because this is the part of her story no one else can tell. Because silence never protected her. And because the truth, finally, is hers to speak.

 

Chapter 18: let the fucker echo

Summary:

After the leak, everything crumbles.

They constructed systems to erase us.
We traced them back to their origin.

Fatin’s silence resonated with a haunting melody.
Toni returned, but not unscathed.
Leah documented the truth.
Shelby articulated it.
Dot tracked the signal.
Mateo followed the scar.

This is what survival entails when it refuses to cower.
This is what love manifests when it refuses to apologize.

Notes:

Huge thanks to my beta, , for their tireless eyes, ruthless clarity, and bottomless care. You caught the fractures and sharpened the echoes. This chapter wouldn’t breathe the same without you.
Find them here: indubitablythebest (Tumblr) & briedoesnotcare (AO3)
Echoes don’t end things. They carry them forward.

 

 

 UN-WEAPONIZED → LEAH'S BEDROOM, TUESDAY

[POST CH. 16 COMPOUND SCENE - SET DIRECTLY AFTER]

 

The bracelet was still on the kitchen table--plastic, pink, the name half-erased. Fatin's LaCroix sat beside it, sweating quietly into the hush. Leah hadn't stayed to watch Dot hunt through logs or to hear what else the drive might expose. She'd gone upstairs. Not to escape--but because there was only one person she needed to face.

The air was static when Fatin entered.

Stale, suspended--as though the walls themselves had braced for impact, breath held tight in anticipation, as if memory had settled into the drywall. The kind of silence that doesn't break--it waits to be understood.

Leah hadn't yet set her bag down when Fatin crossed the room and kissed her.

No preface. No inquiry. Just contact--immediate, insistent. Mouth on mouth, fierce and unrelenting, like recognition. Like reclamation.

Leah flinched. Caught the door with her heel. Nudged it shut, breath snagging. "They're all going to hear us if you don't be quiet."

"I don't care," Fatin said, her voice thick, brittle, striking like flame to tinder. Her eyes weren't angry. They were alive.

She pulled back just enough to speak against Leah's lips.

"Strip."

Not provocative or performative, it was simply declarative—something Fatin had already processed and was now waiting for Leah to assimilate. It wasn’t a command, but an invitation too intimate to articulate.

Leah's breath caught. "So now that Toni's sex tape leaked, you want me?"

Fatin did not recoil. Her expression remained unreadable, though her gaze was razor-clear. Not cold. Not cruel. Focused.

"Jesus, Leah." Her voice carried the weight of exhaustion. "Toni never claimed sainthood. She literally told me to sleep with Dante last week because he would treat me right. But you--"

A beat. Precise. Wounding. Surgical.

"--you treated Galanis like he invented clarity and handed it to you in a fucking gift bag. It's like truth only mattered if it came from someone who looked the part."

Fatin stepped back. Crossed her arms--not in defiance, but to contain the rupture. Her posture wasn't defensive; it was protective. Of herself. Of the moment.

"I'm so fucking tired of him sabotaging us," she said, lower now. "Right now- I'm turned on by you."

"Yeah, out of pity," Leah confirmed.

"No", Fatin's voice rose once before settling back down. "Because you pursued the truth - a name everyone else tried to bury. You confronted what you didn't mean to help conceal. You let it break you, and still--you brought it back. And for once--you admitted you were wrong."

Her gaze didn't waver. If anything, it softened. But not weakly. The kind of softness that asks everything of you.

"You kissed me in Minnesota. You kissed me at Club Soft. You."

"I've been here. Waiting. And every time I try--every time I get close--you translate it like it's about someone else. Usually Toni. Like you'd rather scorch the foundation than admit it was ever yours."

"I'm here," she said. "Not as a message. Not as retribution. Just me."

One breath. Heavy. Steady.

Then:

"Right now, I want you."

Leah didn't respond.

She just stared.

Because that was the dissonance she couldn't resolve.

Not the desire.

The timing.

Because she had loved Fatin for so long it had fossilized. Turned mythic. Turned safe, in its silence.
And now it had shape. It had language. It was standing in front of her.

She wasn't used to being wanted without being turned into a cautionary tale. She wasn't used to being offered anything. Least of all, this.

Fatin moved--forward, into, toward. As though her body had finally aligned with the truth her heart had harbored since sophomore year.

She kissed Fatin again--deeper, steadier. Not to erase pain. Not to transmute guilt into heat. Just to inhabit the moment fully: lips, breath, jawline. Familiarity rendered sacred. She kissed her like a habit she never got to form.

Fatin didn't hesitate.

She slid Leah's shirt over her head--this time slow, deliberate. A benediction. A liturgy. Fingers brushing collarbones like punctuation.

She paused. Let her eyes roam—not with hunger, but with memory. Like she’d imagined this too many times to rush it. Her hands moved to Leah’s waistband, fingers looping the elastic, tugging gently, asking without words.

Leah lifted her hips, silent permission, the air between them humming. Shorts down, then underwear, inch by inch. Fatin kissed the space just above her knee, then the inside of her thigh. Nothing greedy. Just reverent. Like she was being allowed to return to something sacred.

Leah reached for Fatin’s shirt too, tugging it over her head with shaking hands. She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but the tears weren’t grief. They were clarity.

Leah trembled under her hands. Not from fear.

From magnitude. From recognition.

She had envisioned this too many times to count. Until it became theoretical. An ache she learned to manage. A dream she resigned to myth.

And now, she was here. Fully seen. Not filtered through surveillance or narrative. Just--seen.

When they reached the bed, there was no sound. Not silence, but suspension. The room taut with what had never been spoken. With what had always been present.

Fatin touched her like she knew.
Not the body--her. The ruptures. The rhythms. The architecture of restraint. Her mouth pressed to sternum, to thigh, to scar.

Leah arched into it. Moaned, barely. Not from friction.

From release.

And then--slowly, steadily--Fatin's hands moved lower. Her mouth followed. She didn't rush. Didn't ask. Just listened to Leah's breath, the way it caught and stuttered, how her body arched toward contact like it had been waiting its whole life.

One hand clutched the sheets, the other buried in Fatin's hair, as if anchoring herself to the only thing real in a world that kept rewriting her name. She muttered her name like prayer. Like confession.

It was reverent. It was ruinous.

Every movement precise, not performative. Designed not for spectacle but for knowing. She wasn't being consumed--she was being read. Line by line. Word by word. A scripture of nerve endings and need.

Fatin held her like a question she wasn't trying to answer--only feel. Her mouth moved with purpose, with care, with an intimacy that made Leah's back arch and her throat catch. Her legs tightened around Fatin's shoulders. Her hands trembled.

She came with a whimper that bordered on disbelief. No crescendo. Just a release so sharp it almost felt like grief. Like an old thing finally exhaled.

Fatin didn't pull away immediately. She stayed close, face pressed to thigh, one hand tracing circles over Leah's hip like she was still composing her. A soft kiss to the crease of her leg. An apology for the time it took.

Leah looked down at her, stunned, soft, undone. The sound that left her mouth wasn't language--it was recognition. It was finally.

She reached for her. Pulled her up. Kissed her like a promise, like a start.

And for once, there was no shame in it. No edit. No exit wound.

They stayed like that. Breathing. Inhaling the same air like it mattered. Fatin's hand at her side. Leah's fingers brushing her face.

Just this:

Leah's body as sanctuary.
Fatin's mouth as memory.
And a room that, finally, let them breathe.

Because for once, she wasn't evidence.

She was wanted.

She was home.

They didn't speak. Not right away. Leah just lay there, trying to remember what it felt like to be real in someone else's hands. Fatin's fingers brushed her rib like punctuation. Then, eventually--Fatin stood.

Upstairs, the air still smelled like LaCroix and sweat. Downstairs, a war was beginning.

---

RENDER → TUESDAY NIGHT - THE COMPOUND

Fatin sat alone in the main room. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the city—birds, low traffic, the faint exhale of the espresso machine. None of it felt alive.

The silence wasn’t calm. It was clinical.

The compound was hollowed out. Not peaceful, just vacant. Mateo and Dot were off-somewhere, likely collaborating with Harlow, though they hadn't said. Leah had vanished before dawn.

She hadn't touched her cello either. Couldn't. Some things didn't survive being repeated.

The audio file hovered on her desktop like a sealed confession. SHE_SAW_ME_WHEN_YOU_DIDN'T.wav

No thumbnail. No metadata. Just a spiked waveform -- irregular, like a scar left unfinished.

She thought about the compound on Tuesday -- Jasmine's voice filling the room, Mateo's expression folding in on itself, Dot frozen like she was absorbing every implication at once. The footage, the file, Toni's silence, her lips. It had all landed like a rupture disguised as clarity. Like something irreversible had already begun.

Harlow had said they weren't shutting the sites -- just rebranding them. "In Texas, they partner with churches. In Arizona, they call it detox. In Modesto, they call it wellness. But the bones are the same," he told them.

Fatin couldn't stop thinking about that. About how you could rename a cage and still lock someone in it.

And Leah. Sitting on that couch like her hands were clean, like she'd only ever been a messenger. But it wasn't just what she did -- it was what she believed. That Marco was complicit. That Toni was dangerous. That exposure was enough to count as care. Fatin kept replaying what Harlow said -- about the campaign, about Galanis feeding her curated truths, about the way she'd delivered the drive without knowing what was really on it. And maybe that was the part that stuck the hardest -- the not knowing. The possibility that Leah really thought she was doing the right thing. That she'd been used, too. Fatin didn't want to excuse it, but she didn't know how to hate her for it either. Not fully.

She remembered sophomore year -- the way his voice carried weight, the way Leah leaned in like it meant something. Like he saw her. Fatin had felt it too, in flickers. That sense of being noticed. And maybe that's why she couldn't quite pull cleanly away from her now. Because she knew what it looked like -- how easily admiration could get repurposed as something else. And still, Leah looked convinced. Like taking responsibility was the same thing as undoing harm. Like the story she told was still hers to narrate.

 

She clicked the file. Didn't play it. Just hovered.

SHE_SAW_ME_WHEN_YOU_DIDN'T.

The last line Jasmine said. Not loud. Not bitter. Just certain.

It had lodged in her ribs. Stayed there like something sacred. Or accusatory.

The track she made Tuesday hadn't started as music. It wasn't art. It wasn't resistance. It was control -- grief rendered audible. A thing she could shape.

She layered Jasmine's voice. Toni's voice memo. Pitched Sampha to a heartbeat. Didn't smooth the seams.

The imperfection felt honest. Jasmine wasn't allowed a full story. Why should the track pretend?

 

Fatin reached for her headphones. Paused. Retracted.

Instead, she let herself spiral -- let memory thread its loop.

⸻

---

[Highschool - SOPHOMORE YEAR - AUDITORIUM - FLASH MEMORY]

Fatin was texting some guy she'd gone on one date with -- a polite but practiced rejection. She toggled between the message thread and her feed, pretending not to care either way.

Toni was beside her, sketching Regan's eyes in the margins of her notebook. They teased each other, easy in their orbit: the designated problem girl and the effortlessly magnetic one who wasn't technically in trouble -- just always one misstep from it.

"I still can't believe you've been dating the same girl for over a month," Fatin muttered, eyes on her phone. "Please tell me she's not another theater kid who's gonna cry after second base."

Toni scoffed without looking up. "Can't believe you actually went on a date with a guy before sleeping with him."

"I was being polite," Fatin said. "Unlike some people who somehow made it past four weeks without being charged with emotional terrorism."

They went quiet just long enough to notice the shift in the room.

Leah and Martha had arrived early, already seated front and center like they had something to prove. Leah's posture was perfect -- spine straight, shoulders set, red pen poised like it was a scalpel.

"Why does Leah look like she has more of a stick up her ass than usual?" Toni asked.

"Because her English teacher made them read The Nature of Her for a Contemporary Lit unit. It's not the book she's obsessed with... it's the author."

The auditorium buzzed with that restless, pre-assembly energy -- all scuffed sneakers, half-whispers, and barely contained boredom. Teachers lined the walls like they'd been assigned to chaperone a film festival for kids who didn't ask to be here. Galanis wasn't onstage yet, but his name hovered on the projector in smug serif font: JEFFREY GALANIS, AUTHOR OF THE NATURE OF HER.

"Think he's hot in person?" Fatin whispered.

"I'm too gay, Fatin. Also, think he's fuckin’ thirty," Toni deadpanned. 

"Leah thinks he's a prophet."

As if summoned by his own ego, the lights dimmed. A slim man in a too-tailored jacket walked to the mic like he owned the concept of truth. He didn't look like a teacher. Or a writer. He looked like someone who expected cameras even when there weren't any.

"Truth isn't neutral," Galanis said. "It's a weapon. Use it right, and no one can touch you."

Fatin didn't mean to look at Leah, but she did. Leah had written it down before he even finished the sentence.

Galanis smiled faintly, like he knew what he looked like from every angle. "Most people write to be liked. The brave ones write to be believed."

Toni rolled her eyes. "Cute. Another colonizer pretending honesty's some rare art form. What's next -- pain is a personality?"  

Fatin didn't laugh. She was too busy watching Leah tilt her chin like she'd been anointed -- like this was the version of herself she'd been waiting for someone to validate.

⸻

[PRESENT - THE COMPOUND]

Fatin opened the track again.

Not to edit. Just to see it.

The waveform bloomed and pulsed, familiar now -- Jasmine's voice coming through first, static-threaded but unshakable.

"I hummed so I wouldn't have to answer."

Then Marco's:

"They called it protection. But it was silence made legal."

Then a breath -- not from the file, but from Fatin herself.

She clicked on the filename.

Not play. Rename.

It didn't feel right to use Jasmine's voice that way -- not as a title. Not as branding.

Typed instead:

RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav.

She didn’t want it named after Jasmine. That felt like theft.

So she picked the kind of name they’d used when they erased her—RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav. Let them taste their own cold logic.

It sounded bureaucratic. Clinical.

Exactly what they'd call it when they erased a girl like Jasmine --

transfer protocol, retention measure, therapeutic reclassification.

Fatin remembered what Harlow said: the system didn't stop -- it just changed names.

This was that. A repackaged silence.

 

She opened SoundCloud.

New post. No tags. No artist name. No album art. Just the file.

In the caption field, she wrote:

if silence was safety, why did she hum to survive it?

She hovered for a beat.

Mouse over the publish button.

Another siren outside, Doppler-fading into the heat.

She didn't wait for resolve. She didn't need permission.

Click.

Upload complete.

No fanfare. No alert. No proof that anyone had even heard it.

She closed the laptop.

Let the track do what it had to do.

Let the silence rot.

---

WITNESSING → LEAH + SHELBY, TUESDAY NIGHT - CAR → COMPOUND 

While Shelby recorded by her side in the car, Leah drove slow loops through the suburbs around the compound. Not aimless—just quiet. Detached. She told herself it was to give Shelby space, but truthfully, she didn’t want to be in the room either.

She felt self-conscious. Mostly because she figured Shelby Goodkind was used to more—more glamour, more money, more curated neighborhoods. Not starter homes with peeling paint and sun-bleached fences. Not this.

The first recording had been flat. Detached. Shelby had listed the camps like census data—named the states, the buildings, the years. Her tone was clinical, like she was reciting someone else’s trauma. Like it wasn’t hers.

It still counted. Leah took it as a win. After Shelby stood in front of the press pool at the Summit and said what she said, anything was a win.

She forwarded the file to Harlow, who was still probably at the compound game-planning with Mateo and Dot.

As she turned onto a quieter street, she glanced at Shelby.

“You talked to Toni? Since… Club Soft?”

Shelby shook her head. “No. Her phone just goes straight to voicemail.”

“Right,” Leah said. “I figured I was just blocked.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It just sat between them, inert.

Shelby cleared her throat. “How are you guys holding up? With the club shut down.”

“We get by,” Leah said. “I freelance. Fatin’s been doing weddings, bar mitzvahs. Whatever pays.”

A pause. Then: “Her parents helped sometimes. Not lately. Turns out they’ve got legacy ties too. Same networks. Just… cleaner.”

Shelby frowned. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah. But they kept her in the dark. Same way Marco did with Toni. Just dressed it up better.”

“Dot works dispensaries now. Does security stuff for Dante.”

Leah exhaled, tapping the wheel lightly. “Toni… I don’t think she talks to any of us. Not really.”

A beat. Then quieter: “Maybe Fatin. But that’s just because she can never say no to Fatin.”

Shelby looked down. Then, like she didn’t really want to ask but couldn’t help herself: “So… were Toni and Fatin ever, like… a thing?”

Leah paused. “Not really.”

Another beat.

“They were just… fooling around,” she added. “It wasn’t something they talked about.”

Shelby nodded slowly, but didn’t look up.

Leah looked back at the road.
“Honestly? It was just hooking up. No labels, no promises. Then the club burned, and the headlines hit… and that was that.”

Shelby gave a tight nod. “Right. The headlines.”

She stared ahead at the windshield, her mouth set like she was biting back a thousand things. None of them made it out.

The silence returned—not awkward, not cruel. Just necessary.

Leah expected Harlow to process the file through his usual secure network. He was meticulous. A whistleblower. Surgical in his methods.

But he didn’t.

He called her ten minutes later.

She pulled into a quiet cul-de-sac.

Then Harlow:

"Is Shelby Goodkind with you?"

His tone was flat. No greeting. No warmth.

"What are you..."

"I need a yes or a no."

Leah stayed silent. It was answer enough.

"Put me on speaker."

She complied.

"Shelby. It's Harlow."

"Hi?" Shelby answered, uncertain.

"I just listened to what you sent."

Leah took a deep breath.

"That wasn't a statement. That was a footnote."

He didn't raise his voice, but the gravity was unmistakable--precise, deliberate.

"You think listing a few locations and pressing send qualifies as accountability? This isn't PR. It isn't redemption. It's documentation. And right now, you're packaging your trauma like it's ready for distribution."

"They recorded you having sex. Reduced you to content. Weaponized your image. And you respond with a bullet-point summary?"

"I didn't think they could dismantle Toni further. But that tape managed it. And she didn't even grow up under David Goodkind. She wasn't paraded at donor events like living proof that pain could be repackaged."

"So no--I don't believe you're fine. And if you are? Then maybe you've worn your composure so long you think it counts as healing. That might be the whole problem."

A pause followed. Not hesitation--discipline.

"Toni asked me to protect you. That might not sound like much, but from her? That's everything. She doesn't do vulnerability. She doesn't ask. So if she did? That means you're not just collateral. You're someone she'd bleed for. So here I am, doing what protection looks like: telling you to stop shielding them."

"José Serrano wasn't an outlier. He was a template. Templates don't just build systems like camps. They construct silence."

"In Palestine, I was taught that silence was protection. That's what they told my mother when the soldiers raided our block. If she cooperated, we'd be safe. If she stayed quiet, we'd be spared."

A beat. His voice didn't crack, but it turned inward.

"She believed them. For a while. Because she thought silence might save us. But it didn't. It killed her."

"Blueprints persist because they don't just erase people like you. They convince you that erasing yourself is noble."

Then, a final line, clinical and cold:

"You already survived. Speak like someone who did."

Click.

---

MARKED → 7 YEARS AGO - SOPHOMORE YEAR - LEAH POV

The first time she almost disappeared, no one noticed.

The second time, Toni did.

(This is about the first.)

 Her classmates said she was lucky. That the driver stopped. That she could've been killed.

In the hospital, her mother wept while describing Leah's symptoms as depression. Her father called it hormones. Said it was just being sixteen.

No one mentioned Jeffrey. Not once.

It's not like they knew.

But someone did. Before anyone else. Not because Leah told them -- she didn't. Because someone noticed. A shift. A tension. The way she started carrying herself like something was bracing to snap.

They weren't there when he called her dangerous, but in a flattering way. Weren't there when his smile said he meant it.

They didn't see how he underlined her words like they were already canon -- full of meaning he swore she meant on purpose. Didn't hear his voice drop when he said it again, more quietly this time: dangerous in the right way.

They never read what came next. Just watched the fallout. Gave it a name that sounded medical. Filed it somewhere no one would ever look.

She never told anyone about the café. Not Fatin. Not even Martha, who always knew when she was lying, even if she never said it out loud.

And she and Toni hadn't been friends by choice. They were friends because it was easier not to hate each other and stay in Fatin's orbit without collateral damage.

She was sixteen. He was thirty. She never Googled it -- not because she didn't know, but because she did.

He wasn't her teacher. But that didn't make it clean. It just made it harder to explain.

They sat outside. Her draft between them. Double-spaced. His notes in pencil. His coffee untouched.

"I don't want to workshop this," he said.

She blinked. "You don't?"

"I want to publish it."

She laughed -- awkward. He didn't. Just tapped the page like it meant something.

"This isn't high school writing," he said. "This is exposure with backbone."

It wasn't even that good. It was about the first time she questioned her own mind -- not in some dramatic, movie-trailer way. Just quietly. A blur in her thinking. A heaviness in her chest she couldn't name. She called it stress. Called it girlhood. But he called it sharpness. Said it was real.

He underlined a sentence she didn't even remember writing: We keep quiet so the whole thing doesn't fall apart.

He circled it. Looked her in the eye.

"You don't just observe truth," he said. "You make it confrontational."

Her chest ached. Not from attraction -- from recognition.

They weren't sitting that close. But when he leaned in, it felt like permission. Like meaning required proximity.

He never asked her age again after she said almost eighteen. He just nodded. Like that made it fine.

"You carry yourself like someone older," he said, folding the paper like it was already his. "It's rare to find that kind of clarity at your age. Or close to it."

She laughed. Not because it was funny. Because she didn't know what else to do.

She believed him.

He gave the pages back -- marked, reframed, rewritten to match the version of her he wanted to see.

She took them like they were sacred.

They didn't touch that day.

But later, she opened a new notebook. Wrote at the top: You decide what gets remembered. Underlined it. Twice.

They didn't touch that day.

But eventually, they did. Not that day. Not even that week.

But it happened.

Because it wasn't just one meeting. It was weeks. Months. All over town.

She lied. Said she'd just turned eighteen. He didn't question it.

And he was the first. Not her first time. 

The first person she'd ever had sex with.

But the first she'd love. 

Not because she wanted it that way. But because he made it feel inevitable. Like the kind of ending a story like hers wasn't supposed to have.

There was no coercion. That's what made it harder to name.

He didn't ask. She didn't stop him.

And afterward, she told herself it mattered. Because if it didn't -- then what was any of it for?

She didn't tell anyone. Not then.

But someone saw.

Someone always does.

⸻

SAME DAY - AFTER SUNSET - 

{TONI POV}

She wasn't trying to find her.

Just walking the long way home. Head down. That buzz in her teeth she only got when something was off and no one had said it out loud yet. Regan and her just got in what would be their first of a million fights - over what ? Didn't matter - Toni doesn't even think she knows. Either way, Toni had no ride home. 

The Prius was parked half-on the curb, half in the shadow.

Leah stepped out. No backpack. Toni knew she'd skipped first period. 

Eyes blank like she was still somewhere else.

Toni stopped mid-step.

Didn't say her name.

She watched Leah walk -- slow, steady, unbothered -- like the pavement didn't sting. Like whatever had happened had already sunk too deep to burn.

She didn't tell anyone. Not yet.

Just stood there, breathing like she was about to break something.

---

DAMAGE REPORT→ PRESENT, MARCO'S SAFEHOUSE 

The refrigerator hums. So does she.

Toni is folded into herself on the kitchen floor, back pressed to the metal, her body one tightly wound refusal. She hasn't looked at him once.

Harlow stands in the doorway. Doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He knows better. Knows what it means when someone like Toni allows herself to be silent in front of someone like him.

The burner phone vibrates.

No message. No sender. Just a hyperlink.

He opens it.

Retention_Protocol.wav

He doesn't explain. Doesn't announce. Just plays it.

The first sound is static. Then: Jasmine. Not frightened--just resigned. Her voice tinny, degraded, like it was carried on cheap wire across state lines. The audio is the kind that survives in shadows.

"Just Jasmine. That's what they called me when they moved me. Or 'noncompliant.' Or 'watchlist.'"

Harlow doesn't blink. But the edges of the counter blur. Jasmine sounds like someone half-erased. Someone preserved by accident.

"I asked what the pills were. I watched a girl get touched and didn't pretend I didn't."

He glances toward Toni. She hasn't even fidgeted yet. But her fingers twitch--small, involuntary.

"Because if I hum, I don't have to answer."

That's when Toni's breath hitches. Just barely.

Then: another voice. Hers. From an old voice memo, maybe. Fractured, raw.

The edit leaves in the bruises--pauses, static, unsanded seams.

"You never needed me to explain it. You just turned the volume all the way up."

It wasn't made beautiful. It was made honest. Toni's mouth opens slightly.

He waits. Nothing comes out. Then, quietly: "Fatin made this?"

Toni's mouth closes, she puts a hand to her head. She dissolves. Her voice is cracked, pained like someone knocked the air out of her. "Yeah - Fatin is kinda...she lets me exist."

Harlow's brain worked - he remembered Marco saying he had

more voices. Leah, clipped. Sampha underlayered. Fence hum. Then Jasmine again:

"She saw me when you didn't."

One tear. Then another. Then more.

Harlow watches her—watches over her—but doesn’t move. He doesn’t offer comfort; he knows it would land like control. He’s spent too much of his life watching young people—too many of them girls—unravel under the weight of someone else’s corruption

He hadn't seen Toni after Club Soft--no one had. But he watched some of the tape - till clothes came off and he ended up going into his daughter's room, telling her that he loved her, and if anyone hurt her ever that would be the last day they had on earth.

Because he saw what Toni walked into.

He saw what she didn't take.

And now, listening to this, he finally understood why.

The audio ends.

Toni rises, switches on the sink. Splash of water. She washes her face like it's something to do with her hands. He looks away.

He wants to go to her. Hold her. Be human.

But he doesn't. He's a grown man.

Like Galanis.

Like Serrano.

Like David Fucking Goodkind.

Like all the others who packaged proximity as protection.

The burner vibrates again.

Leah: It's live.

**Attachment: A message from Shelby Goodkind Regarding Unity Outreach.**

---

                                                                                 

DOCUMENT →*** Leah, Present - Spare Room at Compound***

Leah kept her hands buried in her pockets, hyper-aware of every shift in air, every static crackle.

She told herself she was there to witness -- not interfere.

But part of her ached to intervene. To soften the edges. To protect Shelby from the kind of exposure Leah used to mistake for clarity.

But she didn't speak. It wasn't theirs to shape.

And yet, something in her clenched. Not because she doubted Shelby, but because she understood what it meant -- to speak without armor. To say it all without shaping it for sympathy. Leah had spent so long editing truth into something legible. Shelby wasn't doing that. She was just telling it.

Leah envied her. And didn't.

Not in the ways that counted.

She wondered if this was what it felt like to stop spinning --

to speak without strategy.

To say the truth out loud before someone else had the chance to shape it into something else.

To name something before it became a wound.

Before it rewrote you.

To call what Jeffrey did as what it was -- before it carved itself into her memory and started rewriting who she thought she was.

Shelby stood still for a long time before she spoke.

Leah watched from the monitor. Still. Listening.

Shelby looked directly into the lens. No script. No blink.

Then:

"I was sixteen the first time they tried to make me disappear."

A pause. Small. Sharp.

"They called it a Christian youth retreat. They said it would bring me closer to God. What it brought me to was concrete floors. Cold showers. A counselor who told me that hunger was proof God was listening."

No waver. Just truth.

"They said demons lived in my body. They said scripture was the cure. They gave me pills with no names. Blue for clarity. White for quiet. I stopped asking questions. I stopped asking to go home."

The camera caught everything -- the stillness, the steel.

"I was told to say thank you when they called me an abomination. And I did."

Leah's hand hovered over the trackpad. Not to pause. Just to bear witness.

"It was a conversion therapy camp in Dallas, Texas. Unity Outreach branded it a youth retreat for the lost. For the ones who'd strayed from God.

It wasn't.

It was a place where gay minors were told the same lie -- that they could be saved."

"A month ago, in Modesto, California, a facility called New Promise Grove was shut down. They called it a wellness center. It was a conversion therapy camp. Just like mine."

"The difference? The Modesto one was illegal. The one I went to -- and the ones just like it in Texas, Florida, Oklahoma -- they're still legal.

And even in states where it's not, they don't shut them down. They just rename them. Partner with affiliates. Rebrand the abuse as mentorship. They bleach the files. They reassign the kids. The system doesn't die -- it just puts on a different face."

"And they'll keep running. Because my father -- and his congregation -- think they should."

She took one breath, like it cost something.

"My name is Shelby Goodkind. My father is Pastor David Goodkind. He funded those camps. He defended them. He rebranded them.

He called it healing. He called it grace. It was sedation. It was silence."

She didn't blink. She didn't shake.

"I stood beside him at fundraisers. At rallies. Let them turn me into a redemption story before I was ever allowed to tell the truth."

She looked off-camera once, then back.

"I know who ran Reframe. His name is José Ángel Serrano. I know what happened in the red tray room. And I know I survived it."

Another pause. Leah felt it -- not in her ears, but in her spine.

"I'm not here to apologize. I'm here to confirm what some of you already know -- and to say it out loud for those who were never allowed to say it for themselves."

She stepped forward slightly. Into the light.

"And now... there's footage of me. And someone I cared about--"

She stopped. Breathed.

In that split second, Leah's chest tightened -- not from guilt, but from recognition. This was what risk looked like, laid bare. Not the story she'd tried to control, but the kind someone could bleed for.

"Someone I care about."

"Footage that was taken without my consent. But I gave her my consent.

That part matters."

In that moment, Leah's throat burned. Not from grief. From understanding -- late, but not too late.

There was no undoing what she'd done. But there was this: witness. Platform. Proof she'd finally stopped narrating the lies Jeffrey was telling her and started listening.

"It wasn't supposed to be public. And that's not her fault."

She held the lens like it owed her something.

"I'm not doing this to save face. I'm doing this because I should've said something sooner. About my dad. About his donors. His congregation. About the harm he calls healing."

"This won't fix anything. But maybe it'll make it harder for them to lie."

She didn't blink much. Just held her ground.

"If anyone ever told you God couldn't love you -- they were lying.

That was a load of bullshit. And it was never your fault."

A pause. Not dramatic. Just honest.

"I'm Shelby Goodkind. I'm not here to pray for the ones they said had strayed. I'm here to shout--for every one of us they made believe strayed."

Shelby stayed still for a beat after the last word.

Then she stepped back, away from the camera.

Leah didn't move. Just clicked. Watched the file save. Just the cold, mechanical tick of a completed recording.

Shelby sat on the floor. She didn't say anything.

She hadn't cried while speaking. But now, she was -- silent, folded forward, sleeve pressed to her face.

Not from shame. From relief.

She thought about how long Shelby had been overwritten.

By headlines. By sermons.

By Leah herself -- not with a byline, but with her silence.

With the wrong alliances.

With the damage that comes from believing you're neutral.

She thought about Tuesday. Jasmine's voice in that room.

The file. The bracelet.

The weight of what Toni had carried -- for years -- without asking anyone to help.

This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was clarity.

For a moment, Leah saw what Toni saw.

Not just the risk. Not just the fallout.

The cost.

She pressed upload.

Watched the bar crawl from 12% to 74% to 100%.

She didn't know who would hear it first.

But somewhere--maybe already--Toni was watching.

⸻                                                                                                   

DAMAGE REPORT [CONT] → PRESENT, MARCO'S SAFEHOUSE 

After Toni watched the video, she didn't speak.

Her mouth parted, then closed again. Her face twisted—pride, fear, awe—all flickering too fast to settle.

She sat back, knees pulled in, arms around them. Like she had to hold herself together just long enough to metabolize what Shelby had done.

"She did it," she whispered. Not to Harlow. To the room. Maybe to Jasmine. Maybe to no one.

Then, a pause.

 "I told her to get out while she still could. Thought maybe she'd go back to her version of safe and stay there." Toni says quietly.

A breath. Tight. Measured.

"But she didn't run. She aimed."

Another beat--more breath than sound.

"My fucking God," Toni said, a stunned half-smile cutting through. "She really did it."
A breath. Then quieter.

"I told her--next time, 'let that fucker echo'."

She shook her head. Not disbelief. Something closer to reverence.
"And she fucking did."

"They wanted her to sell me out," she murmured. "But she flipped the damn frame."

Harlow exhales. Just once. Like it hit him, too.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't look at her. Just lets the moment settle--lets her words rewrite the air.

What could a story about war in Palestine possibly offer a girl trying to escape Reframe? Both were systems, yes--but one took lives, and the other took pieces of the soul. 

Marco had said Shelby was a lost cause. Too polished. Too processed. Too close to her father's handlers to pull clean.

He couldn't have been more wrong about this. 

She'd listened. Not to sermons. To Toni. To the things left unsaid in every file, in every leak. To the cost that never made the page.

And now, here she was.

Unfuckwithable. Unbranded. Loud.

That was when the burner lit up again.

Harlow glanced down.

Subject:

URGENT: DEFAMATION WARNING

Cease and desist. Reframe's legal proxy. He skims it. Claims of sabotage. Misuse of confidential trauma files. Allegations of harm.

"They're scared," Toni says, voice bone-dry.

"Exactly," he replies.

He tosses the phone to the counter. Lets it skid. Settles beside the sink.

"It's time to stop mourning," he says.

And without pause, she answers: "We start dismantling."

That's the real moment. Not the tears. Not the track.

That.

 

---

TRACE THEN BURN → ENSEMBLE - STRATEGY ROOM, WEDNESDAY NIGHT

The table is crowded with open Manila folders, tangled cords, and three exhausted laptops humming faintly beneath the flicker of overhead fluorescents. An empty plate marked with Mateo's name leans against a stack of printed intake files. One laptop screen shows a frozen node map; another displays the file labeled 4127. The air is tinged with the sharp scent of overcharged batteries and burnt coffee—residue from too many long nights spent chasing truths no one else was willing to name.

Outside, the night pushes in. Cold air slips through cracked windows. The stutter of a passing helicopter slices the quiet. Somewhere nearby, a car door slams. The world moves on.

Dot stands behind a chair, her hands braced on the backrest, scanning text upside down. Dot’s focus doesn’t flicker—it tracks. A hunter reading not signals, but absences. Her eyes triangulate something buried: a pattern no one was supposed to name.. Harlow is typing steadily, his fingers cutting clean rhythms into the keyboard, each keystroke urgent but disciplined.

Toni enters.

She hadn't planned to return. A full week since she'd spoken to anyone here. Nine days since the summit detonated and the world made her into a spectacle—her silence reframed as guilt, her body looped on news cycles, her name dissected like a scandal instead of a person. She had disappeared herself. Until now.

She sees Leah first. Leah hears her boots and looks up. For a moment, they just stare. No greeting. No anger. Just distance—measured, but palpable.

Neither speaks.

Dot breaks the silence. She gestures at one of the screens. "We found a match. Site AZ-TR. Jasmine's intake number points there. So does Marco's last login."

Leah's voice is careful. "He's alive?"

Harlow doesn't answer directly. "We think he's being held. Quietly. Somewhere remote maybe."

Toni steps further into the room. Her voice is flat. "We're going to get him."

"Not yet," Dot says. "First we finish the map. Then we figure out how to burn it without going up in flames."

Mateo leans against the wall, quiet but alert. After a pause, he speaks. His voice stayed even, but his fingers twitched on the corner of the table—like he was holding something back.

"I knew girls who worked in logistics for Legacy. They were in government sanctioned job placement programs. They were moving product through the camps. Meth. Prescriptions. Whatever they could bury in a transfer van."

He looks down at the bracelet on the counter.

"Some of them are still around. They're helping now--cross-referencing shipping records, tracking facility logs. They know which sites got renamed and which ones disappeared. They remember what the system tried—and failed—to erase."

The bracelet is worn and fading. 4-1-2-7-MNTMP. Handwritten. Almost gone.

Toni touches it lightly. "Resolve coding. MN is Minnesota. TMP is Tempe. It's a transfer classification."

She looks at Harlow. "Can you access the old foster network?"

He's already scrolling. "Depends on how she was filed. If she was erased, we'll need your memory. The unofficial stuff."

Toni nods. "I remember."

Her hand hovers over the threadbare knot.

"They filed me like they filed her."

“Every kid in care had a file—intake forms, evaluations, placements. It wasn’t protection. It was triage. They categorized us before they ever met us. Decided who got help and who got erased.”

Leah's voice slices in. "You think Jasmine was headed there too?"

Toni doesn't hesitate. "No. She wasn't supposed to be filed at all. She aged out. No guardian. No placement. That's when the system stops tracking you. You don't get rerouted. You get erased."

The silence settles. Thick. Dry. The air smells like scorched metal.

Harlow speaks first. "Fatin's upload, combined with Shelby's tape, triggered a cease-and-desist. The rebranders are panicking."

Dot nods. "That's our window. While they're unstable."

She looks at Toni, brow furrowed.

"But why you?" she asks. "Why did Marco risk all this--for someone so... combative?"

Toni doesn't respond.

Harlow does.

"Shelby and Marco--both learned how to fold. How to comply. That's why Toni scared him."

He folds his arms. His voice slows.

"Marco and David Goodkind weren't just church colleagues. They were childhood friends. Marco came up through the system too. But he didn't run. He joined. Organized crime. David thought Unity would fix him."

"At nineteen, Marco should've gone to trial. Instead, Unity spun it--off-the-record deal, no charges, new narrative. They called it reform. It was image management."

He glances at Toni.

"They didn't save him. They rebranded him."

"And then he saw you. And what you did for Jasmine."

"You didn't comply. You didn't beg. And that scared them--because it reminded Marco who he used to be."

"He didn't see a girl to rescue. He saw someone who hadn't been broken yet."

"They filed you as a threat. He read the footnote. And he remembered what that meant."

Toni exhales, slow and deliberate.

"Jasmine aged out," she says. "No more liability. No more record. Just... absence."

Harlow nods.

“That’s how it works. You’re gone long enough… even you forget you existed.”

 

Dot rests her hand on the bracelet. Not heavy. Just there. Anchoring.

“Then we make her exist again.”

 

A draft pushes through the cracked window. Paper shifts. The overhead bulb buzzes, just faintly off its rhythm.

Leah’s voice cuts in—precise, cool, a scalpel disguised as doubt.

"You’re actually going through with this."

Toni doesn’t blink. Her eyes are darker than before—tired, yes, but sharpened with something else. The part of her that’s always bracing.

“You helped build the platform Galanis used to vanish us,” she says. “Now help dismantle it.”

 

The air feels tight. Like the walls are listening.

 

Leah scoffs. It’s quiet. Bitter. A blade honed to sound like breath.

“You think I haven’t been?”

She looks at Toni the way you look at something you lost and found too late. Her voice lifts—not loud, but fierce.

 

“Who do you think got Marco’s drive from Galanis? Who emailed it to Harlow? Who filmed Shelby’s statement? Who flew to fucking Arizona—because I had a hunch they’d send her to the nearest site still standing?”

 

Fatin steps forward. Barefoot, silent. Her gaze flicks from Leah to Toni.

 

Her voice doesn’t cut—it cushions. Threaded through with warning. With care.

“Babe. Maybe take five.”

 

Leah doesn’t move. But her jaw ticks once. Her arms fold slow. Defensive, but also like she’s holding herself together.

 

She’s not looking at Toni anymore. She’s looking at Harlow. And behind that, something else—like she’s asking the room to tell her she’s not invisible again.

 

Harlow doesn’t answer the look. He closes his laptop with a soft, deliberate click.

“I’m stepping out.”

 

He rises, slow, and gestures.

“Dot. Mateo. Fatin—give them space.”

 

Mateo grabs his hoodie off the chair. Dot doesn’t say anything, just scoops up a folder and goes.

 

Fatin lingers. A second too long. Her eyes find Toni’s—not in challenge, not in forgiveness. Just contact. Human. Heavy. A held breath from across a distance only they could map.

 

Toni meets them. There’s no smirk, no posture. Just a breath held in the space between them—like something passed, wordless but understood. Then Fatin nods, barely, and turns away.

The door shuts behind them.

The heat hums under the floorboards. Dust floats in the projector light like something sacred and unsettled. A drip in the kitchen. Static in the sockets. The room holds its breath

Fluorescents hum overhead. A high, ghost-wire buzz. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. A helicopter pulses against the night.

 

But inside—stillness. Like the moment just before a reckoning.

---

CHAIN OF CUSTODY → FLASHBACK

LEAH POV - SOPHOMORE YEAR

It wasn't the car that did it. It was the expression. The way Toni watched her get out of Galanis's Prius--rain-slicked, hair stuck to her temple, no backpack. Like Leah had been delivered somewhere, not driven.

They didn't speak. Not then.

But Toni told Fatin. And Fatin sent the file-- Leah's Birth Certificate to the right people. The ones who would make him disappear. Galanis received a copy of it in the mail. So obviously someone was watching his back too.

The next week, Galanis was gone. Just vanished. No explanation. No ceremony. Just a blank space in the syllabus.

Leah never asked how it happened. She already knew.

She didn't stop speaking to Fatin. Couldn't. That's not how Fatin worked.

But she never forgave Toni. Still hasn't.

Because when Galanis called it blackmail, he wasn't wrong.

Because when she told him she loved Fatin, she meant it.

And because if she'd gotten there first, maybe she wouldn't have had to burn it all down just to feel real.

Fatin broke the chain.

But Toni lit the match.

---

DISMANTLE → LEAH + TONI - COMPOUND

The door clicked shut behind Harlow. Dot, Fatin, Mateo were gone. What remained was a silence too thick to pass for peace. The hallway hummed with the low electrical whine of the fridge, the distant wash of traffic, the soft vibration of unsaid things.

Leah stood with the intake folder clutched in her hands. Toni lingered by the doorway, shoulders tense, as if caught between staying and detonating.

"You going to say anything?" Leah asked, voice low.

Toni didn't look at her. "What would you want me to say?"

Leah shifted, grounding herself. "You think I did it to hurt you."

"No," Toni said. "I think you did it so someone would say thank you."

Leah didn't flinch. "I leaked Marco's note because it mattered. Because no one else was going to."

"Cool," Toni said, with a sharpness that made it anything but. "And you gave it to a man who turns other people's trauma into a thesis. You didn't just leak it. You let him narrate it."

"I didn't know he was tied to Legacy," Leah said. "I was trying to stop another cover-up."

Toni turned to face her fully then. "Cut the shit. Fatin found the email chains on your laptop. He convinced you to spy on me. Maybe not with those words, but that's what it was. And you let him. So tell me--why the fuck did you go to Galanis before you came to me?"

Leah's jaw tightened. "Because you don't answer questions, Toni. You vanish. You hoard information like it's sacred. You survive and expect the rest of us to translate it. You did it when you left Minnesota after Regan, and you would do it now, I'm sure of it."

She paused, then added, "Galanis knew someone was about to go public about Unity and someone with real reach, who wanted to   tie Noć to Unity. To David Goodkind. To the cartels."

"That's not an answer," Toni said. "You believed everything they printed about me. About Marco. Instantly. Why?"

Leah's voice faltered. "Marco has a past. And honestly, Toni... you have a history with these kinds of fires. If I’d brought Marco’s note to you, you would've buried it. Or made it personal. Or handed it back to grief. I know Fatin says you have your reasons—that you mean well—but that’s not always enough."

Toni's eyes narrowed. "You and Fatin a thing?"

Leah blinked. "What?"

"You kissed her," Toni said flatly. "In front of me, at Club Soft, out of nowhere."

"You were ghosting everyone--again."

Toni winced. "No, I was right there."

There was a beat. Then Leah said, quietly, "With Shelby. You chose her. Not us. Not Fatin."

"Yeah," Toni said. "And Fatin didn't care. She never cared about Shelby. Or Regan. Or anyone who wasn't us. That's not the point."

The air grew sharp. Still.

"Did you kiss her because you wanted to?" Toni asked. "Or because you knew it would gut me?"

"Does it matter?" Leah replied.

"It does," Toni said. "You love her. That's fine. I don't know when it started--but it got obvious fast. And you decided to hate me for telling Fatin the truth in high school. You didn't hate him for disappearing when he found out. You didn't hate Fatin for sending him your birth certificate. But God, you hated me, and you hardly knew me."

Leah didn't respond. Her lips parted like she might, but the words died.

"And I still don't regret it," Toni continued. "I didn't tell her to punish you. I told her because I knew he was dangerous. Because it isn’t just illegal. It’s predatory. It’s wrong. Even if no one else was willing to say it, I was. Because I cared about you."

She took a step forward. "But don't--don't--use Fatin. Not to get to me. Not to punish yourself. Not for anything."

Leah's next breath came sharp. "You think I used her? You clung to her because it hurt less than being abandoned".

Toni's jaw popped, slower than Leah had ever seen, a tell she knew very well. And she had never seen her do it in such an aggressive manner. She looked at Leah--pupils like marbles--and for a second, something in her cracked. Not wide. Just enough.

"I never used Fatin," Toni said, voice low. "I couldn’t even hold her right. But she stayed anyway. Not because I asked her to. Because she saw me." Her voice caught, not soft, not sharp--just true. "Don't act like she didn't matter. Not to me."

The silence that followed wasn't triumphant. It wasn't righteous. It was ruined.

Toni stepped past Leah, slower this time, her shoulder still slicing the air.

Leah turned toward her, arms still half-crossed, eyes hot with confusion she hadn’t meant to show. Her voice rose—tight, incredulous, pushing past the lump in her throat. “You seriously expect me to believe you and Fatin weren’t toxic.”

But Toni didn’t stop. Her shoulders didn’t bristle—they sagged, almost imperceptibly. Like she’d already heard every version of what Leah was about to say.

She kept walking.

The door was already closing.

Leah didn’t get the last word. Just the echo.

---

THE ONE'S THEY KEEP  → OUTSIDE THE COMPOUND

Outside the compound, Fatin, Dot, Mateo, and Harlow lingered beneath the porch light, the glow flickering unevenly over their faces. The air was heavy, saturated with that end-of-night thickness that clings to skin and thought alike. Fatin smoked a cigarette in measured silence, her eyes half-lidded, tracking nothing and everything.

"You and Toni are too young to be burning through your lungs like that," Harlow said, his voice dry, chin tilted toward her.

Fatin didn’t look at him. “We’re also too young to be walking around with cartel-coded routing slips in our back pockets,” she replied. “So yeah. Smoke’s the least of it.”

Harlow reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his phone. "Did you watch it—the video Shelby recorded, the one Leah filmed?"

None of them answered. The air stilled. Even the wind paused, listening.

He tapped play and turned the screen toward them.

Shelby’s voice filled the space—compressed but resolute. The video was shaky, but her face came through clear, illuminated like a confession.

Mateo crossed his arms, brow furrowing. “Jesus,” he muttered. “She didn’t hold back.” He rubbed his wrist like it itched—like the memory of something he'd worn too long was still clinging to his skin.

“A confession,” Dot said softly, as if naming it made it heavier. She held Jasmine’s bracelet tighter, thumb pressing the faded numbers like she could will them back into clarity. Her mouth opened, then closed. Something about Shelby’s voice—

"I stood beside him at fundraisers. At rallies. Let them turn me into a redemption story before I was ever allowed to tell the truth."

Fatin stared at the screen’s frozen final frame. Her jaw tensed. Her voice was low. “That wasn’t a press statement. That was her burning the narrative.”

Dot’s voice came low, cautious. “Jasmine wasn’t gay, right?”

Harlow shook his head. “No conversion routing. No prep notes. Nothing like what was planned for Toni.”

Fatin’s voice flared, quiet but fierce. “Why does that matter? You think they only disappear kids if they’re easy to categorize?”

Dot shook her head slowly. “No. I mean… if she was, she would’ve been a poster child. Like Shelby. But maybe that’s not what they needed from her.”

She held the bracelet up between her fingers. “Shelby got rebranded—polished and paraded. Jasmine? Maybe they kept her behind the curtain. Gave her a job. Buried her name. Like Toni. Like Marco.”

Fatin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You think they’re still using her.”

Dot nodded once, grim. “If she knew enough—and she did—they wouldn’t just let her go.”

“They don’t like cutting loose the ones who know how the machine works,” Harlow said. His tone was casual, but the weight in it was unmistakable.

Mateo shifted uncomfortably. His jaw tightened. His arms crossed tighter.

Dot noticed. Fatin did too. Her eyes tracked him with a flicker of quiet concern.

Dot remembered his words from Club Soft:

“I’m not cutting deals,” he said. “I’m trying to pay one back.”

Her voice dropped. “Mateo... you good?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Looked down, clenched his jaw. “Nah. It’d be fucked up. If they really made her one of them... Like helping them, I don’t know...”

“What—distribute drugs? Launder money?” Fatin asked, but the sharpness in her tone didn’t land like a joke.

Dot stiffened. Her breath shortened. Her fingers clenched hard around the bracelet until the plastic bit into her palm. Then slowly—too slowly—she turned her head toward Mateo.

He wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes. His arms were crossed like armor, and his lids were shut like maybe if he couldn't see them, they wouldn’t see him. His jaw flexed once, twice. Locked.

Dot’s face changed. A flicker of recognition—of dread. Her mouth parted like she might speak, but no sound came. Just the weight of a question she hadn’t wanted to ask.

For the first time, Dot looked scared.

Before anyone could speak, the screen door slammed open so hard it bounced against the frame, rattling like it might splinter. Every head turned.

Toni stormed out.

Eyes flaring. Mouth drawn. Her body wound like a spring ready to snap.

“I need a fucking break,” she barked, not stopping. “I can’t do this tonight.”

“Toni—” Harlow started.

She lifted a hand, a sharp refusal. “I need to see Shelby.”

Dot turned toward the house, then back at the sky, tension radiating through her shoulders.

Fatin stepped forward. “What the hell happened?”

Toni paused just long enough to make eye contact. It landed like a slap—hurt, distant, almost unfamiliar.

“Fatin. Don’t,” she said, voice cracking around the restraint.

Then she walked.

Fatin didn’t follow. Her hand trembled around the stub of the cigarette, ash trailing off in the wind.

Without looking at him, she spoke to Mateo. “Don’t let her drive. Please. Just go.”

Mateo didn’t argue. He grabbed his keys and followed.

The porch grew quiet. Fatin stayed still.

The night didn’t calm. It coiled.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked into the silence like it knew something was coming. A siren shredded the distance, urgent and directionless.

The world didn’t soften. It braced.

Held its breath.

And didn’t look away.

---

WHAT I CAN'T REGRET  → DANTE'S CONDO

By the time Toni reached Dante’s door, her knuckles were red from the cold. He didn’t ask why she was there. Just opened the door and stepped aside.

"Shelby's in the spare room," he said, voice even. He lingered for a moment, like he might say more, then added, "She just did the impossible today—so please, just... don't fuck it up."

Toni's response came quiet, but certain. "Dude, I know."

He nodded and disappeared down the hallway, leaving her alone in the entryway with too many thoughts and nowhere left to put them.

She stood there for a moment, still catching her breath, still remembering Fatin’s face when she left the porch—how it looked too much like the prologue to something she wasn’t ready to write.

Then she moved.

Toni opened the door without knocking.

The room was dim—just the soft blue of streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Shelby sat cross-legged on the bed, her hair down, in a white two-piece cami and short set. When she saw Toni, she gave a small, crooked smile.

Toni's guard went up, and then Dante's words were in her head. She tried to sound lighter.

"Hey, B."

Shelby didn’t move from her spot on the bed, her posture relaxed but her gaze steady. The low light caught the edge of her smile—wry, lopsided, like she’d just remembered something halfway between a joke and a scar.

"I still don't know what B means and neither does the internet—and apparently they know everything," Shelby added, half under her breath, her tone feathered with something close to nostalgia.

Toni blinked, then tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curving into something sly but tired. "Good," she said, voice low. "That one’s just for us."

Toni stepped in. She shut the door behind her. She stayed leaning against it like she wasn't sure if she'd been let in or just let go.

"You meant it?" she asked. No preamble. No mask. "Your statement."

Shelby's breath caught, but she didn't look away. "Yeah. I did."

Toni hovered. She inched incrementally closer to the bed. "You talked about me like I wasn't dangerous."

Shelby blinked. "You weren't. Not to me. Just... heavy. Like truth with nowhere to go."

Toni laughed once, low and bitter. "Come on."

"I'm serious. All those stories—those warnings—they weren't stories, they were rehearsals. Told in rooms I couldn't leave. But none of them were yours."

"You're saying you saw through that?"

"Not until I met you. I'm just saying I saw you anyway."

Toni's shoulders dropped half an inch. The air between them shifted—less charged, more weight. She looked at the empty space next to Shelby on the bed.

Shelby didn’t shift, but her eyes never left Toni—sharp, calm, but not unkind. “You can sit,” she said, her voice soft but firm, laced with something careful. “I’m not scared of you. I just need you to know—I’m not who I was in those stories either.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it carried something unshakable beneath it. Like she’d rehearsed this moment in silence and finally decided to let it echo.

Toni ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes darted around like she was scared someone would catch her breathing the same air as Shelby and take a picture. She finally sat.

"You shouldn't have said it out loud," Toni said. "You didn't owe me that."

"I didn't say it for you."

That landed sharp, made Toni wince like something inside had been scratched.

Her guard went back up. Toni nodded.

Shelby noticed. And softened. "I said it for me. For every time I stayed quiet in a room that only spoke in threats. Every time I let them draw the borders of who I could be, just so they wouldn't see who I already was."

Toni didn't move. Her jaw clenched like she was bracing.

"You think telling the truth makes it less fucked?"

"No," Shelby said. "But it makes them stop pretending it never cracked."

Toni's throat worked. She nodded once. Then again. The kind of nod that meant she wasn't ready to agree, but she wasn't going to argue either.

Shelby shifted, slowly, like she was stepping through fog. She reached for Toni's face, where the bruise Serrano left still lingered, ugly and half-healed.

This time, Toni let her.

Shelby didn't say anything. She just touched the swelling gently, her fingers light and hesitant. Like the skin could break open again if she wasn't careful. Like the wound could still answer her.

"That night in the car, after we left the unfinished Noć," Shelby said. "You got a message. I wasn't trying to read it, but—"

Toni's jaw locked. Her eyes darkened. She remembered feeling her heart drop, and wishing she could chuck her phone out the window.

"It said something about a girl who stayed quiet. And how you didn't."

"Jasmine," Toni said. "A foster kid, 14 or 15, she was at Reframe with me. She got felt up by a donor—I broke his jaw."

Shelby nodded slowly. "I figured. I could do the math, I assumed it had something to do with the record my dad told me about. But then you told me about what actually happened—the ex-girlfriend and the windshield—the story they didn't tell."

She swallowed.

"You showed me that being passive—not doing something—it wasn't neutral. It was consent disguised as silence. Consent to erase her. And you refused to let them have it."

She met Toni's gaze, steady.

"I get why that made you dangerous to them."

Toni didn't speak for a long beat. When she did, it was quieter than Shelby had ever heard her. "He sent that text so I'd remember what happened to the girls who didn't play by the rules. Jasmine never got to speak. And I made sure someone still did."

Shelby's voice was low, but clear. She was smiling when she said, "I get why you still are dangerous."

Toni didn't pull away. She didn't move. She just let Shelby keep her hand there, the heat of it grounding something in her chest that had been running too hot for too long. She looked at it, like she was asking herself if surrendering to the desire—to wanting Shelby—counted as survival. And if it even mattered anymore if she let herself cave in. Then Shelby's voice came, interrupting her.

"Do you regret it?" Shelby asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Toni's brow creased. "Regret what?"

Shelby hesitated. "What you did for me. That night."

Toni didn't answer, not right away. She just stared, squinting like she was parsing the shape of the question, not the words themselves.

Shelby exhaled, dropped her hand from Toni's face. "Toni—when you went down on me. Do you regret it?"

The silence that followed wasn't sharp—it was thick. Full. Charged with everything they hadn't said.

"Fuck no," Toni said, slower this time, like every word had to pass through something raw. Her voice trembled—not from shame, but memory. "I don't regret getting you off. I regret that you felt like you were disappearing while it happened. I regret the hallway, the timing, the fact that the first time someone made you actually cum wasn't in a room that felt like yours. I regret that I didn't know how to give you that. And I hate that you had to wonder if it meant something."

Toni paused, pressed her lips together, almost angry. Continued: “And yeah—I thought the cameras were off. I really did. But after it leaked, all I could think was—what if they were running the whole time? What if that wasn’t just between us? What if I gave that to you, and they took it anyway? And I still didn’t stop. Because you mattered. That’s what I can’t regret.”

Toni's voice cracked, but it didn't waver. Her expression softened—jaw slackened, the burn in her eyes edged with something almost reverent. Her mouth parted like she was tasting memory, her gaze locked on Shelby's with something close to defiance or devotion. Confidence poured off her, low and simmering, but it wasn't about dominance. It was about knowing. "But I don't regret touching you. I don't regret how your breath hitched when I slid down your jeans, or the way your hips lifted like they already knew my name. I don't regret hearing the way you moaned when you stopped trying to be good. I don't regret any of it—not for a second."

Shelby blinked, slowly and hard, like she was keeping something in. Then she nodded. Just once.

"Okay," she said.

"Do you regret it?" Toni asked. Her jaw tensed. "Because I told you to tell me if you wanted me to stop. I needed you to tell me—"

Shelby didn’t let her finish. She surged forward and kissed her—hard. Not gentle. Not romantic. Just full, sudden, breath-stealing. Shelby needed her to stop spiraling. She needed her to stop thinking long enough to feel it—her. The gravity of this. The proof.

The force of Shelby’s kiss knocked something loose in her chest, like breath she didn’t know she was holding. Shelby followed, mouth still on hers, hands in her hair now—desperate, anchoring. She kissed like she was claiming something. Like Toni wasn’t a threat or a risk or a ruined thing—but hers.

Toni’s hands slid to Shelby’s waist, dug in. She kissed back like she meant it. Like she’d been waiting for this—to be touched without hesitation. To be held like fact, not fallout.

Toni groaned low into her mouth. Her hands gripped Shelby’s waist, pulling her closer, anchoring them chest to chest. Then, without hesitation, she guided Shelby gently down onto the mattress. She rose above her—steady, present. Let herself want. No camera. No edit. Just this.

The room didn’t echo. It absorbed them—like it had been waiting to witness something it wouldn’t need to erase.

# # END # #

Chapter 19: the room they chose to fight in

Summary:

The war arrived in an envelope.
They chose a room to fight in.
A lawyer drew the battle lines.
A recording gave the conspiracy a voice.
Serrano promised fire.
Mateo confessed the route.
Marco stared down a lie.
This is the anatomy of a counterattack.
This is what clarity costs.

Notes:

starting this one with an intimate moment between toni and shelby, before next chapter drops us back into our regularly scheduled crisis. consider this chapter an inhale before the exhale cuts sharp.

as always, thank you to the ultimate beta-reader/ love of my life:
💌 indubitablythebest (Tumblr) &
briedoesnotcare (AO3)
* this story would not continue without them - truly

⚠️ just a note: the final scene includes unreal/distorted/cut audio—it’s intentional. context is everything. in this story, love isn’t just soft—it’s weaponized.

also:
carrying Iran and Gaza with me, always.
this story lives in fiction, but i don’t.
no liberation is complete without theirs.

---

 

UNMAKING STILLNESS 

[SHELBY] - DANTE’S GUEST ROOM - 

(CONTINUED FROM CHAPTER 18) - WEDNESDAY NIGHT

The night pressed close, thick and humid, like breath against the nape of your neck—unwelcome and inescapable.Molten lamplight pooled across the bed but refused to chase away the shadows that lingered in the corners—shadows that stretched and shifted, echoing the restless tension still sparking beneath Shelby's skin. The windows were cracked just wide enough to let the city seep in: traffic humming like a distant heartbeat, a sudden laugh from the street below,sharp and fleeting, the pulse of something alive and indifferent. The room smelled of clean linen, sweat, and the dark,earthy cologne Toni had left on her collarbone—a scent now woven into the sheets, into the air, into her.

Stillness hung heavy in the room, not peaceful but taut, like breath held too long.

Toni's mouth hovered just above hers, breath steady and warm. Daring her. "You taste like truth," she murmured, voice rough-edged and daring, like a challenge wrapped in reverence. "Do you always whimper like that?"

Shelby didn't flinch. Whimper? Was that what it was? Her nails dragged down Toni's arm, not soft, but with a deliberate,almost possessive pressure. "Only when it's good."

The kiss that followed wasn't tender—it was claiming, swift and precise. Toni's mouth found the hinge of her jaw, and Shelby arched into it, a desperate, guttural sound catching in her throat, like her body had been waiting for this. For her.The feeling was not unlike a long-held breath finally being exhaled, a sharp, undeniable release that seared itself into her ribs. The echo of the gas station—"You looked like you belonged there"—settled deep in her chest.

Toni's hand slid beneath the hem of Shelby's cami, palm dragging slow over bare ribs, knuckles whispering against skin with the reverence of someone tracing something sacred. There was no rush. Just heat. Just that steady pressure,deliberate and anchoring, like she was helping Shelby remember her body could want, could ask, could take. This touch, unlike the clinical, invasive pokes that had mapped her boundaries in fluorescent-lit rooms, felt like a slow,deliberate unwinding. Each brush of Toni's palm on bare ribs, each graze of knuckles on bone, dissolved another layer of control, making Shelby's skin hum with a dangerous readiness. A dangerous readiness that felt less like fear and more like a long-forgotten language spoken directly to her bones.

It was as if every nerve ending was newly mapped by desire, shedding the old topography of restraint for a rising,unfamiliar thrum. This was not the cold touch of a nurse administering "clarity" pills, but a warmth that woke dormant nerves, mapping her body with pleasure instead of protocol.

She didn't say a word when her thumb brushed the edge of Shelby's bra. Just looked at her, the question stark in her dark eyes.

"Still pretending to be shy?"

Pretending? She'd been living the pretense her entire life. But Toni saw through it, effortlessly, making the years of careful curation feel thin and transparent. Shelby held her gaze. No blinking. No performance. The urge to disappear, to apologize for breathing, evaporated under that steady stare. It was a physical release, the muscles in her face, jaw, and shoulders loosening, as if a lifetime's worth of carefully constructed facade was dissolving under Toni's unwavering gaze. What remained was the raw, electric hum of her own wanting, thrumming just beneath her skin—the naked truth,terrifyingly, laid bare. The pageant smile, the practiced composure, the years of polite silence—all peeled away, useless here.

She lifted her arms, a gesture of surrender that felt more like liberation, shedding the last pretense of resistance. Toni peeled the cami away like it meant something sacred, a ritual of unveiling. Let it fall. Didn't look away. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, devoured every inch, every curve, as if memorizing a map she'd only ever dreamed of tracing, every line a new discovery. Then Shelby's hands found the hem of Toni's shirt, pulling it up, fingers brushing warm skin as she dragged it over Toni's head. The garment joined the discarded cami on the floor. Toni didn't flinch, didn't stop her.Her gaze remained locked on Shelby, a silent acknowledgment of the shift, of the mutual undressing.

Then her mouth was on Shelby's skin.

Not soft. Intentional. Lips dragging, a slow burn against her ribcage. Tongue, a deliberate exploration, tasting, seeking.A circle around her nipple, then the heat of her mouth closing in, sucking deep. The gasp Shelby let out was sharp,desperate, a sound she didn't know she possessed, torn from her lungs before she could contain it. It was a complete surrender of composure, her body reacting on instinct. Her hands fumbled for Toni's wrist, clutching, needing something to hold onto, something real, solid, anchoring. Like she'd fall through the bed, through the floor, through the very fabric of the night if she didn't cling to Toni.

The sheets rustled beneath them, linen twisting under clenched fists, mirroring the churning inside her. The bedside lamp flickered slightly, a faint shadow play on the wall, wind tugging at the curtain in rhythm with Shelby's ragged breath. The distant city hummed, oblivious, yet the universe felt reduced to this small, charged space, a singular point of furious connection.

Toni grinned against her chest, a low, guttural sound of triumph. "Oh, you're so fucked."

Shelby whimpered, a sound stripped of shame or fear, purely wrecked, utterly undone. This raw sound, so different from the controlled gasps she'd perfected for cameras, for audiences, was just for Toni. It was the sound of something splitting open, unedited, undeniable, a language her body spoke when her voice had been silenced for so long. The sounds she'd once been punished for, muted in solitary rooms, now echoed freely, desired.

Toni moved lower, kissing down the center of her stomach, open-mouthed, reverent, as if worshipping at a newly discovered altar. Her mouth left marks without meaning to, a trail of heat and moisture, a map of desire. She didn't skip a single inch of skin, each touch a deliberate claim, a steady re-mapping of territory once declared forbidden, now hers for the taking.

When she reached the waistband, she paused. Looked up, eyes burning into Shelby's, a silent question, a dare. "Lift your hips."

Shelby obeyed. No hesitation. The easy compliance startled her, a shocking absence of the ingrained instinct to resist, to hold herself back. It was a quiet miracle, this lack of inner conflict. No voice whispering warnings, no ingrained fear of punishment. Just... yes. There was no internal argument, no battle against a long-conditioned response. It was a complete surrender, immediate and absolute, surprising even herself with her effortless abandon. This wasn't an order from a counselor in Reframe, but a desire that originated within her, freeing her. The realization hit with quiet force—she wasn't performing, wasn't obeying. She was choosing. And for the first time since Reframe, that choice didn't feel dangerous. It felt like power.

Toni peeled the shorts down slowly, deliberately, watching the lace cling to her thighs like it didn't want to leave, a reluctant farewell to modesty. When they dropped to the floor, Toni sat back on her heels for a moment, just took her in.Her gaze was a tangible presence, seeing every vulnerability, every hidden desire, acknowledging it all without judgment or demand. She didn't just look; she truly saw her, stripping away every facade she'd ever worn.

Shelby's breath hitched, a sharp catch in her throat. The feeling hit her all at once—raw, exposed, and electric. A cocktail of fear and power surged through her veins. This was new. This was hers. And that realization scared the hell out of her and thrilled her in equal measure. Her legs parted further on instinct, an involuntary offering, a silent invitation. The air thickened with unspoken consent, charged with the raw electricity of unleashed wanting.

Toni didn't move right away. Just dragged a hand up Shelby's thigh, fingers tracing the delicate skin. Her fingers brushed between her legs—wet, already, and Toni made a sound deep in her throat, a low rumble of pure satisfaction.

"You're so wet," she murmured, her voice laced with rough tenderness, a low, knowing rasp. "I bet you've been holding this in since the balcony." The words were a soft accusation, a knowing caress, recognizing the dam that had been built,and the pressure that had been mounting for days. Except it wasn't days—for Shelby it had been a lifetime of holding back, of tightly guarded desire.

Her fingers moved slow at first. Just enough to tease, to build the exquisite tension, a slow burn of anticipation. Shelby gasped, back arching, a desperate tremor running through her as Toni's touch dragged slick along her folds. One finger pushed in—deep, deliberate. The stretch made Shelby cry out, a sharp, raw sound that tore through the quiet room, her hips jerking in a helpless, undeniable response. Toni didn't stop. Didn't soften. Her movements remained unyielding,precise, pushing Shelby further past the edge of her carefully constructed control.

"Fuck, look at you," she whispered, her voice rough with satisfaction, a dark approval. "You take it so well." She began to move—steady, slow, each thrust angled to hit just right, eliciting a deeper response, a new wave of sensation. Shelby moaned, sharp and open, every sound a testament to the unraveling. Her body was giving everything away, without shame, without pretense, a complete, visceral surrender.

The second finger came without warning, a sudden, deeper stretch that made her tremble violently, her muscles locking.Her hands grabbed at the sheets, at Toni's shoulder, at anything that might keep her tethered to the bed, to reality, to herself, desperate not to be swept away by the current.

Toni leaned in, voice rough against Shelby's throat, words vibrating against her skin, imprinting themselves onto her very being. "You brace like it's going to hurt," she said. Her voice dropped. "Like you're waiting to be punished for wanting this." Toni's words were a blade, cutting through the haze, striking at the phantom tension in Shelby's spine.She had braced. Always. From the earliest lessons of modesty, from the cold floors of Reframe, from every judgment disguised as grace. But here, the anticipation was not for pain, but for release, for a pleasure so profound it felt like revelation, a sacred breaking. The memory of "red tray" room punishments, of enforced stillness, dissolved under the weight of this raw, desired sensation.

Her fingers curled deeper. Her thumb found Shelby's clit, pressed down, circled slow, a relentless rhythm, building,building, pushing her higher.

"You don't want saving. You want to be seen. And I see you, B." Toni's voice, rough and low, felt like a confession, a sacred vow. This wasn't about sex; it was about finally stripping away every layer of artifice, every lie she'd been told or told herself, and finding someone who didn't flinch from the mess underneath. Someone who embraced it, who celebrated the wild, untamed core she'd spent a lifetime trying to bury. Toni wasn't just touching her body; she was tracing the lines of her past, accepting every broken piece.

Outside, the wind knocked something loose against the fire escape—metal groaning, a sharp, metallic shriek. A car honked down the block, a distant, indifferent blare. The world kept moving, unbothered, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring within the small room. But in that space, everything felt paused, suspended in a bubble of raw, undeniable truth, a private, trembling universe.

"You feel that?" Toni rasped, her rhythm sharp now, pushing, demanding more, driving her to the edge. "This isn't shame. It's power. It's yours."

Shelby bucked beneath her, a wild, involuntary movement, completely wrecked by the intensity. Her voice hitched,broke, tried to form words and failed, dissolving into a continuous moan that was pure, unadulterated sensation, a guttural sound of pure want.

Toni watched her fall apart, her dark eyes unblinking, taking in every tremor, every gasping breath, every lost battle against the rising tide of pleasure, an almost focused intensity that was still, somehow, gentle. She didn't let up. Fingers thrusting deep, thumb unrelenting, rhythm exact, pulling Shelby further, higher, to the precipice. She fucked her like it meant something. Like it always meant something. Not just a physical act, but a profound, emotional anchoring, a reclamation of self, a sacred wound finally acknowledged.

Shelby came hard, loud and full-body, a guttural cry echoing into the space between them. Her thighs clamped tight around Toni's arm, a desperate grip, a refusal to let go. Her back arched, straining, every muscle tensed, locked in the throes of climax. Her hands scrabbled for Toni like she didn't know how to come down, didn't want to come down, lost in the sublime chaos, clinging to the only anchor she knew.

Toni held her through it, her body a steady anchor in the storm, a solid, unyielding presence. Slowed only when Shelby stopped shaking, when the tremors subsided, when the frantic gasps of release finally softened, and the breath returned,deep and shaky, a slow, ragged exhale.

After, Shelby lay still, heavy and spent, utterly drained. Chest heaving. Lips parted, slightly swollen. Hair fanned across the pillow, damp with sweat, light catching on the flush across her chest, a landscape of lingering sensation. The aftermath was a quiet hum, a profound sense of peace, a tender exhaustion.

Toni leaned down. Kissed the corner of her mouth. Her jaw. The sensitive space behind her ear. Each kiss a soft affirmation, a quiet sealing of the moment, a silent promise.

"You're not broken," she whispered, her voice rough with emotion, raw with understanding, a low, fierce murmur. "You were just never allowed to want this loud."

Shelby's breath caught, shallow, just once—then steadied, iron-flat.

Not broken. The words echoed in the space Toni had created, a sanctuary where the cracks in Shelby's carefully constructed world felt less like flaws and more like invitations. She'd always been told the wanting was a sickness, a deviation. Toni called it a strength. Whatever the words unlocked, it didn't demand response. Just acknowledgment. Just breath. Just being seen. The words were a benediction, a release from years of internalized silence, a promise of a new kind of freedom, a declaration of ownership over her own desire.

THURSDAY MORNING

Shelby's eyes fluttered open, still heavy-lidded. The soft light pooled through the open window, catching on the rumpled sheets and casting long slats across Toni's bare shoulder. Shelby blinked slowly, body sore in ways that felt earned.

Toni lay behind her, propped on one elbow now, the pad of her thumb brushing lazy circles just under Shelby's ribs.Shelby shifted to face her, the sheet slipping down her chest. Toni leaned in across her body, slow and deliberate, and pressed a kiss just beneath her collarbone—light, warm, reverent. Her arm stretched past Shelby, hand snagging her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up.

Toni froze. "Shit," she muttered. She swiped it open and turned the phone toward Shelby. The header glared at them both: "Legal Notice - Cease and Desist Immediately."

Shelby sat up with a start, heart clenching. The illusion of safety cracked like thin ice underfoot.

"Harlow got an email about this yesterday," Toni said, already scrolling, her voice gone flat. "But this... this is real.They sent the actual letter."

Shelby's own phone buzzed from the dresser. She lunged for it, still half tangled in the sheet. An unknown number. She stared, then answered on reflex.

"Shelby Goodkind," she said, voice raspier than expected.

"Shelby, it's Leah. The official cease and desist letter just arrived. Rachel Reid's here. She wants everyone. Temple Row. Now. We haven't been able to reach Toni—did she stop by Dante's last night?"

Shelby's eyes flicked to Toni, now hunched forward, both hands gripping her phone like it might splinter.

"We'll be there," Shelby said quickly, the words escaping before she could catch them.

A pause. Leah's breath hitched. "Is she with you?"

The silence stretched. Shelby didn't flinch. Didn't defend. She just turned to Toni, their eyes locking. A silent beat passed between them—consent, confirmation, maybe something closer to defiance.

"Where should we meet you?" she asked, voice syrupy-soft, casual in a way that wasn't casual at all.

Another pause on Leah's end. Then a clipped, resigned, "I'll text you the address. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

---

 THE ROOM THEY CHOSE TO FIGHT IN

SUITE 206 - TEMPLE ROW BUSINESS CENTER [LEAH]

Leah hated the room. It hit her first—a punch to the gut. Stale air, dead fluorescents buzzing over half-empty file cabinets. Whatever business used to be here had walked out mid-collapse, leaving behind a dry-erase board, two white folding tables, and an anemic industrial water cooler. The place reeked of disuse, a quiet burial ground for forgotten ventures. It mirrored the compound's decay, but without the comfort of familiarity.

They made it work. Leah sat at the head of the table, her gaze sharp as a diamond cutting glass. Her phone, still buzzing from the cease and desist alert, felt like a live wire in her hand. Harlow, a silent sentinel, stood near the window, his presence a still point in the room's tension, always watching, always calculating. He was the one constant, the only one she'd trusted implicitly with information recently.

Fatin sat just off-center, one leg crossed over the other, fingers curled around a stainless water bottle she hadn't touched. Her face, usually so expressive, was a mask of polished steel, her cutting gaze fixed on the letter in the center of the table.

The letter. Leah had called it in from the compound, the official notification that Rachel had told them was coming. Harlow had already forwarded it, but seeing the physical document, stark against the cheap laminate, made it brutally real.

Rachel Reid stood across from them, one hand braced on the table's edge. Her sharp-lined blazer, impossibly clean, bespoke a world of tailored civility—a stark contrast to the peeling laminate and gritty decay of their makeshift war room. Rachel was exactly as Harlow had described her: a tactician in a power suit. Her presence, taut and practiced, seemed to compress the very air, pulling focus with every subtle shift. Leah found herself grudgingly admiring the woman's control, a mastery she herself aspired to. Next to her, Rami Qadir stood like a negative space, tall, unreadable, precise. His badge, clipped to a dark lapel, announced their presence with quiet authority. He didn't fidget, didn't breathe wrong. He simply... observed, a silent recorder of every tremor in the room. Leah knew Rami specialized in nondisclosure rupture; a chilling thought.

Rachel's voice cut cleanly through the hum of the dying lights, a voice meant to command attention in courtrooms, not abandoned offices. "You're not just fighting a narrative. You're unseating infrastructure. They don't care if they win in court. They just want to outlast your resolve." Her words landed with the weight of undisputed truth, laying bare the brutal reality of their opponent. They weren't interested in justice, only attrition. Leah felt a flicker of grim satisfaction: This was the truth she chased. This was the war.

The door creaked open like it hadn't been used in months.

Toni entered first, phone at her ear, damp hair still clinging to her jaw like she'd barely towel-dried. "Apparently that dumbass just rolled out of bed and thought, 'Let's bomb Iran today.'" She shook her head, voice dry and acid-laced. "Empire stays empires. Marco would say, 'Estados Unidos? More like estamos jodidos.'"

Her tone was casual, offhanded—a gallows humor that scraped just close enough to the truth to sting.

She dropped the phone to her side and scanned the room, all sharp angles and sleepless energy.

Shelby followed a beat behind. Not ghost-like—anchored. Her shoulders were squared, her jaw set. She didn't flank Toni; she matched her. Quiet, deliberate, a presence that held.

Harlow's eyebrow lifted, just slightly. He didn't move from the window.

"Morning to you too, Agent of Chaos," he murmured.

Then, deadpan: "We're about one headline away from becoming a federal RICO case, so by all means, keep the foreign policy commentary coming."

Toni just smirked. Shelby's fingers twitched, like she wanted to elbow her—but didn't. Toni clocked it.

"Listen, Dante—we just got here. I'll call you after. Try not to cause too much trouble outside that ICE facility—you're already not white, don't give that Cheeto a reason to send you to Guantanamo."

The tension didn't dissipate. But it shifted—made room.

Leah clocked it immediately. Not just the physical closeness, but the dissonance it struck. After everything—after that night and that video—here they were. Together. Not touching, not talking. But still together.

This was the reason they were all here, in this decaying office, facing down legal threats.

Rachel's eyes swept over the room, assessing each of them in turn, but her tone remained unchanged, detached, clinical. "You're not here because you're guilty. You're here because you survived. And they don't forgive that."

Toni crossed her arms, jaw set, eyes narrowing, a familiar glint of defiance kindling in their depths. "Alright, who the hell are you?" The question was a low growl, a challenge thrown into the stale air.

"Toni—" Shelby said, voice tight, like the directness caught her off guard. It confused Leah—this was Toni. She confronted the world with fire, not filters. Everyone knew that. And yet, something in her tone sounded like she'd expected a softer version today.

Fatin didn't look up right away. Her fingers tapped once against the bottle in her lap, then stilled. A shift in her weight—small but deliberate—like her whole axis had adjusted just to make room for what was coming.

Toni and Fatin's eyes met across the table—and for a second, Leah swore she saw Toni fidget. Whatever passed between them wasn't readable, a silent, lightning-fast exchange of recognition and resignation. But it made Toni's jaw twitch, a tell-tale sign of suppressed emotion. Fatin just smirked back, a thin, knowing curve of her lips that said, I see you.

Shelby stepped forward, tension taut across her shoulders. But her voice slipped into something easy, practiced. "Shelby Goodkind," she said, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Pleasure to meet you." It was the same tone she'd used at the Summit—sweet, strategic, just southern enough to pass for charm instead of calculation. She extended her hand.

"Rachel Reid," the woman said smoothly taking it, her voice a balm over jagged nerves. "Former black site litigator. Current moral liability to three separate think tanks. And now—yours." Her smile was razor-thin, a calculating gleam, the kind that made seasoned judges lean back and shut up, a warning etched into the very corners of her mouth.

Leah didn't flinch, her gaze steady, unwavering. "Legacy's going scorched earth." The words were flat, a grim confirmation of the war they now faced. This wasn't some minor PR crisis; this was a deliberate attempt to dismantle them.

Toni gave Shelby a glance—brief, unreadable—then nudged the chair beside her with the toe of her shoe. It wasn't quite a request, but it wasn't neutral either. The kind of gesture that said, without saying: Sit by me. Just—don't make it a thing.

Leah's eyes flicked toward Toni—just a second too long, a second too sharp. It wasn't about leadership. Or strategy. It was about what had broken between them Tuesday night. It was the look someone gives you after you've gutted them and they still showed up anyway, a blend of raw exposure and grudging respect. She's still here. After I said what I said, she's still here.

Leah didn't look away. The glance wasn't a question. It was a reminder. Toni held it. Not as permission. Not as forgiveness. Just fact. They knew exactly who the other had been. And who they might still become—if they didn't fuck this up, if they managed to navigate the treacherous landscape of their intertwined pasts and conflicting loyalties. This war wouldn't just be fought externally; it would be fought within their fractured friendships.

Harlow cleared his throat—quiet, pointed. Not enough to interrupt. Just enough to land the moment back on the table, to redirect the raw, exposed nerves to the task at hand. Then he spoke, voice low and sure: "They named me in the order because I'm the paper trail they couldn't bury. The one who knew too much, too early." He nodded toward the cease and desist. "Their endgame is erosion. Delay, overwhelm, divide. They want us scrambling, not organizing. We don't give them that. We consolidate. We don't splinter."

Leah appreciated the clarity in his tone—less comfort, more calculation. This wasn't just a moral stand. It was strategy.

Rachel nodded, her expression hardening, a glint of steel entering her eyes. "And we know how to fight fire." Her voice was a low promise, a declaration of intent. This was a direct challenge, a statement of battle. She glanced toward Rami, a silent cue, a subtle instruction that needed no words. Rami's stillness was unnerving. "Rami specializes in conversion case law and nondisclosure rupture. You've got two paths—fight them on truth, or drown them in breach." Her words were clipped, precise, laying out their grim options with chilling clarity. She didn't wait for questions, as if anticipating their questions and providing solutions. Leah's mind immediately began running scenarios, calculating risks and potential openings.

"And yes—the footage." Her eyes swept the room, holding each of them in turn, then settled between Toni and Shelby, a deliberate uncoupling. "It wasn't leaked for exposure. It was leaked for control. To humiliate you faster than you can organize. To make your desire look dangerous. To turn your closeness into a liability. For Toni—a pattern. For Shelby—a collapse." The chilling accuracy of her assessment hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of their enemy's cunning. Leah felt a sick lurch in her stomach. This wasn't about a simple news story; this was a psychological weapon, meticulously aimed.

Shelby's throat worked. Her hand moved—almost—to the back of Toni's chair. Then stopped. A second too slow. A second too obvious. She clasped her hands in her lap instead.

No one said anything. But Leah caught Fatin's eyes flick toward Shelby. Then away. A clocked moment. Unspoken. Archived.

Toni didn't flinch. But the vein in her forehead went tight—like she'd known this would happen, told herself it would, and was now furious that she'd been right.

"They're not betting on truth. They're betting on fracture. Public shame is just the opening act." Rachel's voice, devoid of emotion, laid bare the cold strategy. They were a chess game, and their opponents played for keeps, willing to sacrifice reputations to win. Leah knew this game well; she'd played it herself, albeit with less ruthless stakes. She paused—then her gaze shifted directly to Fatin, a deliberate movement that drew all attention to her. "And Miss Jadmani." Just the name landed like a scalpel, precise and cutting.

Fatin didn't move. Her head tilted slightly, almost bored, a deceptive calm.

"You composed the SoundCloud track—'RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav'—with audio sourced from internal records. That alone would've triggered monitoring. But then you released it—intentional, targeted, unrepentant. It wasn't just a protest. It was provocation." The accusation, cool and factual, hung in the air, a testament to Fatin's audacious act. Leah watched Fatin, a flicker of pride threading through the sharpness of her focus. "They expected a PR walk-back. A curated apology. Not amplification. Not you throwing gas on it and walking away." Rachel's tone implied a grudging respect for Fatin's defiance. Leah knew Fatin would never back down.

Fatin's gaze lifted. Still unreadable. But the corner of her mouth tugged—dry, unimpressed, a hint of satisfaction. She didn't look away. "They see your money and your platform as controllable. But you made it clear you're not part of their rebranding strategy." Rachel's words articulated the unspoken truth of Fatin's rebellion: her refusal to be a tool in their PR machine. This was about more than just a track; it was Fatin reclaiming her agency.

Rachel shifted again. "And Miss Rilke." Her tone didn't shift, but something in it sharpened, a new edge of accusation. Leah stiffened. This was her turn. "They know what you used to be. The story you used to help write. You gave them the blueprint once—and now you're helping burn it down. They'll use that. They'll twist it to make you look less credible. Less clean. Like this was your mess all along." The implicit threat hung in the air, a reminder of Leah's past entanglement with Jeffrey. Her stomach twisted; Rachel knew too much.

A pause. "But if you stay loud now, if you back your friend's story—" she paused, turning to Toni and then back to Leah, "—instead of theirs, then you're not just a former architect. You're a whistleblower with a body count."

The pronouncement was chilling, a stark warning of the consequences of Leah's choice. She let that hang for a second longer than necessary, allowing the full weight of the accusation to settle. Leah felt the weight of it, the cold calculation. A whistleblower with a body count. It was a brutal, but not entirely inaccurate, assessment of her role.

"You're either their cleanup crew—or our contingency." The choice was stark, unforgiving. Leah knew which side she was on now.

Rachel turned again. "And you, Miss Goodkind." The temperature dropped, the air around Shelby growing colder. Shelby didn't blink—but she didn't breathe either. Leah observed Shelby's composure, a fragile strength she hadn't given her credit for.

"You didn't leak. You just kept standing alongside Toni—knowing the implications. Then you testified. On camera. Un-coached. You named Reframe for what it was—a conversion site. You stripped the euphemisms out. That's what scared them most. You weren't collateral. You were clarity." Rachel's words were a brutal validation of Shelby's courage, delivered with the precision of a surgeon. Leah felt a pang of grudging admiration; Shelby had stepped up, truly.

"They had plausible deniability until you gave it a name. That wasn't a mistake. That was a breach." Every word landed like a hammer, shattering the scaffolding of their lies. Shelby's testimony was a betrayal of their system, a direct attack on their carefully guarded secrets.

Shelby's hand curled tighter around the edge of the table. She didn't speak. The stillness was absolute, her body a testament to the shock and recognition. "They turned your resistance into rupture. Your survival into spectacle. And now they're hoping you'll apologize for the shape it took." The accusation hung in the air, a bitter truth. They wanted her to regret her truth, to apologize for breaking free.

Then Rachel turned to Toni. Her voice didn't soften. But it slowed. Like she knew what was coming next had the most weight, the most direct impact. "And Miss Shalifoe... You didn't leak a tape. You didn't post audio. You didn't speak into a camera. They have a target on you because you never tried to play their game—even for a second." Rachel's voice was a low, chilling statement of fact. Leah watched Toni, knowing this was the core of her defiant existence.

She stepped closer, her presence commanding. "They like to categorize. To file. To understand threats. But you don't follow their templates. Not for foster girls. Not for gay female athletes. Not for damage control." Her words laid bare the core of Toni's danger to them: her refusal to fit their molds. She was an anomaly, a variable they couldn't control. Their carefully constructed frameworks for predicting and neutralizing threats simply didn't apply to her. "You're not just the foster kid who broke the rules. You're the one who shattered a donor's jaw at sixteen—when you could've done nothing. You chose confrontation over compliance, and that made you a dangerous precedent, a crack in their facade." Every syllable was a testament to Toni's unwavering defiance, a history of choosing the hard path when the easy one meant erasure.

Toni's expression didn't crack. But her knuckles flexed against the table's edge, slow and deliberate, a subtle tremor of the fury she held in check.

"You don't fit the template. Not the one for conversion. Not the one for cleanup. Not the one for collateral." Her words were a chilling classification, placing Toni outside their controllable parameters. Her eyes held Toni's, steady and unblinking. "You're what scares them. Not because of what you did. But because you're still here. And because you're not asking for forgiveness."

The room didn't breathe. Rachel let the silence sit—heavy, deliberate, the weight of a world-ending truth.

"Three girls. Three profiles. Three breaches. And not a single one of you has made it easy to erase." She looked down at the cease and desist letter. Then back up, her gaze hardening into a predatory glint. "So here's the plan: we don't defend who you are. We expose what they did. And we remind them that survival doesn't apologize."

She tapped the cease and desist letter with two fingers. "We'll counterfile. Highlight the financial link between the Jadmani Trust and Reframe. Lay out a timeline. Center Shelby's testimony. We move before they do."

Rami nodded once. "We prep a media packet. Leak it through third-party channels, not directly. Make them chase it."

Fatin leaned back, mouth tight. "So... we fight them with receipts."

"And pattern recognition," Rachel said. "You're not the problem. Their paper trail is."

No one spoke for a beat. Then Leah reached forward and flipped the letter facedown. The cheap laminate thunked beneath it.

"Okay," she said. "Let's return the favor."

Toni spoke up then, voice rough around the edges. "I'm sorry, but what about the authorities? The ones who've been paid off—and will keep getting paid off?" Her gaze swept the room. "We can prep a media packet, sure. But if the people who enforce the law are part of the machine, what does exposure actually get us?"

Rachel didn't flinch. "That's why we're not just going public—we're going wide. External audit pressure. Cross-state media. Third-party verification. We drag it out into the open where even they can't clean it up fast enough." She turned slightly, fixing her eyes on Shelby. "Do you know Nora Reid?"

Shelby blinked. "Yeah. She's—she's been helping. She was close with one of my friends who... who made it through Reframe. Jessica."

"Jessica was her best friend," Rachel said quietly. "I know because Nora's my twin sister."

Shelby's head snapped toward her. "Wait. Nora—Nora Reid is your sister?"

Rachel didn't flinch. "She's part of why I took this case. And if she trusted you, that's enough for now." Then she looked around the room one last time. "And let me just tell you, we aren't the only New Yorkers who've been trying to take down... well... your father."

Fatin exhaled sharply, then spoke—low, clipped, but edged with something raw. "So what happens to my family? When this all breaks?" Her jaw flexed. "Because it's not just my parents' names on those ledgers. It's my brothers'."

No one answered right away. Then Leah leaned forward, voice softer than usual. "We'll protect your brother, Fatin. However we have to. We'll get someone to pull them out before this goes public."

"You mean before it goes nuclear," Fatin muttered. She didn't thank her. But her shoulders dropped, just slightly.

Across the room, Shelby hadn't moved. But something in her face cracked—just a flicker. "My father's name is on this paperwork," she said, barely above a whisper. "This isn't about undoing what he did anymore. This is about putting him on trial."

Rachel met her gaze. "It always was."

"Yeah, but you're telling me my family walks clean from this? After funding half of it? Are they?" She didn't say what scared her more—that they'd get away with it, or that they hadn't known enough to stop it.

Rachel didn't flinch. "No. But they didn't write the playbook—they just signed the checks." A beat. She added, quieter now, "David had a way of pitching these programs as youth reform. Not conversion. Not suppression. Just structure. Discipline. Redemption for troubled kids with no direction. That's how he sold it to the Jadmani Trust. How he sold it to most donors."

Fatin's throat worked. "So they didn't know."

Rachel's voice was even. "They knew enough not to ask better questions."

Toni's voice cut through the quiet. Low. Certain. "They knew enough. They were just willingly blind. And if you ask Marco, that's the most American thing of all—shutting your eyes while holding the lighter."

The room didn't erupt. It just... dissolved. Chairs scraped. Phones blinked to life. Someone coughed. They all stood—at different speeds, with different weights. Leah clocked each shift like a general watching troops disperse after a truce, not a victory.

No one said much.

But before anyone exited, Shelby's gaze caught on Toni's. For a second, it held—wide open, no mask. Like she was going to say something. Like she wanted to follow her.

Toni looked back. Whatever flickered in her softened, then hardened. She gave a single nod—acknowledgment, not invitation.

And just like that, they turned. Walked in opposite directions. No drama. No goodbyes.

Just the unmissable clarity that they didn't leave together.

And everyone clocked it.

---

---

CEASE AND DESIST ORDER

(WITH HARLOW’S MARGINALIA)

FROM THE OFFICES OF HALBERN & ROWE LLP

ON BEHALF OF:

LEGACY INSTITUTES, LLC
UNITY OUTREACH
RESOLVE LLC
THE JADMANI TRUST

TO: Leah Rilke, Shelby Goodkind, Fatin Jadmani, Toni Shalifoe, Harlow Nazar, et al.
DATE: [REDACTED]
SUBJECT: LEGAL NOTICE - CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY

(margin note: multiple names listed -- trying to intimidate all at once. Classic.)

Dear Ms. Rilke and Associated Parties,

We represent Legacy Institutes and Resolve, LLC, its affiliate educational and clinical partners (Unity Outreach), and its philanthropic underwriters (The Jadmani Trust) in matters of media ethics, privacy compliance, and reputational integrity.

(underline: “philanthropic underwriters” — margin: her parents wrote this check.)

It has come to our attention that on [REDACTED], you participated in the unauthorized release and dissemination of confidential, altered, or contextually misleading digital materials, including but not limited to:

• Covert footage from restricted Legacy and Unity facilities
• Audio composites involving unverified witness testimony
• Media assets edited to misrepresent ethical compliance and intent

(margin note: calling it “altered” doesn’t mean it’s false. Spin.)

Such actions constitute a violation of federal and state privacy statutes, youth consent frameworks, and the protections provided under the Media Integrity & Youth Protection Act (2032) and the Religious Autonomy and Dignity Clauses of the U.S. Humanitarian Faith Accord (2029 revision).

(underline: long name drop — margin: throwing scripture at lawsuits now)

Furthermore, these materials have resulted in direct reputational harm to entities under our care and stewardship, including but not limited to Legacy Institutes, Unity Family Network, and The Jadmani Trust.

(highlighted: “reputational harm” — margin: not legal harm. Brand damage.)

You are hereby directed to comply with the following:

1. Immediate removal of all digital content tied to the aforementioned releases from all public and private channels;
2. Cessation of further dissemination, reference, or reproduction in any form;
3. A formal written acknowledgment of participation and cooperation with forthcoming legal inquiry.

(margin: compliance = silence. That’s the whole point.)

Failure to comply within 72 hours will result in escalated legal action, including injunction, digital gag enforcement, and civil penalties.

(margin: “digital gag”? They really went there.)

This notice constitutes formal legal correspondence. You are advised to seek counsel.

Sincerely,
Mariel Tolsen
Senior Counsel
Halbern & Rowe LLP
On behalf of Legacy Institutes, Unity Outreach, and The Jadmani Trust

(last margin note: They’re not protecting a system. They’re protecting a franchise.)

---

---

TOO LATE TO LOAD

[DOT] CHECK-IN // BRIEF RETURN -- MARTHA & REGAN, VIDEO CALL

Dot caught up with them just as the war room scattered—shoulders tight, faces drawn. The hallway outside Suite 206 still smelled like dust and ozone, like something had short-circuited in the walls. The windows buzzed faintly. The table inside still held a few empty cups and one half-glowing laptop. No one said much. Just exchanged a few nods, a few fractured sentences—enough to know the cease and desist had landed like a blow.

Fatin passed her the letter with a look that said read it later. Leah, already two steps ahead, was powering up her laptop in the corner office—one of the few with a door that locked and Wi-Fi that hadn’t failed yet.

“We should do it here,” Leah said, not looking up. “Signal’s cleaner than the compound, and I want them to see we’re not shaken.”

“No echo chamber,” Fatin added, sliding into a seat. “Just bad lighting and a folding table. Keeps it honest.”

Dot nodded. It made sense. The compound was familiar but frayed. Here, everything was bare. Exposed. And maybe that was the point.

The video call blinked on—already waiting, humming in the corner like a countdown.

Now the screen flickered. The call stuttered into focus—pixels rearranging, static scratching like a warning—then steadied on Martha’s and Regan’s faces. Dot watched them through the screen, an unshakable ache settling in her chest. Everything felt weighted these days. Even the light.

“Okay,” Martha said, adjusting the angle. “We can see you now. Sorry—it’s been cutting in and out. We’re here.”

Leah tilted her head slightly, eyes still on the screen. “You’re coming through. That’s more than most things today.”

Regan leaned in, only half in frame. “Are you... in a school?”

Fatin replied, dry as bone. “Abandoned business center. Feels about right.”

Dot added, “Missing the neon lighting and espresso machine, but yeah. Real prestige TV vibe.”

Regan almost smiled. “You all look... tired.”

“Sharp observation,” Fatin muttered.

“No, I mean—“ Regan caught herself. “You just look different. Like this hit harder than I thought it would.”

Her voice flickered. Not performative. Just real. It caught Dot off guard.

The moment hovered, brittle and quiet. Then Martha stepped in, steady as always.

“Since we last talked... more photos of Toni and Shelby surfaced. Then her sealed juvenile file got leaked. I just want to be clear—my mom and I didn’t know what she’d been through in those group homes before she moved in with us. We’d never even heard of the Resolve Institute. If we had...”

Martha trailed off, breath catching. “I don’t know. Maybe things would’ve been different.”

“And then there was the sex tape,” Regan said bluntly. “Some people are saying things about Toni—stuff I’m not going to repeat. And Shelby coming out.”

She twisted her hair into a knot. Not a habit. A tell—one she didn’t even know she had.

“Like—I’m sorry, but I swear I watched her and Toni tear each other apart at that summit a couple weeks ago. So... did I miss a chapter? Does Toni even trust her?”

Dot clocked it. So did Fatin.

The air went brittle.

Fatin stood, crossed the room, and killed the router with one flick. The call choked, blinked, and went dark.

“I’m not sitting through this like she gives a shit.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It settled. Heavy. Sharp.

“She left Toni when it counted. Let the rest of us carry the fallout. And now she shows up with questions—like she didn’t watch her burn from a safe distance? Like she didn’t see the footage and flinch at the wrong part?”

Dot watched her jaw tighten. Not performance. A wound she hadn’t stopped biting down on.

Leah spoke up, quiet. “Fatin—Toni broke her car window—“

“After watching a grown man touch a kid,” Fatin snapped. “After remembering Jasmine.”

A pause. “She probably saw Jasmine in Regan when those men harassed them. You think that doesn’t come with an aftershock?”

Dot lowered her gaze. Still. Heavy. The truth of it sat like stone.

“I watched her blame herself,” Fatin added, quieter now. “Thought she deserved what happened. That’s what Regan left her carrying. So no—I don’t need to watch her pretend concern now that Toni finally did what she had to and—“

Dot cut her off, steady, nodding, “Leah—Regan had her chance to care. Now she’s just reacting to her own discomfort—and calling it concern.”

Fatin, now satisfied, returned to her chair without a word. The silence throbbed—ugly, earned.

Dot exhaled through her nose. The screen stayed black. Part of her almost hoped it would stay that way.

***********

[FATIN POV]

Across the room, Fatin’s knee bounced once. She told herself it was frustration—but it was fear.

It had been three years. And this still wasn’t over.

Leah stood, crossed to the corner, and flipped the router back on. No commentary. Just quiet intent.

“It’s been three years. And they’re still on,” she said. “Let’s just finish it.”

The audio returned with a lagged breath, static clinging to the edges.

Martha didn’t flinch. “We saw the tape..,” she said quietly. “I don’t have words for what that was. But I’m sorry....for them both”

Fatin didn’t speak.

Martha continued, voice steady. “And I’m angry. At whoever leaked it. At the people who shared it. At anyone trying to reframe it as optics instead of what it is—a violation.”

That landed. Dot saw it in the way Fatin’s hands unclenched beneath the table.

Martha’s tone gentled. “And now the cease and desist. From your parents, Fatin?”

Fatin’s eyes flicked upward. Jaw locked. “The Jadmani Trust—philanthropic underwriters,” she said, flat. “That’s what you call it when your parents bankroll conversion therapy and slap a flower on it.”

It wasn’t shame exactly. But it was close. Guilt clung to her lungs like static—loud in private, invisible in rooms like this.

Dot snorted. “At least they didn’t send it with a fruit basket.”

Fatin huffed out a breath. Almost a laugh. Gone in an instant.

Martha nodded, something sharper in her eyes now. “They’re scared,” she said. “You’re making noise they can’t clean.”

Regan moved fully into frame. Elbow on the desk. Composed again—but not convincingly.

“The track,” she said. “The one in the leak—who was humming?”

A beat. “Toni’s voice was obvious. But the other... it felt like a message.”

Fatin caught the tone. Less suspicion. More unease. Like she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear it.

Leah shifted, voice suddenly lighter. “Hey—side note. How’s Seattle? You get spring or still stuck in pre-apocalypse gray?”

Martha blinked. “Cherry blossoms came out.”

“And then hail flattened them,” Regan added.

Dot almost smiled. There was something honest in that.

Leah nodded. “Metaphor writes itself.”

The moment lingered—almost real—then cracked.

Martha straightened. “If this keeps spiraling, maybe we should come out. I could bring Regan.”

Regan didn’t protest. She just stared back. Steady. Remote. Bracing like she already knew what was coming.

The feed stuttered.

Audio warped. The image fractured into blocks of static.

CONNECTION UNSTABLE.

Then black.

Dot leaned back in her chair, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Cool,” she muttered. “Love that for us. A whole damn crisis hanging by busted Wi-Fi and one bar of emotional bandwidth.”

No one laughed.

The silence that followed wasn’t rest. It was recoil. And Fatin, for one, was already tired of ducking.

---

TRACE // RECEIVE

[DOT] - COMPOUND 

The air inside the compound was dry and sharp, thick with morning heat and the residue of old insulation. It pressed against the walls like a held breath, brittle and still. Sunlight came in fractured slats through the dusty blinds, landing on the table in thin, uneven stripes, dissecting the quiet. Fatin, Dot, and Mateo sat around it, the cease and desist order stretched out between them--an ugly constellation of liability and betrayal, stark against the wood.

Leah’s laptop chimed. The sound was abrupt and surgical, breaking the hush. Dot glanced over, a knot forming in her stomach.

She glanced at the screen. “Rey just emailed me.”

Her voice didn’t waver, but the tension in her spine gave her away. It drew her shoulders taut, like she was bracing for something she didn’t want to name.

No one asked. No one needed to. They all knew Rey was Leah’s confidential source, the one tied to the police.

She opened the message. There was no greeting. No explanation. Just a single zipped audio file, time-stamped and accompanied by one word:

Listen.

She inhaled slowly through her nose. “She pulled it from an internal channel. Said it wasn’t archived. Wasn’t supposed to be.” A beat passed. Then: “She didn’t want to send it. But she did.”

Dot’s fingers tapped once against the wood, a soft, rhythmless punctuation. “Then it’s bad.”

Leah nodded. “She said it’s everything she didn’t say during the debrief. And... that she’s sorry.”

The word hung in the air like a filament, fragile and irreversible. Dot watched it float, wondering what “sorry” truly meant from Leah.

Fatin reached for the monitor, pulling the charger free with clinical efficiency. Mateo didn’t shift. He stared at the blank screen, eyes unmoving, as though he already knew what they were about to see and was trying not to meet it too soon.

The computer tower hummed like a second pulse.

Leah slid connected her laptop to the monitor. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, caught for a moment in hesitation--not fear, exactly, but deliberation. The knowledge that once they crossed into this file, there was no walking it back.

She clicked.

The audio cracked open like a wound. Static, then shape. Then voice. Dot braced herself, the sound piercing the already taut silence of the room.

A door clicked shut with a finality that landed like a sentence. The room beyond the audio was dim and clinical, its only light from a monitor that painted the space in pale flicker. Shelby’s image lingered on the screen--defiant, uncut. Serrano leaned against a polished table, stillness coiled tight in her frame.David stood nearby, jaw locked, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t sit—refused to. As if posture alone could still assert control.

“You humiliated my family,” he said, low and shaking with contained fury. “You leaked Shelby’s goddamn sex tape— with that girl - and now the whole world knows my daughter is gay.”

Serrano didn’t blink. “She leaked your authority.”

“You don’t get to make decisions about my daughter,” David snapped. “Not about her. Not about my family. That was never yours to touch.”

 

Fatin leaned in, eyes narrowing. "That's Serrano?"

Mateo nodded.

Leah didn't blink. "Who is Serrano?"

The question hung in the air. Dot caught Fatin's eye for a fraction of a second—a quick, tight glance of understanding that passed between them. Right. She wasn't there.

Fatin exhaled, a sharp, disbelieving sound, turning her attention back to the monitor. "Just wait."

 

“You disowned her, David. Don’t pretend she’s yours to protect now.”

David’s voice dropped an octave. “You weren’t supposed to touch that footage. Not without sign-off. That wasn’t about Unity. That was about you.”

Serrano shrugged. “Maybe. But she walked out of Reframe smiling. Like everything we did to her didn’t stick. You think I could let that go?”

“I let her go because she was diseased,” David said. “She made her choice.”

 

Leah’s voice broke through the quiet like shrapnel. “That fucking bastard.”

 

Serrano’s voice dropped, colder. “And then she begged a girl to touch the rot we tried to carve out. She didn’t just walk away, David. She spat on the altar.”

“You cost us control.”

“No. I reminded them what happens when you pretend grace can fix something born broken.”

David’s fists curled at his sides. “You gave them a reason to listen to her.”

“That’s on you. You raised a heretic and tried to sell her as saved.”

Silence. Thick. Static behind the breath.

“She didn’t need your forgiveness,” Serrano finished. “She needed fire.”

His voice flattened into something colder.

“You really think one confession’s gonna collapse infrastructure? Tempe and Modesto were decoys. AZ-TMP’s still live. Narcotics roll Tuesdays. Vans run dark. You don’t shut that down. You just bleach the paper trail.”

 

His eyes, even in the recording, seemed to bore through the silence.

Dot felt a prickle of unease.

 

David’s voice was taut. “The new girl--does she even know what she’s moving?”

 

“She’s the one that hums. The one Shalifoe ‘protected.’ Meaning she knows better than to be loud.”

David blinked. His voice cracked a little. “...Jasmine?”

 

Dot’s breath hitched. Jasmine. The name from Toni’s past. The girl Toni had defended.

 

A pause.

“She was flagged for juvenile routing. Internal hold--low-risk, non-recirculating. No flags, no deviancy. Not like Shalifoe. Not like Shelby. She aged out. We should’ve let her go.”

Serrano’s mouth twitched. “And lose the one name that could still make Shalifoe flinch? She wasn’t leverage. Not yet. But she could’ve been. You don’t throw away a lock just because you haven’t used the key.”

 

Dot’s mind reeled. They were talking about Jasmine as if she was an asset - with a lifespan of usefulness.

 

And quieter, like venom:

“And Marco--if he thinks he can rewrite the script just by walking out of frame... He’s forgotten who holds the camera.”

David stayed silent.

Serrano’s tone turned soft. Icy.

“One more refusal, and we remind him where his contract ends--and his debt begins.”

[END OF FILE]

---

Mateo’s hand slammed the table. The crack of it jolted through the room.

Everyone looked over. He stood fast, breath ragged, shoulders tense like he was holding back a quake.

“They have Marco. That’s not theory—that’s a fact,” he muttered, eyes fixed on nothing. “And they’re going to hurt him.”

A beat.

“That wasn’t a warning.” His voice dipped lower. “That was a countdown.”

No one echoed him. They didn’t need to. The air in the room stretched taut around his words, filled with the hum of the computer tower, steady and mechanical--too calm for what they’d just heard. 

Dot felt sick.

“I told you TMP’s not a city.” Leah nodded once, like she was confirming it aloud. “I went to Tempe. Remember? It was gutted. No vans, no files--just concrete and drywall. Whatever AZ-TMP is... It’s not that site. They’re using the code for something else.”

“No,” Dot said, leaning in. Her voice was flat, deliberate. “It’s a logistics tag. TMP stood for Temporary Material Processing--at least that’s what they used on narcotics manifests. I didn’t know that until last night. After Toni left, I couldn’t sleep, so I ran a scan on the drive she gave Harlow. I was just trying to kill time--scrubbing old logistics logs for anything usable. Most of it was junk: expired batch numbers, phantom facilities, route records with no start or end. But TMP kept showing up. Always detached from a location. No city. No timestamps. Just Tuesdays and chemical weights. Over and over again.” 

The words spilled out, a grim confession of her sleepless hours and dawning horror.

Outside, the wind kicked up again. A loose tarp on the far wall snapped like a warning flag, sharp and staccato against the otherwise muffled morning. Inside, the room had gone still in the way only shock could command--silent, tense, the kind of pause that holds breath rather than releases it.

Mateo hadn’t moved. His body was stone, but his face betrayed the shift--lips slightly parted, jaw tight, a pulse flickering high in his neck like it was trying to outrun the silence. His eyes stayed fixed on the monitor, unblinking, like he was waiting for it to speak again. Like it might name him. Dot felt a cold dread spread through her. She knew this look.

Dot’s arms were crossed, but her hands had balled into fists under her sleeves. She didn’t look at anyone, only at the terminal, like the data might rearrange itself into mercy if she stared hard enough.

Fatin had gone pale beneath her tan, her brows drawn tight, mouth pressed into a line so thin it barely counted as a mouth anymore. Her foot tapped once, then stopped. Her eyes weren’t on Mateo--they were on Dot. Tracking her reaction. Bracing.

None of them spoke. The hum of the computer tower was the only sound, low, steady, indifferent.

When Dot turned toward him, their eyes met--brief, but charged. No one had to say it. Dot felt the weight of the unspoken history.

Fatin remembered Dot explaining once--Mateo used to deal. That was the emphasis. Because if it had still been true, Toni would’ve never let him near Dot, never left it unsaid. And she hadn’t. Which meant something.

Mateo didn’t look at anyone. He just kept staring at the blinking code. Dot watched him, a knot tightening in her stomach.

Fatin noticed the way his jaw locked, the way his breath stalled, the way his hand hovered over the table like it wasn’t sure it deserved to land. She caught Dot’s eye, then looked back at him.

“Mateo--“ Fatin started, then stopped. Her tone softened, but the edge didn’t leave. “You recognize that code, don’t you? I mean... given your history with this kind of thing. I’m not trying to call you out, bro. But come on.”

Leah shot her the signature Fatin, what are you doing look--part disbelief, part warning, part exhausted solidarity. It had all the precision of a glare, but the gentleness of someone who already knew resistance was futile.

He didn’t answer at first. Just blinked, exhaled once through his nose like it physically pained him. Then he nodded. A brittle motion. Like it might crack something open.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know that code. I ran that route.”

Dot’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry, you what?”

Mateo’s shoulders curled slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the chair. “It’s not Tempe,” he said. “AZ-TMP. Tuesday route. Always just crates. Pills. Syrup. Everything sealed. Labeled in metrics. No names.”

He sat down fully now. Planted his hands flat on the table like it might help him balance. The monitor cast a dull glow on the dust rising around his elbows.

“I was seventeen. Used a fake name. Thought it was clinical redistribution.” Dot remembered him telling her he was ‘clean.’” This was the truth of it.

He looked up. First to Dot. Then to Fatin.

“One day they loaded a boy. Not a crate. Not pills. Just a body. Duct tape over his jacket like a barcode.”

The words hit Dot like a physical blow. Her vision blurred at the edges.

“No one said anything. Just ‘same route, no manifest.’” He paused. Swallowed. “I loaded everything but him. Left the last door open. And I walked.”

He rubbed his hands together absently, like they itched. Like something was still on them.

“I didn’t go home. I went to Marco. Gloves still on.” Dot understood now. This was the debt Mateo was trying to repay.

Fatin’s voice, small but steady: “That was the last one?”

Mateo nodded. “The first and last”. 

Dot turned back to the screen. Reopened the manifest. Her fingers didn’t skim--they landed. Steady. “Jasmine’s still tagged to that corridor.” This was the puzzle piece they’d been missing, the chilling link.

Mateo didn’t blink. “Then she’s not lost.” His voice held a grim certainty.

Fatin’s voice stayed level. “You think she knows what she’s moving?”

A pause. Then Mateo said, “She hums.” A beat. “That means she’s surviving.” Dot felt a cold relief wash over her. Jasmine was alive.

Dot leaned back slowly. Like something had clicked. But the sound wasn’t clean. More like a hinge opening in the wrong direction. The pieces fit, horrifyingly.

“That’s what I said yesterday,” she murmured. “They didn’t erase her. They reclassified her.”

Fatin turned. “Like Shelby.”

Dot nodded. “Different utility. Same playbook.”

Fatin’s voice caught at the edges. “Shelby got glossy photoshoots and staged apologies--proof of conversion. Jasmine didn’t even get a file.”

“She got a van,” Mateo said. “That’s what TMP was. Quiet. Disposable. No return address.”

Dot tapped the keyboard. The blinking node was still live. AZ-TMP.

“They kept her useful,” she said. “Just off-record.” This explained everything - the disappearing acts, the silence.

Fatin leaned forward. “We’re not just looking for a site.”

Dot: “We have to intercept her on that route. Mateo, I need you to be honest. All of it.” She needed every detail, no more shadows.

Leah’s voice cracked through the tension. “We need to pause. Call Toni. Harlow. And fuck--Shelby.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow. Almost laughed. “Oh, so now you want to loop her in? After what?”

Leah didn’t look away. “I made a call,” she said. “It was the wrong one. But this--“ she gestured to the screen, “this isn’t mine to gate-keep.” Dot felt a flicker of grudging respect for Leah.

Mateo’s tone sharpened. “That’s convenient. So how do you decide what is Toni’s business? What changed?”

Dot cut in. Her voice stayed even, but the words sliced. “Cool. File the grudge for later. Right now we’ve got maybe hours to pull someone out of a corridor designed to erase her.”

Outside, metal clanged in the wind. The light above them flickered. The world was still chaotic, but now, they had a target.

Fatin already had her phone in hand, thumb hovering just above the screen like a trigger half-pulled. “Call Harlow,” she said, her voice clipped but steady. “I’ll take Toni.”

Leah looked up at her. That old familiar look passed between them--tight as wire, heavy with everything unsaid. But for once, it didn’t crack. It held. Like maybe this wasn’t a fight. Not yet. Just the breath before one, suspended.

 

---

 

FRIENDLY FIRE

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION - THURSDAY NIGHT 

The room was dim, empty but for the table, two chairs, and the low whir of the fan that never moved any air.

Marco was already seated when David walked in—alone, cuffed, jaw bruised. Serrano had been the one to drag him here. No surprise.

Dave didn’t offer a greeting. No handshake. Just a pause at the door before stepping fully into the light.

“You look like shit,” he said.

Marco didn’t look up. “And you look like the man who finally started believing his own press kit.”

Dave gave a slow, tired smile. “Still got that mouth on you.”

“Still got that God complex, I see.”

Dave stepped closer, gaze flicking over Marco’s bruised jaw, his exhaustion, the hollowness around his eyes.

Marco’s stomach growled. He’d spent every day since the summit -10 days, here, mostly in silence. The bruises weren’t fresh anymore and the hunger kept growing. Just reminders.

“What have they been feeding you? Is it better than the prison trays? Or is it still cardboard with a side of regret?”

Marco finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot but steady. “You always open with charm, or is that just for me?”

Dave’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Only for those who used to matter.”

Dave turned to Serrano and said, “Uncuff him.”

Serrano stared back dubiously at David before he complied. Then he walked out and let the door slam behind him.

Dave set a black recorder on the table, pressed play, and leaned back.

Then Shelby’s voice—quiet, breathless, like it hurt to speak.

“I didn’t plan for it to happen. We were in a hallway—it just… happened fast. It was my first time with a girl, and she didn’t hesitate.”

The playback wasn’t clean. Skips. Edits. Pauses where there shouldn’t have been.

 

Marco narrowed his eyes. That didn’t sound right. Not just the words. The rhythm. The splice.

A pause. Then another girls voice—calm, careful.

“Did you feel pressured?”

Marco’s head tilted. The tone shift was too clean. The calibration off.

“No,” Shelby said. “It just… happened fast. I don’t think she meant to. But, Nora- I wasn’t totally there, and I don’t think she saw that.”

Marco’s jaw flexed.

The recorder clicked off.

“You really think spying on your own daughter’s gonna clean up your mess?” Marco asked, voice low. “That how you rewrite history now?”

David didn’t flinch. “She was disoriented. Emotional. Coming off a breakdown. You really want to gamble on a jury parsing trauma from coercion? You think Reframe’s donors won’t leap at the chance to paint Toni as the manipulator? She already assaulted one of their own over an orphan’s complaint.”

He clicked forward. Toni’s voice now—soft, reverent.

“You’re not broken. You were just never allowed to want this loud.”

Dave smiled faintly. “Now pair that with Shelby’s call. Emotional instability. Blurred lines. And Toni? Still the violent foster girl who punched a donor. That’s not just scandal. That’s grooming—if we say it is.”

Marco’s voice turned to gravel. “This is manipulation. That audio was cut.”

“This is optics,” David said smoothly. “And you know how fast they turn.”

He leaned in, voice darkening.

“All I’m asking is a phone call. Tell her to drop it. The corridor, the investigation, the fantasy that she’s untouchable. Tell her to walk away before the world decides she’s exactly what the church warned them about.”

A beat.

“And tell her to stay the fuck away from my daughter—before I make her regret ever walking into Shelby’s life.”

Marco didn’t move.

Dave clicked his tongue. “You think you’re out. That you’ve done your part. But if you don’t shut this down, this is what we burn her with. Not the sex. Not the tape. Just Shelby. And the sound of Toni not stopping.”

Silence.

Then: a soft click as the door opened.

Serrano stepped back into the doorway, silent, gloved, unreadable. A flash of something under his coat—just enough for Marco to see the glint of metal.

Dave didn’t look back.

“Toni doesn’t need protection,” he said. “But maybe you do.”

Marco stared at the recorder.

That wasn’t Toni.

And it wasn’t what Shelby had shown that night. Not in her voice. Not in her body. Whatever she said here—this spliced version—it didn’t match the way she reached for Toni. Like it was hers. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to want something out loud.

David blinked once.

Marco stood.

“You want to twist their story? Do it yourself. But I’m not helping you bury the one thing - the one person that pulled Shelby out. This stopped being about Toni a long time ago. ”

He stepped forward, cold.

“This is about Shelby. And the part of her you’re still trying to snuff out because you couldn’t control it.”

He held David’s gaze. Hard. Final.

“I should’ve told her to run the minute she turned 18. And if there’s shame here? It’s mine—for ever calling you a friend.”

He turned.

And walked out—leaving the threat behind him, unanswered.

And if they followed, they’d better shoot straight.

# # END # #

Chapter 20: life is beautiful

Summary:

[ a father's voice / "diseased" / a daughter sold ]
[ but truth screams loud / defiance finds its fire ]
[ a lost ghost found / unmade by silence and chemical patterns ]
[ no more surviving / only burning the fucking church down ]

Notes:

this is late but I kinda was laid off with 14 other people this week... inspiration was not coming lol.
more time to write I guess- so it's a win...?
also: my x - if you have any feedback [good or bad] feel free to comment or dm me!

as always, thank you to the ultimate betareader:
💌 indubitablythebest (Tumblr) &
briedoesnotcare (AO3)

 

 

THE PURITY WATCHDOG: EXCLUSIVE COMMENTARY

 

Woke Virus Infects Goodkind Dynasty: Pastor's Daughter Caught in Seduction, Ex-Boyfriend Exposes the Truth

LOS ANGELES, CA – Pray for our children. The moral decay has reached epidemic levels, folks, as recent revelations confirm the utter destruction unleashed when woke ideology infiltrates even the most sacred family institutions. This isn't just "scandal"; it's a full-blown spiritual war, and the consequences are already written in the tears of a nation betrayed.

Reports from downtown Los Angeles detail a clandestine meeting at a notorious business center, a desperate, swamp-creature huddle involving Fatin Jadmani, heiress to the esteemed Jadmani Trust (now known for questionable funding decisions, thanks to this exposé), and Leah Rilke, a so-called "journalist" with a rap sheet of "controversial past associations" that scream fake news. Their desperate consultation with high-priced, big-city litigator Rachel Reid comes on the heels of the unspeakable, the stomach-churning public dissemination of lewd video footage featuring the utterly depraved Toni Shalifoe and—God help us all—Shelby Goodkind, Pastor Goodkind’s own daughter. This utterly shameless display, captured without an ounce of remorse, showcases a depraved, unholy alliance that has rocked our community to its core and confirmed our deepest fears.

This shocking public spectacle of moral decay is not just a consequence, patriots, it's a direct attack. Pastor Goodkind’s own flesh and blood, brainwashed by the woke mob, brazenly attacked the very faith-based programs designed to save our children. Her reckless accusations, coupled with Ms. Goodkind’s now-undeniable “unholy alliance” with Toni Shalifoe—a self-proclaimed 'queer club runner' (yes, a club runner! Think about that for a second, parents!) with a documented history of violence and instability—confirm what real Americans have screamed from the rooftops: the path away from righteous living leads directly to public shame, perversion, and the utter ruin of our society. This is what happens when you turn your back on God's word.

Further compounding this spiraling descent into moral chaos is the emergence of a disturbing "audio file," reportedly crafted and circulated by Miss Jadmani. Titled with blasphemous irony, "RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav," this distorted recording attempts to discredit the very institutions offering guidance and support to troubled youth. It is a cynical, defiant act, proving that some are determined to amplify darkness and perversion rather than seek the pure light of truth and repentance.

Adding to this grave portrait of spiritual rot, Toni Shalifoe’s own sordid past has resurfaced, shedding blinding light on her dangerous, unhinged, and unstable nature. A sealed juvenile record, now unsealed (thank you, brave patriots, for exposing the truth!), reveals a shocking incident where Shalifoe, at just sixteen, brutally shattered a man's jaw, resulting in severe, life-altering injury. This violent, unprovoked act, occurring in the presence of a minor (think of the children!), paints a crystal-clear picture of the 'optical hazard' she poses—a label rightly assigned by the discerning Resolve Institute. Her brazen confidence as the proprietor of a notorious club—a haven for moral laxity, depravity, and all things woke—demonstrates a dangerous, unapologetic disregard for the very youth she purports to serve. She is a predator, plain and simple. Wake up.

Upon exiting their secret legal confab, Jadmani and Rilke, accompanied by Mateo, their quiet, often-unidentified associate, faced a rightful public outcry. Eyewitness accounts describe a chaotic scene where their companion aggressively accosted concerned citizens and brave journalists attempting to ask valid questions about the unfolding disgrace.

Reporter: "Miss Jadmani. With your family's trust now implicated in 'questionable funding decisions' and your 'RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav' attacking faith-based programs, are you actively working to undermine the very institutions your family once supported, or is this simply a desperate attempt to deflect from your own moral failings?"

Eyewitness: "Miss Jadmani, with a chilling smirk, quipped: 'My family's trust? Honey, you think that's the most questionable thing happening here? Go home and pray, because we're just getting started. And maybe read a book that isn't sponsored by a megachurch.'"

 

Reporter: "Miss Rilke. Your disgraced past with Jeffrey Galanis is public record. Now, with these 'exposés' appearing under his name, are you just a 'journalist' or a woke co-conspirator in this coordinated attack on decency and faith?"

Rilke: (A sharp, almost predatory smirk playing on her lips, a dismissive wave of her hand) "Conspirator? Darling, I'm a journalist. And the only 'conspiracy' here is the one you're too spineless to expose. You want 'truth'? It's a weapon. And sometimes, it needs a little push from someone who isn't afraid to get their hands really dirty for a byline. You're welcome."

While Toni Shalifoe and Shelby Goodkind reportedly arrived together in a conspicuous white Jeep (anonymous submissions below show Shalifoe, still with wet hair, suggesting a recent, ungodly encounter), signaling their brazen disregard for public opinion, they exited the meeting separately. This strategic, cowardly separation, however, does little to mask their obvious entanglement in this disgusting web of depravity. While Shelby was hastily escorted into a black car by Dante James, founder of Club Soft (where that satanic video was filmed), Toni, in a shocking display of unhinged rage, snarled at the brave journalists who dared to question her as she walked to her Jeep—alone (trouble in hell, perhaps?). She spat, "You people elected a fascist and instead of going out and fixing that, this is what you're doing? F***ing pathetic!" This vile outburst, caught on camera, is a chilling testament to the moral bankruptcy of these individuals.

In a rare public statement following the meeting, Rachel Reid, legal counsel for the group, offered a defiant stance. "We are not here to defend who they are," Reid asserted, her voice cutting through the prevailing narrative. "We are here to expose what [Legacy and Unity] did. And we will remind them that survival doesn't apologize." Reid further confirmed plans to "counterfile" against the cease and desist orders, intending to "highlight the financial link between the Jadmani Trust and Reframe," and to "center Shelby's testimony"—a testimony that serves only to condemn her own family's righteous endeavors and further her own fall from grace.

Adding a much-needed dose of sanity and truth, brave sources close to the situation have revealed a powerful, heartbreaking statement from Andrew, Shelby Goodkind's former fiancé and a real man who once stood by her side.

Andrew (Shelby Goodkind’s former fiancé):
"I was shocked and heartbroken by Shelby's recent 'testimony' and her brazen public displays of indecency and depravity," Andrew courageously stated. "The woman I knew, the woman I loved, would never have abandoned her faith or attacked the very institutions that seek to heal and protect our children. This is not the Shelby I recognized. It's crystal clear she's fallen under a profoundly evil and negative influence, and and my prayers are with her and her family as they navigate this dark, spiritual warfare."

This powerful, undeniable testimony from a man who truly knew Shelby paints a chilling, obvious picture of manipulation, spiritual corruption, and the woke agenda at play.

This is not mere 'gossip,' patriots. This is the bitter fruit of open rebellion against God Almighty. A clear, thunderous warning to all who abandon the sacred principles of faith, family, and decency for the fleeting, false allure of worldly acceptance and perverse, abominable lifestyles. The consequences, as always, are laid bare for all to see, a sobering, undeniable lesson in the wages of sin.

    Wake up, America. Fight back.  

---

the weight of the camera

SHELBY - THURSDAY 10 PM

Leah’s voice message came four hours after their first meeting with Rachel—four hours of silence that dragged like chains. Shelby had spent them tracing the same desperate thoughts, her fingers twitching with the phantom warmth of Toni's skin, unable to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. The sacred intimacy of the night before now felt like a fragile, broken thing, its absence a physical ache where their hands should've met, a chasm born not of anger, but a terror she couldn't yet name.

Then her phone lit up.

“Hey, everyone’s meeting Rachel Reid at the compound.” Leah’s voice was urgent, slicing through Shelby’s fog. “I need you here. Toni told Fatin she doesn’t know where you are, but this is important.”

The city outside blurred by, steel towers and empty glass flashing past the car Dante had arranged. Her breath hitched as they neared the compound. The dread she’d swallowed all afternoon curled tighter, anchoring deep.

She knew Toni had once lived here, with Fatin, Leah, and Dot. But that time felt distant, like a memory behind glass. Now Toni drifted between couches and closed doors, never quite landing.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she stepped out. Too loud in the hush of evening. The two-story home loomed, quiet and waiting.

On the porch sat Dot, Fatin, and Leah—each of them frozen in uneasy stillness. Fatin’s gaze was fixed on her phone, thumbs moving fast, her cigarette burning low. Leah stared at a dark screen, a glass of wine untouched in front of her. Dot sat like she’d forgotten how to move, her face hollow, her eyes tracking Shelby’s every step.

“Are you okay?” Shelby asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you all out here?”

Dot didn’t answer at first. Her shoulders stiffened. Her eyes flicked toward the front door—then back to Shelby, haunted.

“Toni’s waiting inside,” she said flatly, a warning thinly disguised as instruction. “You need to go in.”

Fatin looked up. Her glance toward Dot was quick, loaded. Then Dot added, “Alone.”

The word struck like a lock clicking shut. A cold wave of vulnerability washed over Shelby, but she pushed it down.

The house swallowed her in silence.

Shelby stepped across the threshold like someone entering a crime scene—careful, breath held. The open-concept living room spread before her, deceptively ordinary, yet the air itself felt brittle, humming with a low, electric hum. Every breath seemed to hang, taut and measured, as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable crack.

Toni sat near the center of it all, hunched forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on a fixed point near her shoes. Her posture was tight—not slouched, not at ease. Every part of her looked like it was holding something back.

Rachel Reid typed behind a laptop set up at the kitchen island. Her fingers moved with the kind of precision that made Shelby’s skin prickle. Focused. Surgical. Like she was building a case.

Harlow stood near the window. Still. Watching. Not intrusive, not friendly—just there. A sentry.

Mateo leaned against a far wall, arms folded across his chest. His shoulders sagged with a weight Shelby could feel from where she stood. He didn’t speak. Just watched her come in.

She didn’t know who to look at. “Hi,” she managed. Her voice landed awkwardly in the charged quiet. Toni didn’t answer, didn’t move, but Shelby felt her awareness—a shift in the air, a subtle tension that acknowledged her presence.

“Alright, she’s here,” Toni snapped, not looking at her. “Can we just get this over with before those vultures show up again? If one more of those camera-wielding jackals sticks a mic in my face, I swear to God I’ll give them a real ‘level 3 hazard’ to report on.”

So, she’d read the article. Of course she had. Of course the world couldn’t let them have even one night without turning it to ash.

Rachel glanced sideways at Harlow. A wordless exchange passed between them. Then she turned toward Shelby and Toni, posture sharpening.

“We have a video,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the room. “It came from a contact Leah made in Arizona. It confirms our suspicions about Legacy Holdings. We believe Jasmine is actively moving assets for them. And Marco Reyes… was alive at the time of this recording.”

Toni stiffened. Not dramatically—just enough for Shelby to catch the change. A tremor in the line of her jaw. A flicker in her eyes.

Rachel pressed a key on her laptop.

The TV screen mounted on the wall blinked to life. Color. Sound. Clarity.

    “You leaked Shelby’s goddamn sex tape—with that girl—and now the whole world knows my daughter is gay.”  

    “I let her go because she was diseased.” David said.  

The words hit like a slap. Shelby’s lungs seized. A hot wave of humiliation and disgust washed over her, making her body clench tight.

    David: “She made her choice.”  

Shame, hot and suffocating, clawed its way back, seizing her lungs. Her face burned, stomach lurching as that single word—delivered with surgical cruelty—shattered every layer she’d rebuilt. The world narrowed to the blurring screen. She felt a desperate need to disappear, to vanish from the room, from her own skin.

Serrano's reprise followed—a smug, serpentine voice.

    “And then she begged a girl to touch the rot we tried to carve out. She didn’t just walk away, David. She spat on the altar.”  

Serrano's voice coiled around the most private thing she’d ever reached for—that night in the hallway, that whispered desperation for touch, for something real—and turned it into filth. Into ammunition: Shelby’s breath caught on a sob. Her knees buckled slightly. A dizzying nausea swirled in her gut, a visceral violation.

Toni’s hand found hers beneath the table. Steady. Fierce. Anchoring.

She flinched, but didn’t pull away.

Shelby’s fingers clutched Toni’s in a silent plea. Her skin was cold, trembling. The contact—Toni’s grip—was the only thing tethering her to the room.

Her jaw locked, throat tightening as bile crawled upward. She felt Toni's gaze, a physical weight, but couldn't meet it—each second a silent battle between the fear of pity and the terror of Toni's righteous anger, unsure which would break her faster.

Shelby didn’t realize she was shaking until Toni shifted beside her, thumb stroking once across her knuckles.

Toni leaned closer, her voice a rasp barely above breath.

“They want you to break,” she murmured. “Don’t give them the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.”

The middle of the video was a blur to Shelby. She only re-associated when she heard Serrano say:

    “You really think one confession’s gonna collapse infrastructure? Tempe and Modesto were decoys. AZ-TMP’s still live. Narcotics roll Tuesdays. Vans run dark. You don’t shut that down. You just bleach the paper trail.”  

"Wait, it's a drug route? What the hell." Toni stated. "Why would she be tagged to a drug route?"

    David’s voice was taut. “The new girl--does she even know what she’s moving?”  

    “She’s the one that hums. The one Shalifoe ‘protected.’ Meaning she knows better than to be loud.”  

Toni's fingers stopped their circles. She looked at Harlow, whose face turned pale. Harlow then moved forward from the window. His composure, usually a fortress, cracked just faintly. A flicker of grim recognition crossed his face, a silent acknowledgment of the depths of their enemy's depravity.

    David blinked “…Jasmine?”  

David’s voice cracked on the name, barely audible. But it was there—a tremor. The sound of something faltering. It landed like a ghost, a flicker of who he might’ve been before he let them turn him into this.

    “She was flagged for juvenile routing. Internal hold--low-risk, non-recirculating. No flags, no deviancy. Not like Shalifoe. Not like Shelby. She aged out. We should’ve let her go.”  

Shelby could sense Toni, who was usually restless, suddenly become completely still, like an ice statue that had just realized she was left in the sun. Her grip on Shelby's hand tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent echo of a pain too deep for words.

    “And lose the one name that could still make Shalifoe flinch? She wasn’t leverage. Not yet. But she could’ve been. You don’t throw away a lock just because you haven’t used the key.”  

Harlow shook his head once, "Un-fucking-believable."

Then came the closing words:

    “And Marco—if he thinks he can rewrite the script just by walking out of frame… he’s forgotten who holds the camera.”  

Rachel didn’t pause the video. It ended on its own, with a mechanical click. Final. Empty.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was suffocating, thick with the echoes of David Goodkind’s revulsion.

Shelby’s body sat motionless, but inside, it was carnage. Her heart pounded in her throat, a frantic bird trapped in her ribs. Her father’s voice—the betrayal, the word "diseased"—ripped open something she’d only just begun to seal shut. Shame, hot and suffocating, slithered back in, coating her tongue. Her free hand clenched, nails digging into her palm.

But Toni was still holding her hand beneath the table, her grip steady, fierce. A lifeline. Toni's own jaw was a rigid line, a muscle ticking violently at her temple. Her eyes, locked on the dark screen, were chips of cold fury, but her thumb stroked once, gently, across Shelby's knuckles.

Harlow, standing near the window, was the first to break the charged stillness. His voice was a low, almost reverent murmur, directed at Rachel and Mateo. "Let's give them a moment... please."

Rachel, mid-dictation, froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Her gaze snapped from the screen to Harlow, a flicker of surprise crossing her usually impassive face. She followed Harlow’s unspoken cue, her eyes dropping briefly to the hands entwined beneath the table, then lifting to meet Toni’s gaze with a slow, almost imperceptible nod. A silent, potent understanding passed between them. "Five minutes," she conceded, her voice softer than it had been all night.

Mateo, who had been a silent, slumped presence against the far wall, straightened. His gaze lingered on Shelby and Toni for a long beat, his expression softening almost imperceptibly with something akin to sorrow, before he turned and followed Rachel and Harlow out, leaving only the hum of the computer and the heavy weight of what had just been revealed.

---

we fight

TONI POV - COMPOUND - CONT THURSDAY  NIGHT

The hum of the computer, the distant city sounds, even their own breathing—all of it faded into nothing. The air felt thick, suffocating, weighted with the ghosts of every word just spoken. Shelby turned her head slowly. Her eyes were wide, haunted, locked on the now-black screen. She could still hear her father’s voice in her skull, the syllables like rot beneath her skin.

Toni’s gaze stayed on her—not pitying, not soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Alive. The air between them crackled, electric and raw.

Shelby’s voice came as a brittle whisper, scraping out the truth:
“My father… he said I was diseased. Unclean. Sold me. Like I was some kind of sacrifice.”

Toni’s jaw tightened, breath sharp, voice low and steady:
“He’s been selling pieces of himself for years. You? You were just the cost of the ticket.”

She let go of Shelby’s hand but her thumb brushed lightly against Shelby’s cheek—the barest touch, heat alive.

Shelby blinked hard, vision shimmering, breath quick and shallow. “How do you fight something that thinks it owns your soul?”

Toni’s eyes didn’t waver, cold and clear:
“We hit back. Hard. We make it hurt.”

She hauled Shelby to her feet, the sudden movement making Shelby’s heart spike. Toni pulled her close, bracing for impact.

Toni’s jaw twitched, breath catching sharp. Then her voice slipped out—low, steady, fierce.
“You’re not diseased, B. You’re perfect. Beautiful. That’s what B means—fucking gorgeous.”

Something cracked. Or maybe something finally woke up. Shelby’s hand shot up, seizing Toni’s jaw, palm hot, fingers trembling. The kiss hit sharp and hard—breathless, furious, teeth grazing lips. Toni responded without hesitation, arms cinching Shelby tight, anchoring her in place, their heartbeats jagged and frantic against each other. It wasn’t comfort. It was survival.

The sharp creak of the door twisted the moment. Shelby flinched, breath caught, breaking the kiss as if surfacing from deep underwater. Toni exhaled sharply, jaw clenched, eyes flashing murder at the interruption.

Mateo entered first. Hollow-eyed. Tight-jawed. The scent of old cigarette smoke clung to his clothes. Dot, Leah, Fatin, Rachel, and Harlow followed, all wearing the same brittle tension. The weight of what they carried thickened the air itself. No one spoke. They didn’t have to.

Toni squared her shoulders, voice flat as flint:

Mateo’s voice was sanded down, barely there:
“Serrano wasn’t speaking in metaphor.”

Harlow stepped in, voice ice over steel:
“Marco’s not gone. He’s contained. They’re using him.”

Toni’s body shifted, reflexive, sharp:
“Using him how?”

Mateo’s voice dropped, raw and wrecked:
“Same chemical patterns. Same protocol. Like the boy I told Dot about. The one they erased.” His eyes flicked to Shelby, heavy with unspeakable weight.
“They’re unmaking Marco.”

The silence that followed pressed in tight, airless.

Dot’s voice sliced through it, a thin reed:
“Jasmine’s still humming. She’s still fighting.”

Toni’s lip curled, voice low and lethal:
“How long?”

Mateo didn’t blink:
“Long enough to know survival isn’t living. Not long enough to stop it. They’re keeping him deep. Quiet.”

The room held its breath. Even the air felt bruised, thick and heavy like damp wool pressing against their skin—suffocating and close.

Rachel’s voice cracked the stillness like a whip:
“This isn’t about exposure. It’s about dismantling. Legally. Publicly. We move first.”

Her laptop clicked open, keys rattling under her fingers.
“Harlow, Mateo—site coordinates. Cross-reference. We need actionable intel now.”

Harlow swiped through a glowing node map. Mateo leaned in, voice a gravelled rasp:
“AZ-TMP isn’t a city. It’s a hub. Drop points rotate, but the routes are fixed. Tuesdays.”

In the far corner, Shelby’s fingers trembled around a pen slick with sweat. The scratch of it against paper was frantic, uneven. Toni loomed above her, still as stone, radiating heat and intent.

“Forget ‘diseased,’” Toni murmured, voice low as a threat.
“We make ‘loud’ their nightmare. He doesn’t fear your truth—he fears you wanting. You not apologizing.”

Her fingertip tapped the page, nails bitten raw.
“Start raw. No edits. We don’t defend. We attack.”

Shelby lifted her chin, breath shaky but sharper now. The shame still sat under her skin, but it had teeth. And fire.

She exhaled, voice soft as a blade:
“He said I spat on the altar.” Her lips twisted into something dangerous.
“Maybe it’s time I lit the altar on fire.”

Toni’s grin came slow and sharp, like the pull of a trigger.

Pure fire.

---

for my brothers, if nothing else

[FATIN & LEAH] - THURSDAY NIGHT - COMPOUND

The echoes of Serrano’s chilling pronouncements about Marco and Jasmine still hung heavy in the air. Rachel Reid, sharp and unyielding, swept her gaze across the stunned faces in the room. She didn’t offer comfort; she offered a swift legal assessment, her voice cutting through the thick silence like a scalpel. She’d just laid out the full scope of their counter-strategy, and now her eyes landed on Fatin and Leah—a silent command to step up.

“Fatin,” Rachel began, tone measured, eyes already calculating. “That ‘RETENTION_PROTOCOL.wav’ you put out? Direct provocation. Good. It confirmed our suspicions. Drew their fire. Leah, your investigative work got us this video. You pulled the initial files from Marco’s drive—Jasmine’s intake audio, too. So here’s the play: you two collaborate on the public narrative.”

Her gaze flicked between them, a silent order. “Fatin, draft a public statement. Frame your family’s financial ties as unintended—as victims of Legacy’s deception. Leah, continue to dig into Legacy’s financials and legal loopholes. Find every single instance of ‘proxy petition’ or ‘reclassification’ related to juvenile cases that matches their playbook. This isn’t just for the press—it’s for court.” The unspoken weight of “collaboration” hung in the air, a tacit acknowledgment of the friction she was forcing them to set aside.

A cold knot tightened in Fatin’s stomach. Rachel’s words hit hard. Her family’s name—the one she’d long tried to escape—was now a cornerstone of the fight. This wasn’t just money; it was legacy, stained by complicity. She glanced at Leah, who was already pulling spreadsheets up on her laptop, eyes sharp and focused—the kind that meant Leah was already three steps ahead, calculating leverage.

The memory of their last intimate, desperate moment flickered—a strange, unwelcome layer beneath Rachel’s professional command. Was this what Leah had wanted all along? A front-row seat to Fatin’s unraveling? Fatin breathed deep, the humid Los Angeles air thick in her lungs. No. If her family’s name burned, it would be on her terms. She’d hold the match.

Leah slid into the chair opposite Fatin. The scrape of metal on concrete was sharp in the flurry of movement, drawing a quick glance from Fatin. A stack of financial documents lay between them like a fragile truce. The air buzzed with urgency—and the unspoken history between them—forcing a ceasefire that felt temporary. Rachel’s gaze flickered over them briefly—a reminder: this was business now.

“My parents’ names are all over these,” Fatin said flatly, voice sharp and dismissive, gesturing at a spreadsheet on Leah’s screen. She avoided Leah’s eyes, staring instead at her glowing phone, a silent shield. “How do I spin ‘unintended financial entanglement’ when it screams ‘we looked the other way’? When they knew damn well better?” The last words were bitter, barely a whisper.

Leah’s lips pressed tight, but she didn’t flinch. This was her chance, not just for a byline, but to prove herself. To Fatin. “You frame it as deception. As victims of the same rotten system. No apologies for being used. Rage at it.” Her eyes locked with Fatin’s, sharp and relentless. “We expose every move Legacy hid behind. Every ‘wellness center’ that was really a cage. Every ‘donation’ that was a payoff. We make sure your family’s name is on the list of those fooled—not just those who funded.” She pushed a printout toward Fatin, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary—a silent dare: are you with me, or not?

Fatin stared down the damning figures. A grim smile flickered. Funny how often this family ended up on the wrong side of the story. Like father, like daughter. She remembered when her own ruthless chase for truth had shredded her father’s private life. She hadn’t blinked then. Not now.

“Deception. Rage. Victim,” she said slowly, testing the words. “Fine. But not victim. Warning. My family bought into their lie. They paid the price. And now they’ll pay again. I’ll make damn sure everyone knows how Legacy twists faith into complicity.”

Her eyes flicked coldly to Leah. “And I want everything you find—every shell company, every ‘proxy petition.’ I want it all. I want to watch them choke on the truth. Especially for my brothers. They don’t get to grow up thinking our name’s clean when it’s built on this mess.”

She pulled out her phone, already typing, focus fierce. Not just a statement—she was pulling up a contact she hadn’t used in years. A private number. A distant cousin who owed her a favor. Someone with connections far from the Jadmani estate. This wasn’t just a statement. This was demolition. Starting with her own foundation.

---

two ghosts walking

[DOT & MATEO] - COMPOUND - TUESDAY NIGHT

Dot sat on the back steps, half in shadow, half in the sticky, humid dawn. The air tasted like old blood mixed with rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Her fingers pressed against a splinter in the wood—not picking, just feeling the sting, something real to hold on to. A dull ache settled in her chest, the kind that stayed years after she finally walked away from him.

The house behind her buzzed with noise—Rachel barking orders, Fatin’s sharp sarcasm, Harlow’s quiet efficiency. Everyone was busy. Preparing. But Dot needed a moment to catch her breath, to loosen the cold knot tightening her gut. The boy. The TMP barcode. Jasmine. Marco. It wasn’t just a name or a system. It was a ghost, a life stolen, a bitter echo of what she once tried to build with the man coming up behind her.

Soft footsteps on gravel. Hesitant, familiar. The slight drag of his left foot. She didn’t look up.

Mateo’s voice came low, careful, like he was testing the space between them.
“You good?”

Dot’s laugh was dry, brittle, like breaking memories.
“Is that a real question, or just what you say now? After everything?”

He sat beside her, no words, just the creak of the wood. Didn’t touch her. But his presence settled heavy and familiar—a weight she hadn’t let herself lean on in years.

For a while, silence. The city waking up. Cars rumbling, a dog barking, the hum of electricity inside the house. All distant, muffled by the heaviness of what they’d learned.

“This place… didn’t think it’d feel like this again,” Dot finally said, her voice thin, eyes fixed on the pale sky. “Not after… everything we did here. Everything that broke here. But here we are. Full fucking circle.”

A bitter echo of the past, of the choices they'd both made within the shadow of that compound.

Mateo nodded, quiet. His elbows rested on his knees, shoulders bowed, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if searching for answers in the bruised light.

“They’re all waiting for a plan,” he said, his voice raw with a weariness that went bone-deep. “For answers. Like any of us have those when it comes to this.” His voice caught faintly on the last word, heavy with the weight of the new revelation.

Dot looked at him then, sharp, measured, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of wavering. The man she’d loved had been prone to looking away, to choosing the path of least resistance when the real ugliness began.

“You sure you wanna be part of this, Mateo? Really part of it? Because this isn't just about cleaning up a mess. This is about taking it apart from the inside.”

A flicker crossed his face—not just pain or regret, but a deep, visceral self-loathing she recognized from their shared past. The kind that had, ultimately, driven them apart. “I already am,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, thick with the ghosts of his past complicity.

“Before I even knew it. That boy… Jasmine… I didn’t stop it. I just watched. Thought I was surviving.” He swallowed hard.

“I told myself I was just a cog. That I had no choice. That it was better to keep my head down, to just… get by. But I had a choice. And I chose to look away. From the routes. The tags. Everything happening right under us. From you.”

She didn’t forgive him. Didn’t offer that. Just lit a cigarette, the flare glowing against the dark set of her lips. Took a long drag. The smoke burned, but it felt like cleaning.

“That’s what we all thought,” she said, smoke trailing like a curse. “That surviving was enough. That keeping your head down meant you were safe. That you could make a deal with the devil and not end up paying with pieces of yourself.”

Her eyes, when they met his, were hard, unforgiving, but not of him—of the world that had forced those choices, of the system that had chewed them up and spit them out.

He leaned back, confession hanging heavy between them.
“And now?”

Dot exhaled smoke like a promise.
“Now I wanna burn it all down. Every last piece of it. No deals. No looking away.” Quiet, but fierce. The same fire that made her walk away years ago.

Silence stretched, full but not heavy. A fragile bridge over years of anger.

Then Dot’s voice, low, challenging, with a hint of hope she almost didn’t believe in.
“You sure you won’t flinch when it gets ugly? When it gets real bad?”

Mateo’s answer was steady, his eyes locked on hers. “I flinched already,” he said, the words a quiet, powerful vow. “When it counted most. I don’t get another pass. Not with what they did to Marco. Not with Jasmine. Not with the years I lost, or the years I made you lose.” His hands, which had been trembling faintly, now clenched into tight fists on his knees.

She studied him—dark circles, that residual tremor. But he didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to fight, even if it tore him apart. And for the first time in a long time, Dot saw a flicker of the man she had loved beneath the layers of guilt and weariness. A man who was finally, truly, showing up.

“You said Jasmine’s humming,” Dot murmured, her voice laced with a fragile, desperate hope that was both for the girl and for the possibility standing beside her. “That means she’s still fighting. And if she’s fighting, so is Marco. That’s what I need to hold on to.”

Mateo’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping. His gaze met hers, a shared, silent promise passing between them. “Then let’s find out.” His voice rough but sure—no hesitation.

Dot crushed out her cigarette without ceremony, the ember dying quick. She stood, fluid and ready.

“Good,” she said, grim satisfaction in her tone. “Toni’s waiting. And if we don’t move now, she’ll tear that warehouse apart with her bare hands.”

Mateo rose, shoulders squared, his past a fuel not a chain. He reached for her hand, tentative, almost ghost-like.

She didn’t pull away.

Behind them, the compound lit up with a new day’s chaos. Outside, two ghosts walked toward reckoning—almost hand in hand, no longer just surviving.

---

the unmade

[TONI] - FRIDAY NIGHT - PHOENIX

The night swallowed the city whole as Toni moved. No dramatic goodbyes, no grand pronouncements. Just the quiet click of her Jeep doors and the low thrum of its engine cutting through the humid Los Angeles air. Harlow’s clipped voice fed coordinates through Bluetooth.

“Tuesday run, same TMP code. Remote drop-off—warehouse district, east of Phoenix. Old industrial park. Minimal surveillance.”

Toni’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Minimal surveillance means maximum risk. They don’t want witnesses.” Her jaw clenched; eyes locked on the highway, grim resolve hardening her face. The anger coiling in Toni's gut wasn't just for Marco. It was for every 'unmade' life, for every past trauma, for every moment she'd felt powerless. This was more than a mission. It was a pyre waiting to be lit.

Beside her, Dot’s thumb traced a glowing map on a burner phone. “Jasmine’s transfer log shows reclassification—‘logistics support’—three weeks ago. They subjected her to the unmaking protocol. They’re not just holding her. They’re using her.” The words tasted bitter.

Hours bled into a blur of highway lights and whispered intel—vehicle shifts, frequency changes, last-minute rendezvous updates. Dawn bruised the Arizona sky as they left the highway, tires crunching onto a dusty road leading deeper into forgotten industry.

Ahead, skeletal warehouses rose, silent against the waking sun. No signs, no lights—just decay and secrets.

“This is it,” Toni whispered. She cut the engine. Silence swallowed them, broken only by a distant generator’s drone.

They moved as shadows, feet crunching over dust and debris. Dot’s hand hovered near her hip, the weight of a cold weapon. Toni’s eyes never ceased their sweep.

They reached the largest building last—the one that smelled like death.

The metal door groaned under Toni’s hand, hinges protesting like something waking from a long, drugged sleep. Inside, cold air bit at her skin, thick with bleach, chemicals, and a faint, cloying sweetness—medicine masking decay.

    The scent of bleach, sharp and clinical, clawed at the back of her throat, a phantom echo of every sanitized room, every 'holding cell' where she'd been told to be quiet, to be forgotten.  

Crates stacked to the rafters bore the AZ-TMP code. Dot’s quick scan matched Jasmine’s transfer logs. But it was the shell casing by her boot that froze her.

She crouched, picking it up.

“Bullet,” she whispered. “Still warm.”

Toni’s gaze shifted—another casing, scuffed bootprints, streaks of dragged dust.

And then—him.

Marco Reyes.

Slumped against crates, one leg twisted, head lolling. An IV hung from his arm, a nearly drained medical bag. His skin is gray under the harsh light—too still, too silent.

A bullet hole marked the wall behind him.

Toni’s pulse thundered. Her voice cracked: “Dot.”

Dot’s breath caught. “Jesus. They shot at him.”

“Correction,” Toni said, stepping closer, voice cold. “They tried to kill him.”

Nearby, a partially disassembled gun lay abandoned—Serrano’s.

Her fury ignited.

Toni dropped beside Marco, trembling fingers brushing his shoulder. “Marco?”

No response. But his lips parted faintly—as if remembering how to move. A twitch. Another. Shallow, fragile rhythm.

Dot leaned in. “Is he humming?”

Toni listened—a broken lullaby, a wounded bird’s fragile song, desperate to be heard.

She’d heard it once before—a quiet night, Shelby’s fingers threading through her hair, Marco’s music weaving soft through silence.

Isn’t life beautiful… I think that life is beautiful…

Her throat tightened.

The portable speaker above flickered on its cracked display.

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL – LIL PEEP

Still paused. Waiting to finish.

Toni looked back at Marco.

No tears. No blink. Just lips twitching—like a faint spark against suffocating dark.

The heavy, suffocating Los Angeles night air felt like a humid blanket. Toni had arrived a few days prior, seeking a clean break, a fresh start after leaving Minnesota in a blaze of anger and shattered glass. But escape had immediately curdled. A casual phone call twisted into a gut punch: her mother, the ghost she’d outrun since childhood, was still “receiving care” – still in rehab, still chasing a fix, still unable to be the anchor Toni desperately needed. The news landed like a final betrayal, a reminder that some things don’t end, they just change shape.

She stumbled into the back room of Noć, a sparse, soundproofed room Marco used when the world started obstructing the vision of the club. It smelled of dust and disuse, a quiet burial ground for forgotten ventures. Toni lay sprawled on the beat-up leather couch Marco had gotten at the pawn shop around the corner, her body aching with exhaustion and disappointment from her shift at Noć. She felt scraped out, as if her skin had stayed behind when she arrived too early for work. The illusion of a clean slate shattered, replaced by the familiar taste of abandonment.

Marco, ever the quiet observer, stepped into the dim light. A new song played softly from the small, portable speaker he held. He didn’t speak, just set the speaker down on the floor beside her, the melody filling the quiet space. It was melancholic, sweet, with an underlying ache Toni immediately recognized as his signature. He dropped onto the floor beside her, not touching, just present. He didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t try to fix her, didn’t offer platitudes about finding peace. He simply existed in the same space, letting the silence settle.

After a long moment, Marco finally spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur against the music, "This one... it just sticks, you know? Closest thing to honesty I've ever heard in a song." He gave a soft, almost imperceptible hum, a fragile echo of the melody still playing. "It’s... 'Life Is Beautiful.' By Lil Peep."

Toni scoffed softly, the name feeling too saccharine for the brutal beauty of the melody, but she didn’t argue. He knew her better than anyone. He knew the fights she picked, the walls she built, the way she always braced for impact. And he knew the quiet parts, the ones she kept hidden. He’d given her keys to Noć, a place she thought was hers, a place built in spite of men like David Goodkind. He’d given her a purpose, a place to channel the fury that had once shattered a windshield and ended a scholarship.

Now, the lyrics drifted through into her semi-conscious mind, a brutal echo of Marco’s journey - of hers:

Would you help me get a grip or would you drop me

Run away, make friends with the moon

Why you trippin', you'll be with your friends soon

They’d both seen too many dropped, too many vanish. Now she knew Mateo had been pulled out of the mess by Marco, but not without leaving pieces of himself behind. He’d made deals, compromised, lied to survive. But this? This wasn't the end. He wouldn't be dropped. He wouldn’t let them silence him. The struggle to "get a grip" was unending, but the fight within him had never truly died.

There comes a time everybody meets the same fate….

I think I'ma die alone inside my room

He’d run away, certainly. Made friends with the shadows, built a world in the dark. He’d lived with the fear of being isolated, of being forgotten in a quiet room, but he would not die alone. Not here. Not after all this. He’d tried to send a message, humming it in defiance, hoping someone would hear it through the noise, hoping someone would understand that even in this bleak landscape, there was still something worth fighting for.

Dot sank to her knees. “They were going to bury him here. Like he was nothing.”

“No,” Toni whispered, voice low and deadly. “They were going to erase him.” The word 'erase' hit her with a visceral chill, a direct assault on the very core of who she was, a reminder of every time someone had tried to make her disappear.

Her hand found his—cold, limp, but there. Her grip tightened.

“You held on,” she vowed. “They missed. And now they’ve got a problem.”

A flicker in his fingers—fragile as a candle flame in wind. A flicker in hers—a silent promise to keep it burning.

Toni rose, fury coiling tight. Nails bit into her palms.

“Get him stable,” she ordered Dot. “I’ll sweep the exit. And then…”

She took in the crates, the bullet hole, the fractured song—remnants of their attempt to erase him.

“We burn this fucking church to ashes.”

Chapter 21: the girl behind the black bar

Summary:

not sedation. suppression.
a name unsealed. a hum that lingers.
the vanished didn’t whisper—they were buried alive.
now: a trace, a gunshot, a post that won’t vanish.
now: the war inhales.

Notes:

I made Toni Māori (Ngāti Porou—like the actress who played her) through her father, who she never met.
It wasn’t just about identity. It was about silence. Erasure.
The things that get passed down even when nothing is said.

She doesn’t know the full shape of that heritage, but it’s there.
Something she pieced together—maybe from a name her mother once said.
Maybe from a case file, a rumor, a face that looked too much like hers.

Shalifoe came later. From a foster placement, or maybe her mother.
No one ever told her for sure.

the girl behind the black bar

erasure protocol

SATURDAY — OFF-GRID CLINIC, EAST OF PHOENIX — 1:12 A.M. — TONI

The clinic smelled like bleach and old fear. Heavy in the nose. Hard to breathe through. Like something had died here and been scrubbed out again and again—but never really left.

Harlow had said he knew someone. Quiet. Off-grid. Trustworthy. A trauma nurse who didn’t ask questions and owed him a favor from back when keeping secrets meant keeping people alive.

This place wasn’t on any map. That was the point.

Toni’s boots stuck slightly to the tile as she shoved the door open, Marco’s weight slung heavy across her shoulders. Heat radiated off him through her shirt—sweat and something bitter, chemical, manufactured. Her breath came sharp, matching the rhythm of his wheezing.

Dot was a step ahead, banging her palm against the check-in counter hard enough to rattle the clipboard.

A woman in scrubs stepped out from behind the door, hair in a loose braid, arms inked in sleeve tattoos half-faded by time and peroxide. She didn’t ask questions—just looked once at Marco and pointed down the hallway.

Dot followed, rattling off vitals and symptoms.

The nurse moved like someone who didn’t believe in wasting seconds.

That was fine. Toni didn’t have any to spare.

“Harlow and his damn favors,” she muttered, waving them through. “Let’s go.”

A man in stained scrubs met them at the next threshold. His voice was too calm. He didn’t look at Marco’s face—just scanned the way his limbs moved, like someone trained to ignore details that didn’t help stop the bleeding.

Toni hesitated. Marco’s eyes rolled back, limbs twitching in slow, uneven waves—each movement jerking like his body had forgotten how to belong to itself.

“We need to cut his shirt. You want answers, let me work.”

Marco gasped—a ragged, rattling inhale. His eyes were wild, unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came.

Toni lowered him with trembling hands, her fingers brushing the angry bruises blooming across his ribs.

“What the fuck is in him?” she demanded, voice rough, breaking on the last word.

“We flush first,” the doctor said, checking Marco’s pulse. “He’s been dosed with a depressant stack—likely neuroinhibitors and a paralytic. This isn’t for sedation. It’s for system suppression.”

Dot didn’t speak. Just hovered at the foot of the bed as the nurse cut Marco’s shirt open.

There was too much blood. Too many bruises. And the way the doctor flinched—just slightly—made Toni’s stomach turn.

They’d known he was missing. Silenced. Maybe sedated. But this—bruises, blood, the way his wrist bent wrong—this was proof of something worse. This was cruelty. They all knew.

The doctor’s language gave it away. The protocol. The silence. The way they moved like people who’d seen this before, who knew the names without needing to say them.

Legacy, Toni thought. Or whatever evolved in its shadow.

Dot reached into her bag, pulled out the crumpled IV bag Toni had yanked from the warehouse wall. It was half-drained, the tubing kinked where it had been ripped free. She handed it over without ceremony.

“Run it,” she said.

The doctor took it without question, like he’d expected it. Like this was just part of the job.

They rolled Marco away. His body jostled on the gurney like a broken marionette, limbs slack, unresisting. Toni’s chest tightened with every bump, every careless sway. She stayed close, too close, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides like she could steady him through sheer proximity. Her stomach twisted at the hollow thud of his shoulder hitting the frame—too sharp, too careless. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. Toni followed, ignoring the nurse’s attempt to block her. A needle went into his arm. He jerked. The doctor barked something about vitals and dosage and clearing protocols, but it all sounded underwater.

“You can’t be in here,” the younger nurse snapped, stepping in front of Toni. Her badge wasn’t flipped. Her tone was pure protocol—no weight, no context.

Toni didn’t stop. Just planted a hand on the nurse’s shoulder and shoved her aside—controlled, but hard enough to make her stumble.

“Try and stop me again,” she said, low. “See what happens.”

“She’s contaminating the field—” the nurse started, breath catching.

“She’s staying,” the doctor cut in, not even glancing up. “If he wakes, that’s the only face he’ll trust. Waste time arguing, and we lose him.”

The nurse froze. Then stepped back.

Toni didn’t look at her again.

His head twitched once. Not a turn—more like a misfire. His eyes flicked past her, glassy, unfocused. Then again. The third time, they caught.

“Toni?”

She was there in an instant, clutching his hand, knuckles white. His skin felt like paper soaked in ice.

“I’m here. You’re safe. We got you.”

His eyes cracked open. Bloodshot. Slipping. His pupils pulsed, struggling to hold shape. His lips moved again—barely sound at first. Just breath.

Then, in a rough, fading rasp:

“Estaba allí,” he rasped. “Mija… Jasmine… todavía cantando. No paró.”

Toni froze. Her breath hitched, sharp and silent, like it had caught on glass inside her chest. The sound of Marco saying Jasmine’s name hit her like a second impact—not physical, but cellular. Like memory striking bone.

“What?”

“Te dije que vendrías… Said… said you don’t forget the ones they don’t count.”

Mateo’s head jerked slightly at the sound, breath catching. He’d caught every word. Dot looked between them, confused—trying to read the tone without the translation. Her gaze flicked to Mateo then Toni, searching.

Toni felt the phrase sink like a hook in her ribs, dragging something old and half-healed to the surface. The same words Serrano had sneered in the video. The ones Jasmine had been reduced to. The ones David Goodkind had branded with indifference. The ones Toni had failed to protect.

He wheezed, like his ribs didn’t move right. The machines beeped louder. One of his arms spasmed, then stilled — fingers curling not toward her, but toward the edge of the bed, like reaching for a wall that wasn’t there. Like his body didn’t remember what comfort was.

His mouth opened again, just a little, and for a second it looked like he was trying to hum.

But it caught on nothing. Even the memory of music had been erased, hollowed out.

His eyes slipped shut. Whatever spark had been there — already gone.

“Where was she, Marco? Where—”

But his eyes had already slid shut. The doctor shouted something. Someone pushed Toni back. The slap of her boots on tile as she was forced out echoed louder than the beeping.

She didn’t fight. Not then. But her mind howled.

That humming. That song. Life Is Beautiful.

It echoed faintly through her—Marco on the floor of Noć, back when she thought the worst was behind them. Humming like he was holding something off. Like he knew it was coming back around.

This wasn’t sedation. This was erasure by design.

The hallway light buzzed overhead, casting uneven shadows that jumped with every flicker. Toni’s back hit the wall, the tile cool and filthy beneath her hands. She breathed in the sterile quiet, waiting for the screaming in her chest to settle into words.

Dot didn’t say anything. Just stood next to her. Close, grounding. Her presence was like a counterweight, holding Toni in place before she splintered.

Mateo paced, jaw tight. His face looked worse under hospital fluorescents—like everything he’d buried had risen to the surface. The blood on his temple had dried to rust, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Something had unraveled in him too.

“She was there. Not days ago—hours, maybe. Same building. And we missed her.” Toni’s voice cracked. “They started unmaking her too. Just like him. Just like before.”

Dot’s voice came low, rough. “They moved her while they stalled us. That site—Marco wasn’t the prize. He was the warning.”

Mateo’s throat worked around something jagged. “She’s not leverage. Not anymore. They already started using her. And we were right there.”

Toni’s jaw clicked tight. A long breath rattled out of her lungs.

“There’s a drop window in twelve hours near Gila Bend,” Dot said quietly, reading off her screen. “I’ll go.”

Mateo nodded. “I’ll drive.”

Toni didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the swinging doors that had swallowed Marco. Her voice came slower, cracked at the edges.

“I’m staying. If he wakes up… he’ll need to know someone stayed. Someone remembered.”

Dot placed a hand on her shoulder. Firm. “We’ll bring her back. One way or another.”

Toni gave a nod, small and sharp. The kind that meant: do it fast.

Toni didn’t cry.

But the next time her hands curled into fists, they were steady.

This time, she thought, they don’t get to decide who disappears.

Flashback: Old industrial park - PHX - FRIDAY

She turned back to the crates. To the blood. To the glint of metal where a weapon had been discarded, half-hidden behind a shattered med case.

Toni crouched slowly. Picked it up.

It was heavier than she expected. Still warm from the room’s heat, from violence. Serrano’s prints might still be on it—but that wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was who held it now.

Dot was busy stabilizing Marco. Her back was turned. No one saw Toni slide the weapon into her waistband.

She steadied her grip. Thought of Jasmine. Of Shelby. Of Marco. Of everyone they’d taken. If they wanted silence—she’d answer with fire.

---

window of contact

SATURDAY — GILA BEND CORRIDOR — 2:06–4:18 A.M. — MATEO

Mateo maintained a firm grip on the wheel as the desert stretched out before them, its contours etched in fractured light. The landscape shimmered faintly under the thin veil of moonlight, residual heat still wavering from the road’s surface like lost spirits rising from the pavement. The Jeep’s engine vibrated beneath his hand—a low, persistent growl that echoed through the chassis and into his bones.

Dot sat rigidly beside him, illuminated by the flickering glow of the tablet angled against the dash. Her expression was locked in concentration, her fingers moving with precision over the touchscreen, dispatching silent commands with practiced familiarity. Her silhouette etched starkly against the void outside. She was stillness and purpose in a world that had become increasingly unmoored.

The tablet display pulsed as fresh data streamed in from the off-grid clinic.

SGR-91. Not a pharmaceutical. Not registered with any oversight agency. A synthetic compound. Sterile. Engineered. Legacy-designed.

Mateo didn’t need a formal classification—he had already seen what it did. Marco’s convulsions on the clinic bed had been its signature.

"That the stuff they used on Marco?" he asked, his voice rough and quiet.

Dot nodded without looking up. "Same family as the sedatives from the AZ-TMP manifests. Only one manufacturing node has handled it in the last three months."

Mateo reached into his backpack and retrieved a matte black, low-velocity sidearm—non-lethal, no serial number. He checked the chamber. Not a bullet. A sedative cartridge.

"This one’s different," he said, catching her glance. "Legacy didn’t invent it. It’s older—government surplus from before they went full covert. Knockdown power without memory interference. Temporary, not terminal."

Dot gave a short nod, her eyes fixed on the stream of intel. "Let’s hope it stays in your bag."

The engine hummed low between them. The silence between them stretched, sharp and expectant, a familiar premonition of a point of no return.

"I’m not trying to live like that anymore, Dot," he said.

Her response was quiet but unequivocal. "I know. I’m not going back either."

It struck him deeper than he expected—how calmly she said it. How certain she was. That she was still here.

They let the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward. It was filled with everything they didn’t need to say. There had been too many nights like this before—marked by things left unsaid, but understood.

SYSTEM TRACE

→ LEAH / NODE: LO-34C

Facility: North Legacy Pharmaceutical Solutions.
Last shipment: Transit node en route to AZ-TMP.
Scheduled offload: 9:40 a.m. — twelve miles east of Gila Bend.
Manifest: marked confidential.

"Jesus," Mateo said, reading it. "She’s still in transit."

Dot shut the tablet with finality. "Then this is our only window."

Mateo didn’t hesitate. He accelerated.

The pavement ended abruptly. Gravel took over—sharp, bone-dry. The Jeep bounced slightly, tires crunching over the terrain. Saguaro cacti stood along the shoulder like silent judges. The air outside grew thinner and more electrically charged.

"Signal’s steady," Dot said, leaning forward. "We’re within fifty meters. Freight depot up ahead."

Mateo killed the engine. The sudden quiet was disorienting. The desert wind pushed against the stillness, smelling of dust and creosote. The tablet’s soft electrical hum was the only sound.

He reached for the handle.

"Mateo, wait..."

Her voice was a tether. He turned. Her face glowed dimly in the light of the screen, expression soft but certain.

She paused—just long enough to make the moment real—then leaned in and kissed him. Not hurried. Not unsure. It was a kiss built from shared history and loss. From memories too heavy to carry and words never spoken. A confirmation.

Her hand came up to his jaw. His breath caught.

She pulled away just slightly, eyes not leaving his. "I just saw Marco on his deathbed," she whispered. "I watched my dad die when I was fourteen. I don’t know when we have to say goodbye to people."

A breath. A swallow.

"So if this is it... don’t let it be a question."

Mateo stared at her, memorizing every line of her face, the clarity in her voice, the defiance in her grief.

He nodded. No words. A beat passed, a silent promise exchanged in the dim light. Then they moved.

They crouched low and moved along the fence line, boots muted on the hard-packed dirt. The cold, rough metal of the chain link offered a fractured lens into the depot interior. Dust kicked up with every step, clinging to his tongue and coating his teeth.

Three figures. One small. Covered. Hood drawn tight. The smallest moved with a strange, weightless gait—like her limbs hadn’t quite caught up with her body. Her posture was all angles and pause, like someone who’d learned to survive by minimizing presence. Even from this distance, Mateo caught a flicker of her profile beneath the edge of her hood: sharp cheekbones, full mouth, thick brows drawn close in wary concentration.

She looked like Toni might have if she'd grown up in a place where the lights never came back on—sharper at the edges, starved for safety, forged in silence. Like someone who’d learned not just to disappear, but to make it look like choice.

Toni 🔒
That’s her.

2:06 AM

Dot
We’ve got eyes. Confirmed.

2:07 AM

Toni’s reply slammed into Mateo’s chest.

Mateo inhaled sharply. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew. Jasmine.

Hooded. Fragile. Still humming—a low, vibrational sound that was chillingly out of place.

Another figure stepped out of the dark. Upright. Immaculate. Unhurried.

Not Serrano.

David Goodkind.

Dot’s breath caught audibly. Mateo went rigid, spine locking in place. The night suddenly felt too tight around them—like the desert itself was holding its breath.

Behind him, a second shadow followed—stockier, armed, sweeping the perimeter.

Serrano.

David paused near Jasmine. Said something low—measured. She nodded once. No hesitation. Not even a blink.

Dot’s finger hovered over the screen. Mateo’s hand slid to the weapon at his back.

"We can’t let him disappear," he murmured.

Dot’s voice, sharper: "We can’t let her disappear."

David turned. Just slightly.

His gaze skimmed the crates. Paused. Held. Moved on.

Then Serrano shouted. Gun raised.

The shot cracked the air.

"Down!" Mateo barked, dragging Dot behind the crates. Splinters flew, the wood groaning under impact.

Another shot. Closer.

Mateo fired back—high and wide, deliberate.

Shouts. Movement.

Flashlights swung. Orders barked.

Jasmine turned toward the chaos. Just for a second—her eyes wide, lips parting. Then she vanished through the bay door, pulled by a clipboard man in a grey windbreaker.

"Move!" Dot gasped, already running.

Mateo followed—heart hammering, lungs burning, the depot collapsing behind them into noise and dust.

Dot’s voice, gasping but sure: "She’s alive."

Mateo nodded, throat burning.

"Toni was right. We have proof."

And now, it’s war.

---

retention.metadata

SATURDAY — KOREATOWN, LEAH’S LOFT — 5:00 A.M. — LEAH

The hum of Harlow’s server rack was a low, constant thrum. White noise against the static silence of his repurposed loft. Three monitors cast a cold blue glow across the desk, reflecting in his glasses, illuminating the tension knotted between his shoulders.

Leah sat opposite, curled in her hoodie, her fingers tapping the edge of a half-empty mug as a line of code scrolled endlessly across her screen. The RETENTION folder was open—deep cut, buried metadata—where Marco had hidden the worst of it. She was running a script against Juv. Case No. 1294. Every name was blacked out. Every injury wasn’t.

“Why redact the name but leave ‘mandibular fracture’?” she muttered. “You don’t protect victims like this. You protect power.”

Across the desk, Harlow toggled between manifests and expense logs. A keyword filter surfaced an old compliance report: DL-MN-FY16 Q2 Expenditures. He flagged it and pushed the monitor toward her.

“Here. June 12, 2016. Incident Code: MFR-061216-A. Notes: Emergency dispatch. Mandibular reconstruction. Liaison: E. Dane.”

Leah leaned in. Her pulse kicked.

“That’s it. That’s the jaw break. The initials match. That’s him.”

But something in her gut twisted. The name felt too clean. Too quiet. She opened a new tab. Typed: Eliot Dane. Minnesota. Public safety records.

Harlow glanced over. “What are you doing?”

“Checking if he was always this sanitized.”

Her fingers moved faster now. Old credentials still worked. A bypassed splash page. One final query—

ELIOT DANE
DOB: 03/22/1988
Conviction: 2010 – Sexual Misconduct with a Minor
Status: Level II Registered Sex Offender, Minnesota
Employment: Cleared for restricted donor outreach – Legacy Youth Wellness MN

Leah’s chair scraped back. “Jesus Christ.”

Harlow stepped around to read it. Once. Twice. His jaw locked. His hand curled into a fist on the desk.

“They knew.”

“And they let him work donor outreach at a girls’ facility.”

Harlow’s voice was flat. “I have a daughter. You don’t put someone like that in a room with kids. You don’t let him stay. You don’t bury that.”

Leah exhaled, sharp and uneven. “They didn’t just protect him. They enabled him. Called it liaison services. Wrapped it in a trust fund.”

Harlow clicked the incident memo shut—hard enough to make the file stutter. His voice came low. “We burn them with this.”

Leah nodded, the nausea blooming in her ribs. “Eliot Dane isn’t a redaction anymore. He’s a registered predator, hiding behind a black bar.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment. Just stared at the screen like it had slapped her.

The black bar in Juv. Case No. 1294 hadn’t been protecting a victim.
It had been protecting a predator.

“Eliot Dane,” she said again, the name curdled on her tongue. “Convicted in 2010. Level Two. And they still gave him access. Let him near Jasmine.”

“And Toni saw it. Stopped it. Got punished for it.”

Harlow looked away. Not at her. Not at the screens. Just past them, into something he didn’t have words for yet.

“They called that ‘reckless violence,’” Leah said, her voice gaining grit. “They called her dangerous. But he—he got a job title and a fucking business card.”

She reached for her phone. Snapped a screenshot. Then another. Downloaded the PDF of Dane’s registry record. The expense report. The memo. A redacted copy of Toni’s sealed file. She layered in Jasmine’s intake timestamp for context, then copied it all into Noć’s encrypted legal archive—the one Rachel had built for release protocols.

She remembered what Fatin had said back at the compound. How Jasmine wasn’t a myth. Just a mirror. How Toni had tried to protect her when no one else did.

“This is what they erased,” Leah said. “This is what Jasmine trusted her with.”

Harlow didn’t respond right away. But when he did, his voice cut clean. “Then make it un-erasable.”

Leah didn’t hesitate.

She opened the account they used to mock her with in court. The one she hadn’t touched in eighteen months.

@ritual_object

She didn’t change the bio. Didn’t add hashtags. Just uploaded the carousel:

@ritual_object

LEAK: Unsealed truth, buried for 9 years.

2010 conviction record — Eliot Dane, Level II sex offender. Still hired for donor outreach.

DL-MN-FY16 Q2 Expenditures — Emergency services and jaw reconstruction, billed under “E. Dane.”

Internal memo confirming mandibular fracture and surgery. Incident Code: MFR-061216-A.

Redacted Juv. Case No. 1294 — Filed under “Optical Hazard.” Metadata confirms Marco Reyes authorized seal.

Off-ledger intake tag for Jasmine Mahutonga. Trauma flagged. Verbal: “Saint Pablo.” Disappeared.

You protected him.

Across the loft, Harlow watched the post upload in real time, mirrored through Noć’s secure channels. The hash spread. The name was out.

“They’ll try to scrub it,” he said.

“Let them try,” Leah replied.

She looked back at the black bar in the file. Then down at the court registry. Then at the unsealed truth glowing back from the screen.

“This is what they tried to disappear.”

“And what Jasmine survived long enough to hum through.”

Harlow didn’t say anything. Just reached out and tapped the monitor once, firm and deliberate.

“You just gave them a name,” he said. “Now give them a reckoning.”

---

legacy isn’t law

SATURDAY — NOĆ LEGAL ACCOUNT — 7:00 A.M. — OFFICIAL STATEMENT

@noc • Statement by Counsel

Let’s clear something up.

Toni Shalifoe was branded a Level Three Hazard at sixteen years old.

What the official record won’t tell you is why.

It wasn’t because she lashed out. It was because she protected a fourteen-year-old girl named Jasmine Te Rina Mahutonga — a Māori minor in state care — from a known sex offender embedded inside a Legacy-affiliated youth wellness facility.

Toni had never met her father, but she knew her whakapapa. She knew where she came from. And when the system moved to erase Jasmine, she stepped between them. Not just as a foster kid. As a Māori girl refusing to watch another one vanish.

She broke the man’s jaw. They broke her record. And then they called it justice.

Toni was sedated. Her file was sealed. Jasmine was transferred off the books.

Jasmine is now missing. And we have proof she is still alive.

Footage recovered from the AZ-TMP compound confirms her presence. The timestamp aligns with the breach window. Her voice is audible — humming a song previously flagged in Marco Reyes’ transmission. She is visible. She is real.

This clip is being released with her full name and heritage intact. It was sent to us anonymously and is being posted with legal counsel’s full authorization.

We are aware of active cease and desist threats. Noć and its legal team will not remove this post. We will not delete survivor testimony. We do not redact truth.

We have filed a federal counteraction. And we are not done.

This is not defamation. This is documentation.

#UnsealTheTruth #ProtectJasmine #WhistleblowerNotWeapon #LegacyIsALie #noc

---

heat signature

SATURDAY — KOREATOWN, LEAH’S LOFT — 4:00 P.M. — LEAH + FATIN

The loft was dim, lit only by the flicker of the carousel cycling on-screen. Leah sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop casting cold blue shadows across her face. Somewhere beneath her skin, the guilt still pulsed.

She had hurt Toni—over and over. With words, with silence, with the weight of her own ambition. And none of this, not the carousel or the receipts or the unsealing of Elliot Dane’s name, would undo that. But it could point to the truth Toni was punished for. Maybe that was the beginning of repair. Maybe it was just damage control.

She hadn’t moved since hitting upload. The words beneath the post still glowed: You protected him. It didn’t feel like vindication. It felt like rupture. Like she’d cut something open and couldn’t tell yet if it would bleed or breathe.

She barely heard the footsteps in the hall, but she felt them—like static rising through the air. That unmistakable charge. Fatin walked like a warning. There was no knock, just the soft click of the door. She entered the way she always did: like it wasn’t trespassing if she meant it.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyeliner smudged, jaw tight. No theatrics. Just silence, taut and observant. Leah didn’t move. Just watched her back, the stillness between them pulsing like a held breath.

“Well, fuck,” Fatin said, voice low. “You actually pulled the pin.”

“It was Jasmine,” Leah said. “They buried her in metadata. I pulled her into the headline.”

Fatin shut the door with the side of her boot and stepped into the room like it wasn’t her first time breaking protocol. “And you think that’s enough? To burn the curtain and call it light?”

“I think it’s the first honest thing I’ve done in too long,” Leah said. Her voice held.

Fatin came closer. Deliberate. Measured. Her eyes never left Leah’s. “You’re not even shaking. That’s the scariest part.”

“I already did that part. Before I hit send.”

Fatin’s head tilted. She looked at Leah like she was trying to recognize something old in something terrifyingly new. “So this is you now? Girl with the grenade pin in her teeth?”

Leah exhaled. “Better than girl in the glass box.”

Fatin’s laugh was soft. Bitter. Not unkind. She moved in until they were toe to toe.

“You just put a target on your chest,” she murmured. Then, with a crooked grin: “And I’m still turned on. That’s a me problem.”

Leah gave a half-smile. Wrecked. Sure. “Definitely. But you’re still here.”

Fatin didn’t answer. Her hand came up, knuckles grazing Leah’s jaw. She didn’t cup her face. Didn’t frame it like a moment. Just touched it, bare and unflinching. “Jesus, Leah. You never do shit halfway, do you?”

“Nope,” Leah breathed. “And neither do you.”

Fatin kissed her.

It was rough, unpracticed, inevitable. Like a match strike. All static and snap. Leah surged forward into it, like she’d been leaning that direction for years. Her back met the wall hard. Fatin’s thigh came between hers, anchoring them both.

There was no choreography. Just instinct. Zippers dragged. Fingers curled in cotton. Breath mingled like currency. Leah didn’t try to speak. She couldn’t have. She was too full of heat and something close to relief.

Fatin’s mouth broke from hers, tracing down her neck. “You lit the fucking match,” she whispered. Her teeth grazed skin. “So don’t walk away from it.”

“I don't want you to,” Leah rasped. “Just don’t stop.”

Fatin didn’t. Her hands moved with the confidence of memory—like she’d done this in her head a hundred times and was finally closing the loop. One hand on Leah’s hip, the other sliding under her shirt, fingers splaying against warm skin.

Leah gasped. Her hands tangled in Fatin’s shirt, knuckles white. Her body was a live wire. Her heart a drumline. She felt present in a way she hadn’t since the first whisper of Jasmine’s name in Marco’s voice.

They didn’t talk. Talking would’ve made it fragile. This was physical. Anchored. Earned.

The desk edge caught Leah’s hip. Fatin pushed her back against it, bodies locked in motion. Leah made a sound—low, uncontained. Fatin bit her lip in response, breath harsh in the quiet.

They moved like people who knew the shape of absence. Who’d waited too long and survived too much to waste time being gentle.

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t sweet.

But it was theirs.

And for a few brutal, grounding minutes, the war outside paused. Not because it was over. But because someone had finally chosen a side—and stayed.

---

not in our name

@fatinjadmani — SATURDAY 7:20 AM

I’ve stayed quiet because I was told silence would protect people.
But silence is where the damage grows.

My family’s charitable trust — the Jadmani Foundation — was financially entangled with organizations that funneled money into a network now identified as Legacy Holdings. A shell game of “wellness,” “retention,” and “rehabilitation” centers built to erase, relocate, and profit from kids no one was watching.

Some of you saw that statement and thought: how could they not know?
We didn’t.
That doesn’t make us innocent.

This isn’t an apology. This is a warning.

If my family’s name helped fund harm, then it’ll help dismantle it, too.

✅ We’ve submitted a full audit to independent investigators.
✅ We’ve frozen all funding channels until those records are cleared.
✅ No more “anonymous donations.”
✅ No more “proxy partnerships.”
✅ No more hiding names behind forms.

There’s a girl we failed to protect.
She is still missing.
Her name matters. And we are not done.

#LegacyIsALie #NotInOurName #SayHerName

---

drive north

SATURDAY — OFF-GRID CLINIC — 7:34 A.M. — TONI

The light in the off-grid clinic was gray and low, threading through concrete slats like the world hadn’t decided whether or not to wake up. The air smelled like bleach and dust and something older, something chemical. Toni sat in a cracked vinyl chair, hands clasped between her knees, watching the steady rise and fall of Marco’s chest.

For a moment, her mind flashed to the last time she’d seen him—leaning back in his office chair, lit by the crooked desk lamp, voice low but certain as he told her not to panic. That he'd take care of it. That he'd see her after the summit. She hadn’t known it would be goodbye. She had walked back into a world where he’d vanished without a trace. And now here he was, broken but breathing, caught between memory and miracle.

He looked like hell. Bruised, sunken, jaw slack with sedative. The IV line trailed from his arm like a tether, the only thing keeping him from slipping under completely. His wrist was still bandaged from when they found him, skin mottled and burned from restraints that didn’t belong in any hospital. His lips moved slightly, like he was mouthing something—but no words came.

Then, quietly, it started.

A hum.

Off-key. Faint. But familiar.

Toni froze.

Not Lil Peep. Not this time. Something rawer. Faster. Frayed at the edges.

"I'm fine… don't need to talk to anybody… shit," Marco rasped, a breathy, slurred protest. He shifted, his head lolling to the side. "If anything… they should wanna talk to me first…"

It took her a second to place it. Then she did.

Drive North. deM atlaS.

It was her song.

Marco’s voice—half air, half memory—was humming her song. The one she used to blast in the garage with the busted speakers, back when drywall dust coated her lungs and silence was something to punch through. The one she screamed into parking lots when the world pressed too tight. It was the one that said:

I lock my doors / from this hateful world I ignore.

 

He saw her for what she was—unpolished, dangerous, barely holding—and didn’t flinch. Hired her on the spot. No questions about the scholarship she’d lost, the juvenile record buried in sealed documents. Just handed her the keys and said, “You don’t have to build it alone.”

He had protected her. Sealed the record himself. Took the heat for it. She’d only understood the cost after he disappeared. And she hadn’t played that track since.

She blinked hard. "You—came back."

It was barely a whisper. His eyes fluttered, lids heavy. But he was looking at her.

Her chest cracked. "Of course I did."

She never told him thank you. But this was that. 

He shifted slightly, winced. "Most days suck," he muttered, a bitter sigh. Another lyric.

Toni’s jaw clenched.

She had. And then she’d missed him by hours—either by bad luck or by design. Serrano had likely moved him after the summit, covered the trail, left nothing but blood and asphalt behind.

She’d followed her gut that night—Marco’s silence at the summit, the too-clean paper trail, the gnawing dread that something had gone wrong. Palmer’s Diner was nearly empty, but the man behind the counter knew what name to whisper back when she asked for Serrano.

The parking lot fight was fast and brutal. She landed the first punch. He landed the rest. Her face hit pavement. His boot clipped her ribs. She’d left blood on his collar and came back with a black eye, a split lip, and no answers. Just confirmation. Legacy’s enforcers didn’t run. They silenced.

Back at the Compound, she’d lied. Gas station fight. Didn’t matter. Fatin cleaned the wounds without asking. Dot didn’t believe her for a second. Toni hadn’t told them the truth—not because she didn’t trust them, but because saying it out loud would have made it real. Because admitting she’d gone looking for Serrano meant admitting how scared she was. How far she was willing to go without backup. She’d worn the bruises like armor, proof she was still moving, still fighting, even if it meant bleeding alone.

Toni hadn’t needed them to. Not then. Not with her ribs aching and her pride shattered and her fists still burning. Maybe she didn’t want their pity. Maybe she couldn’t bear their worry. Maybe if she’d told them the truth, she would’ve had to admit she wasn’t in control. That she’d acted on fear, not strategy.

She’d needed to know what Marco had died for.

She reached for his hand. It felt like paper. Cold and thready and too light.

"I should’ve come sooner," she whispered. "I didn’t know—"

But she couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say how many nights she’d convinced herself he was gone. How many times she’d played his laugh in her head to drown out the quiet.

Marco’s fingers curled, barely, around hers. "Demon puttin’ my head on the block…" he choked out, his body spasming once against the gurney, then settling.

"Jasmine," he breathed. "Upstairs… humming."

Toni leaned in, her other hand brushing his hair from his face—coarse and slightly damp with sweat. The faint scent of old cologne and antiseptic hit her, sharp and familiar. Beneath it, the rhythm of his breath—uneven, but there—met the soft pulse of the monitor. Her throat tightened. She used to fall asleep to that breath on long nights in the office. She never thought she’d hear it again.

"We’re getting her. We saw her. Dot and Mateo are already—"

He coughed—small, ragged—but the hum didn’t stop. If anything, it grew clearer. The rhythm settled into something almost deliberate. Not surrender. Survival.

"Everybody cries… and I see it," he whispered, his eyes fluttering open, though unfocused. "Everybody cries yea..."

She rested her forehead against his, voice low.

"You saved her. You tried."

She closed her eyes. Marco gave a faint, rattling sigh. "The shadow too… and there goes the light…" he breathed, as if the words were pulled from him by some unseen current.

He’d sealed her record. Buried the thing they now threatened to unearth. She remembered the metadata—his name on the chain. His keystrokes locking her past away because no one else would. They punished him for that. They tried to erase him for that.

"And now it’s our turn."

The curtain stirred. A nurse entered, wiping her hands. She was older, tired, but moved with the quiet authority of someone used to patching up the aftermath. Toni recognized her—Harlow’s contact, the trauma nurse who owed favors and never asked questions.

"Tox screen came back," the nurse said, low. "He wasn’t just sedated. He was loaded with a combo that doesn’t make sense for retention. SGR-91, TRX-9. Stacked for system collapse. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to quiet him. They were trying to kill him."

Toni’s jaw tightened. Her stomach turned cold. She gripped the edge of the chair like she might fall out of it, like rage might rip her clean apart. Her mind flicked back to the warehouse floor, to Marco’s body limp in her arms.

Not just erased. Executed.

Toni didn’t move. Her fists clenched in her lap, nails digging into the meat of her palm until it stung. Rage curled behind her ribs like heat.

She just nodded, slow.

"I know."

But her jaw was tight.

Back in the clinic, Marco stirred again.

The hum threaded through the monitor’s beep. Like it had never left. He coughed, a soft, dry sound. "I'm just tryna tell you my story then… take a bow."

---

📰 LEAKED: Disappeared Noć Co-Founder Found Alive, Carried Into Remote Clinic by Whistleblower Allies

by Amira Khoury – Independent Investigations Desk
Published Saturday, 10:36 A.M. MST

[PHOTO 1]: Toni Shalifoe and Dot Campbell walking a limp figure into a concrete structure. The figure’s face is partially obscured by sun glare and a hoodie, but bloodstains are visible on the collar.

[PHOTO 2]: Mateo Ruiz holding the rear door of a jeep, its license plate flagged in previous seizures linked to Noć events.

[PHOTO 3]: Close-up of the man being carried — bandaged wrist, unmistakable resemblance to Marco Reyes, co-founder of Noć, missing since the LA Unity x Noć Summit.

---

Phoenix, AZ — In the early hours of Saturday morning, new images surfaced showing Marco Reyes — co-founder of Noć and a key figure in the unfolding Legacy exposé — alive and in critical condition. He appears in the photos being escorted into a known off-grid trauma clinic east of Phoenix by whistleblower allies Toni Shalifoe, Dot Campbell, and Mateo Ruiz.

The photos were sent anonymously to this outlet and verified through timestamp metadata and adjacent traffic footage. The clinic in question operates outside traditional hospital networks and has been linked previously to post-escape stabilization routes for victims of corporate medical experimentation.

Reyes has not been seen publicly since vanishing from a Legacy-affiliated retreat in Maricopa County nearly three weeks ago. His absence went unacknowledged by Legacy Holdings. No missing persons report was filed. His voice was later heard — distorted, slurred — in a leaked clip posted by @ritual_object, repeating fragments of the lullaby “Life Is Beautiful.”

Now, experts confirm he may have been exposed to a synthetic compound known as SGR-91 — an off-registry neuroinhibitor linked to so-called “compliance retention” protocols, previously obscured under Unity Trust shell operations. Its symptoms include memory destabilization, physical collapse, and executive suppression.

Shalifoe, a former foster youth who was designated a Level Three Hazard at sixteen, appears calm and resolute in the photographs. She has not made a public statement since Noć released legal evidence implicating Legacy in the suppression of Jasmine Mahutonga, a Māori minor she previously protected from abuse within a state-run wellness facility.

Reyes’ reappearance, in this context, represents more than a rescue. It raises major questions: If he was alive and incapacitated, where had he been held? Who drugged him? And why was the public told nothing?

“Marco Reyes is not a rumor. He is a witness.
His body tells the story Legacy tried to erase.”

— Rachel Reid, Noć legal representative

At time of publication, Reyes’ condition is unknown. Legacy Holdings and Unity Trust declined to comment.

COMMENTS

@bluelineback: Oh NOW Marco Reyes wants to play whistleblower? Man was Legacy’s pet project for years. Too late for redemption arc.

@noc4real: People love to forget he served time. Unity bought his silence. He clawed his way out and protected Toni when no one else did. That’s not nothing.

@partygraveyard: Noć was never just a club. Marco built it to protect kids the system wrote off. Say what you want, but that space saved lives.

@devildove: Still doesn’t explain the tattoo. NEC? Is that cartel or compliance? You don’t end up branded like that by accident.

@reyes_simp: You mean the man bleeding in a warehouse with half a lung and a folder of sealed names? Yeah. Real threat to society.

@thedistrictwatch: Let’s not act like his body doesn’t prove everything Legacy tried to deny. He didn’t run. They buried him.

@ghosthospital: Y’all acting brand new like Noć didn’t cash checks from Unity for YEARS. Come back when you’ve got clean hands.

@hazardzone: He’s alive. That matters. But don’t rewrite the script—he still played the game until it turned on him.

---

the other side speaks

OPINION: When "Love" Becomes a Liability

by Jeffrey Galanis • Syndicated Columnist • Legacy Ethics Watch 

NOTE: This article contains verified excerpts from recently surfaced audio recordings. All quotes have been authenticated via forensic audio analysis, timestamp cross-referencing, and source verification. Full clips available to verified subscribers.

There was a time when stories like Shelby Goodkind’s were written in hushed tones—anxious whispers about fallen daughters and the girls who led them astray. But today, that quiet has been replaced with noise—loud, chaotic, and desperate noise from a media class intent on reframing trauma as revolution.

This week, internal recordings were leaked. Not staged interviews. Not "statements." But raw audio—excerpts from a confidential phone call between Shelby Goodkind and Nora Reid, and a separate recording of Toni Shalifoe, the so-called activist currently under scrutiny for her role in Noć’s increasingly militant rhetoric.

The Shelby MP3 is not salacious. It’s not even explicit. It’s simply devastating.

[Audio Recording – 00:02:14]

Shelby: It just… happened fast. It was my first time with a girl, and she didn’t hesitate.

FEMALE NUMBER [SUPPOSED FRIEND]: Did you feel pressured?

Shelby: I don’t think she meant to. But I wasn’t totally there. I don’t think she saw that.

Let those words sit. Not as propaganda. As testimony. A young woman in spiritual freefall, clinging to the idea that pain must be repackaged as liberation.

Pair that with this recording—pulled from a separate internal channel—of Ms. Shalifoe:

Toni: “You’re not broken. You were just never allowed to want this loud.”

The implication? Obvious. Ms. Shalifoe—already classified as a Level Three Hazard by certified behavioral authorities—positioning herself not just as a protector, but a liberator. Not just of bodies, but of beliefs. It’s a chilling playbook: find the fractured, reframe their confusion as clarity, and when it backfires? Call it a system’s fault.

To be clear: no one is criminalizing queerness. No one is criminalizing survival. But when rhetoric blurs the line between affirmation and coercion—when testimony contradicts the polished story Noć’s counsel pushes—it becomes our duty to pause, look closer, and ask harder questions.

Is this the freedom they’re fighting for? Or the fallout of unchecked trauma repackaged as consent?

Ms. Shalifoe’s defenders will say the clip is incomplete. That it’s taken out of context. But context, dear reader, is not an excuse. It is a question. And this one has yet to be answered.

As always, we will not be silenced by hashtags.

— J.G.

#ShelbysVoice #EthicsMatter #LegacyTruth #NotAllHeroes #LinesMatter

COMMENTS

@daisychains4jasmine: Galanis is a snake. He framed Toni like she’s a predator for loving someone who reached for her first. Disgusting.

@ghostprotocol9: You didn’t hear Shelby. She said “I wasn’t totally there.” That means stop defending Toni like she’s some kind of saint.

@oldbloodnotclean: And you think Legacy cares about Shelby? They weaponized her voice to get to Toni. This isn't about protection. It’s about control.

@pearlnecklace82: Sorry but if a guy said “she didn’t hesitate,” we’d be calling it what it is. Y’all only defend it because it’s two girls.

@harlowcore: ⚠️ False equivalency. That quote was spliced. I ran the spectrogram. It's cut mid-waveform. This is audio disinformation.

@legalfishwife (MOD): Reminder: @ghostprotocol9 is posting from an IP previously flagged for Legacy PR bot activity. Report accordingly.

@bootlickedandblessed: Don’t care who spliced what—Shelby sounded scared. That should matter. Don’t erase her for your girlboss revenge fantasy.

@leahburnitdown: She sounded vulnerable, not scared. And that matters. Vulnerability isn’t the same as coercion. Let’s not flatten survivor voices into purity tests.

@finnickwasright: Everyone blaming Toni: were you in the room? No? Then maybe sit this one out and let actual survivors speak.

@PRaccount404: “Let actual survivors speak” until they say something you don’t like. Got it. Very empowering.

@ritual_object (pinned): Fractured memory is not consent. Stolen audio is not truth. We’re not playing defense anymore.

---

contact contaminated

SATURDAY — COMPOUND — 7 PM. — SHELBY

There were only two screens—Toni’s and Dot’s—beamed in from Arizona. Everyone else was at the compound, clustered around the dining room table. The same table where Toni had once reached for Shelby’s hand beneath the wood—quiet defiance and sweat-warmed fingers. Now the hum of machines filled the room, layered under clicks, sighs, and a tension that didn’t have a name yet.

But Shelby only looked at one screen.

The same face she'd fallen asleep beside just days ago—breath slow, thigh against hers, Toni's fingers still curled in the hem of her shirt like she hadn’t meant to let go.

Toni’s.

Low-lit. Hospital gray. A ripple of sunlight through some high window that didn’t quite reach her face. She was sitting in that hunched way she did when her body hurt but didn’t want anyone to notice—one elbow on her knee, the other hand just out of frame. Like she was holding something the camera couldn’t see. Marco maybe. Or maybe the weight of everything she hadn’t said.

Shelby swallowed hard and looked away, jaw tight.

It was her third week in California. No job. No apartment. Just Dante’s spare room, the clothes she’d stuffed into a duffel, and the memory of Toni’s mouth on hers, of Toni inside her, of breathless murmurs and need she’d never known she was allowed to feel. No labels. No promises. Just heat, and the ache of what it didn’t fix. Everything else was flux—mail rerouted, number changed, the past sealed up in cardboard and firewalls. She lived out of zip files and zippered bags now.

Toni had stayed, but she hadn’t stayed close. Three nights in Arizona and not one check-in. Not even a text. Like silence was the safest way not to make it worse.

Loneliness was stupid. She wasn’t alone.

Leah was pacing near the window again, all focus and tension, and Shelby trusted her—maybe more than anyone left. There was something in the way Leah tracked every update, every threat, that made Shelby feel steadier just watching her.

The others?

Fatin was a storm she couldn’t parse—too sharp, too watchful. Rachel and Harlow moved like a unit, always two steps ahead in codes and legalese. Shelby understood the stakes, but not the language.

She hadn’t gone to Arizona. She hadn’t even been asked. Not for recon. Not for Jasmine.

And maybe that was fair—Toni, Dot, and Mateo were doing something dangerous. Risking everything to find a girl no one else had saved.

But the fact that no one had paused to consider her going—

It lodged sharp in her ribs. Not bitterness. Guilt.

Like maybe there was a cost to waiting safely.

And she was already paying it in silence.

And Toni—Toni had left without asking Shelby to follow.

Maybe she thought it was kindness.

Maybe Toni thought she’d break. Maybe she thought Shelby already had.

Or maybe that was just Shelby’s own fear, whispering again—

That when things got dangerous, she wasn’t the one you brought to war.

Not because she wasn’t willing.

But because she’d already been broken in quieter battles.

The room was full of sound—boots on tile, the scrape of keys, the ping of incoming files.

But for Shelby, it all felt filtered.

Like she was listening through a wall she’d built herself.

She told herself it was enough, just to wait.

But waiting felt like drowning in still water—no motion, no direction, just the suffocating pressure of everything she couldn’t do.

Every second without word felt like a weight pressing down on her sternum.

What if they didn’t come back?

What if this time, it was too late?

She clenched her hands in her lap and tried to breathe through the panic she didn’t let anyone see.

Just to trust they’d come back—that was all she had left.

And it didn’t feel like enough.

So now she sat in a slant of sun in the corner of the compound’s media room, knees drawn up, shoulders tight, letting the conversation drift around her like wind she couldn’t grip. Like she was a guest in her own skin, watching the people around her build a plan she wasn’t sure she deserved to be part of.

Rachel spoke first, chin propped on her fist, the glow from Harlow’s monitor striping her face in vertical lines.

“Cease and desist won’t hold federally. Not against visual confirmation, timestamped metadata, and medical evidence of drugging. But we need replication chains. Mirrors on mirrors. If they scrub one, five more resurface.”

“Already running through three nested nodes,” Harlow said, tapping fast. “Noć’s legal archive is bulletproof, but public mirrors—we’ll need burner links, academic backups, a journalist with a deadman switch.”

Fatin leaned off the back wall, arms crossed. “We have Jasmine’s face. We have Marco’s vitals. We have the warehouse lot tagged to AZ-TMP.”

“We don’t have time,” Leah cut in. “Legacy knows we’ve got it. That depot wasn’t a mistake—they were rotating her. She’s already gone again.”

Toni’s voice crackled low through the speaker. Calm, but sharp.

“They drugged him to silence him. SGR-91 and TRX-9—Rachel, you saw the tox screen.”

“It wasn’t sedation,” Rachel confirmed. “It was designed for collapse. If you hadn’t found him, it would’ve worked.”

Dot stood behind Toni, scanning a second tablet. “SGR batch is traceable. Mateo and I flagged a node east of Gila Bend—same manufacturer, same shipment ID. I’ve already pulled the manifest. Shell logistics. Defunct pharmaceutical trusts.”

“You’re saying we can prove it’s them?” Fatin asked.

“We’re saying we can prove they’re still running it,” Dot replied.

Shelby didn’t speak.

Her voice didn’t belong in this part. Not yet.

She looked at Toni again, drinking in the shape of her, like proximity through a screen might count for something.

Leah’s jaw tightened. Her cursor blinked in an unfinished email to a whistleblower thread she didn’t trust yet. She had told Shelby about it the other day

She hadn’t sent it. She wasn’t sure she ever would. Shelby caught her watching the screen like it might bite.

“So we leak it in court. Everything. Jasmine, Marco, the compounds. No delays. No build-up. No hashtags. Just truth.”

Rachel nodded once. “We make the story bigger than the takedown notice.”

The momentum crested—strategy thick with adrenaline and necessity.

Then Leah’s phone buzzed. Once. Twice.

The alert bar slid across her screen.

She went still.

“Wait.”

Everyone froze.

“What is it?” Rachel asked, already reaching for her own device.

Leah’s voice was flat. “Push alert from Legacy Ethics Watch. Galanis just posted.”

Shelby’s stomach hollowed before the words even registered. Fatin had already crossed the room.

“Is it about us?”

Leah didn’t answer. She opened the article. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Shit.”

Rachel’s terminal chimed. “He published audio.”

Fatin went pale. “Whose?”

Leah didn’t look up. She hit play.

Shelby knew the sound of her own voice before the clip finished loading.

“It just… happened fast. It was my first time with a girl, and she didn’t hesitate.”

Every muscle in her body locked. A familiar cold took root in her chest.

“I don’t think she meant to. But I wasn’t totally there. I don’t think she saw that.”

Shelby blinked. The words were hers, but not like that.

They’d lifted two sentences from different sides of the night—scrubbed the warmth, the laughter, the consent.

Stripped it of the softness. The jokes between kisses. The way Toni had asked, more than once, and Shelby had answered every time with yes, yes, yes. They’d made it sound like a wound instead of what it was—a choice.

It wasn’t a memory. It was a setup.

Fatin exhaled like she’d been punched.

Toni’s breath caught audibly through the mic. Her head tilted like she was trying to process what she’d just heard, like the words didn’t sound the same on playback. Her eyes flicked once—at Dot, maybe, or at the edge of the screen—and then dropped.

“You’re not broken,” Toni’s voice said. “You were just never allowed to want this loud.”

Toni’s square went still. The movement behind her paused. Even Marco’s heart monitor blurred into background noise.

“No… that was private,” Shelby whispered. “That was… from Dante’s. That night.”

Dot’s voice came clipped from behind Toni. “That’s not from a call. That’s not even stitched. That’s surveillance.”

Legacy had learned this trick from Resolve. From Reframe. Silence framed as compliance. Footage as gospel. Cut just right, anything could be confession.

Rachel’s screen glowed white with metadata scans. “Scrubbed clean. No attribution. No raw file. Just… handed to Galanis.”

“They bugged her,” Fatin said, the words razor-edged. “Shelby’s phone. The guest room at Dante’s. That’s how they got it.”

Toni didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Shelby felt it then—that shift in the air before something breaks. Not a flinch. Not a fury. Just stillness.

She used to know what every silence meant. The tired ones. The scared ones. The ones where Toni would tuck Shelby’s hair behind her ear and say nothing, just stay close.

Now Toni wouldn’t even look at her. And that was somehow worse than yelling

Toni’s feed didn’t freeze. It just… stopped moving. No sound. No flicker. No reach. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink. And that stillness—the deliberate kind—felt worse than a scream.

“They’re trying to frame it,” Leah said slowly. “Make Toni look like—”

“—like Eliot Dane?” Toni finished. Her voice cracked.

Fatin turned. Looked right at Shelby. “Would anyone else leak that for money?”

“No.”

“Nora?”

Rachel’s face shifted—tight, protective, somewhere between sister and litigator. Her jaw clicked.

Shelby shook her head. “It wasn’t even a recording. Not like that. It was just… us.”

Toni finally moved. One hand ran down her face. The other clenched into a fist.

Shelby’s breath came shallow, her thoughts racing somewhere she didn’t want to go.

Because it wasn’t just the audio—it was the feeling.

Of being rewound. Recut. Re-framed.

Like Reframe.

Like those long white hallways where silence was safety and compliance was care. Where “therapy” came in the form of blue pills for clarity and white pills for quiet.

Where her father told her she smiled better medicated.

Where being kissed by a girl had landed her in a locked room with a name tag that wasn’t hers.

She remembered the mouth-dry feeling of being watched.

Of being told she was a danger to herself.

Of being turned into a liability.

This wasn’t just a headline—it was history clawing back up her throat.

And the worst part—the absolute worst—was hearing Toni’s voice mixed into it. That voice, warm and low in the dark, back when she’d finally felt seen.

When she hadn’t been a cautionary tale yet.

Now they’d cut it into a weapon.

Used her own words like she was Exhibit A.

Her stomach turned. The pills. The locked ward. The way her father had signed forms with a smile. Her mouth went dry. She’d fought so hard to reclaim her voice—and now they’d used it like a blade against the only girl who’d ever made her feel whole.

Her voice cracked, and she barely registered the way Toni’s square hadn’t moved.

That silence on the other end of the screen was louder than anything.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

But the words caught in her throat.

Toni wasn’t looking.

And Shelby didn’t know if that meant she was angry—

—or if it meant she was already gone

Then, like the universe couldn’t stand the silence, came the knock.

Three short raps on the compound’s front door.

A pause.

Then two more.

Leah was the first to move. She pushed up from her chair and crossed the room fast, yanking the door open without thinking.

Her voice rang out, sharp and disbelieving:

“Martha?… Regan?

Notes:

my brain’s itchy and I want to write a new fic. if you’ve got a request, a dream pairing, or a horrible little idea that deserves 10k words and emotional damage, dm me on x: -> ->
@shalifoe_3 <- <-

Chapter 22: wrong house

Notes:

UGHHHH

yes hi hello, sorry this update took more than a month—life thought it was cute to hit me with the double feature of
“layoff + health crisis.” good news: I’m employed again. bad news: apparently I’m missing the enzyme that processes
alcohol, so Long Islands are now my mortal enemy. my own body basically said, you know what would be funny?
ruining your nightlife.

thanks for hanging around while I was benched.

(ps: guard your liver. it’s not a spare part. but hey, ignore me if you want—every comedy needs a funeral.)

this installment spans ~5 days; section headers mark time/place.

huge thanks to my beta reader coffeeandthewilds (@lattesrlife) — for the sharp eyes, unfairly kind patience..

some doors stay closed

[FATIN] COMPOUND — SATURDAY — 8:01 P.M.

The air in the compound was brittle, the low buzz of electronics pressing in on every nerve.

Leah's voice, usually a blade, caught in her throat. “Martha? …Regan?” It came out thin, like she didn’t believe it anymore than the rest of them.

From the living room, Shelby froze mid-sentence. The name landed like a match in dry grass. Her shoulders rolled back, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Fatin’s gaze caught it—sharp, quick—before she looked back to the doorway.

The group was still huddled at the table, papers everywhere, but both Fatin and Shelby barely registered them. Fatin was already moving. Her chair scraped back before she knew it. Leah was at the front door, cracked open just enough for the names to be real.

Martha Blackburn. And behind her, unmistakable even in silhouette— Regan Vale.

Fatin joined Leah outside without speaking. Dusk bit at her skin, like the air before everything breaks. She kept her hands open at her sides to keep from swinging them, the cold echo of that dorm room night pressing hard against her ribs. She remembered Toni’s hand, wrapped in gauze after the glass had torn her knuckles. Her fists clenched now, breath shallow.

Martha stood on the step, arms folded tight over a weather-soft hoodie, eyes rimmed with exhaustion but steady. She looked like someone who'd driven all night with the windows down—gripping the wheel, scared to stop. She looked at Fatin like she still hoped she mattered.

Fatin barely acknowledged Regan, who lingered a step back, nearly swallowed by the porchlight.

Sale-rack penance when she could afford couture.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just watched, hands shoved into her sleeves like she knew better than to reach. Clean, deliberate as ever. Her attention stayed on Martha."You… you came all this way."

Martha nodded. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, as if bracing against wind that wasn’t there. “I couldn’t sit still anymore. Not after the leak. Not after Marco. And… not after what they’re saying about Toni.”

The words landed heavy. Fatin felt her jaw loosen just a fraction—a flicker of grudging respect. Toni had ghosted Martha, and here she was anyway—still trying to make it right. Fatin remembered that dorm room; Martha’s hands shaking as she peeled Polaroids of Toni and Regan off the wall, one by one, like pulling glass from skin. And still, here she stood.

Leah’s breath came sharp through her nose, breaking the hush. “Did you guys just drive from Seattle to California?” The words hung, clipped and strange. Her eyes flicked from Martha to Regan, measuring, cataloguing. “That is… a lot.”

“I know.” Martha’s voice caught, but only for a second. “We're not here to stay. I just needed to see her. Or—try. I didn’t want her thinking I’d stopped caring. Or that I was just letting her drown in this.”

The porch went still. Streetlight hum, distant freeway—everything else fell away.

Fatin’s stance didn’t soften, but her tone did—barely. “You picked the worst weekend in the world.”

Martha nodded once, a small, tired motion. The set of her shoulders said she already knew the timing was bad. She just hadn’t cared. Her fingers twitched like she still wanted to reach for Toni’s hand, the one that had been wrapped in gauze after shattering Regan’s car window. She hadn’t been there that night—but Fatin had. And the memory burned sharp against her ribs now, like electric rain.

Martha hesitated, then added, quieter: “Regan drove. I wouldn’t have made it alone.”

Fatin’s jaw tightened.

fuck this shit.

“Spare me. She ghosted us because of you, and you didn’t even pick up the phone—not once, and now you roll in because shit’s loud? That’s not care. That’s cleanup.”

Martha’s fingers pressed crescents into her sleeves; her gaze dropped and stayed there.

Regan’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come to make it worse.”

Fatin cut across her, sharp. “You didn’t mean to make it worse the first time, either. Here we are.”

Regan flinched. “I’m not here to fight,” she said quietly.

Fatin didn’t blink. “No. You’re here for absolution. Try church.”

“Wrong house.”

Regan’s posture buckled, arms folding tighter—like she remembered the last time Toni had looked at her like that. Like a threat. Like a stranger.

Leah finally moved, rubbed Fatin's arm once, shaking her head. “Toni’s not even in this state. She’s in Arizona, and Marco is barely awake. After what Jeffrey dropped… this wouldn’t help.”

Leah’s hand flexed at her side, holding something back. Her gaze skipped past Regan, not landing. Not out of hate, but because she remembered hearing about Toni cracking once, but to witness it would be something else. She didn’t want to watch it happen in real time.

“There’s a motel down the street,” Leah added, voice steady but tight around the edges. “Red door. No cameras. We’ve had… issues. You’ll be better off there, away from the noise.”

Martha’s voice thinned. “We’ve seen how loud it’s gotten already.”

Behind her, Regan’s mouth twitched, eyes flicking toward the street like she saw a swarm of cameras there. She let the thought die unsaid.

Leah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

Regan glanced between them, searching for something she wouldn’t find. “Just… tell her I came. She doesn’t have to see me, but she should know I didn’t stay gone for nothing.”

“If she tells us when she’s coming back from Arizona, I’ll let you know,” Fatin said, voice sharper than Leah’s but even. “But don’t wait here hoping she’ll come out. She won’t.”

Martha nodded again. “Thanks.”

Fatin finally looked at Regan. Like really looked at her.

She turned, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. Leah followed. The latch caught behind them with a single, final click—louder than any goodbye.

Some doors stay closed.

--

The silence that followed the knock was the loudest thing in the compound. Even when the door clicked shut, it still echoed in their bones. Every head turned toward it, then toward Leah and Fatin re-entering; storm-wrapped, wordless. The kind of silence that made everyone else pretend harder not to look.

Leah’s eyes swept the table, then the screen. Fatin’s gaze hit harder, locking on the Arizona feed where Toni and Dot still hovered, framed in the dim clinic glow — oblivious, intent, their faces drawn but focused. They were speaking into the wrong storm.

Shelby’s pulse lurched. She kept her eyes down on the cracked plastic of her SIM, but her body betrayed her — shoulders tight, jaw locked, as if she already knew who had just landed outside. Rachel’s pen hovered mid-note. Even Harlow stopped typing, hands frozen above the keys.

Toni gestured with one hand off-screen, mid-thought, her voice carrying none of the weight pressing into the compound. Dot’s eyes stayed glued to her tablet; jaw tight, scrolling like answers might be coded between lines of X comments. They had no idea what had crossed the threshold in California — no sense of the storm already thickening in the walls around Leah and Fatin. For now, Arizona still believed it was only fighting Marco’s shadow and Galanis's bomb. But on this side of the call, the ground had already shifted. The real break was seconds away.

Then, a sudden, sharp command from Fatin. “End the call.”

Rachel’s head snapped up. “What?”

“End it,” Fatin hissed, her voice cutting through the speaker. "Now."

Toni’s voice crackled from the screen. "What the fuck, Fatin—"

Leah turned from the door. “Rachel. Cut the feed.”

Harlow's hands froze over the keyboard. His eyes darted between Fatin and Leah. He saw not just Leah but Fatin out there too—and he knew cutting the call was deliberate. "That was too long to be a religious leader trying to recruit you," he said quietly. "What happened out there?"

“Just end it,” Fatin said, her voice now a low, frantic whisper, eyes pleading with Rachel and Harlow. She leaned close to the screen, as if trying to speak directly to Toni. “You think you can carry every fire at once? You can’t. Not this one. Focus on Marco, everything else is fucking noise.”

Leah’s hand twitched at her side, nails digging into her palm, jaw tightening like she was holding something back. Across the table, Shelby’s shoulders drew taut; her gaze stayed pinned to the SIM card, jaw locked, as if bracing for impact.

On the screen, Toni’s expression shifted, confused, her face half-lit by the clinic’s glow. She went still, her gaze fixed on the compound group. The silence stretched, taut and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. She reached for something offscreen, her hand moving with a practiced calm that belied the tension in Fatin’s voice.

The link severed, the screen went black. The sudden silence hit Fatin in the chest like a physical blow, leaving the room a vacuum of quiet.

Fatin didn’t breathe for a second, watching the empty screen like it might flicker back to life. Leah rubbed her face with one hand and muttered, “Fuck.” No one else dared to break the quiet. The silence in the living room, however, was about to be filled with questions.

---

bleeding slow

[SHELBY] COMPOUND — LIVING ROOM — MOMENTS LATER

Shelby couldn’t make her body go still. The hum got into her wrists, her jaw; the cursor jumped when she tried to help Harlow, the letters blurring into static. Waiting had a smell— burnt coffee and overheated plastic—and it crawled under her skin like a dare. She was tired of being the careful version of herself; the one who smiled for cameras while other people did the dangerous parts just out of frame.

Rachel asked quietly, "Okay, start from the beginning. Who are they?"

"Martha. And Regan," Fatin replied, her voice flat.

Shelby’s stomach had already dropped at the name. Regan. Her fingers curled tight in her lap, a tremor running to her elbows. The name Toni had said aloud, just once. In the unfinished building. In the dark. The same night she’d said “loving me felt like bleeding slow”—like scripture recited by someone who’d believed every word. Shelby hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t.

Harlow asked, "Uh… are we supposed to know who that is?"

Rachel sighed, exasperated. "Fatin, explain."

Leah cut in, brisk. “Martha’s solid. Toni basically lived with her after too many foster placements went bad. She was like her sister for the longest time.”

Fatin added, rolling her eyes, “Yeah — was being the key thing.”

Rachel pressed, “And Regan?”

Shelby murmured, shifting in her seat, “Her ex. The car window girl. The one everything blew up over.”

Leah and Fatin exchanged sharp looks. Fatin’s hand stilled against her temple. She asked, “How the hell do you know that? That wasn’t exactly trending.”

Shelby’s voice dropped. “She told me a little. My dad made me dig. I failed but he didn’t... they said Toni lost her scholarship over a girl and a windshield.”

Harlow frowned, still catching up. “Marco mentioned that. Said there was some kind of property damage, police were involved.”

Fatin exhaled, halfway to a scoff. “Yeah. She put her fist through it. Paid Regan back. Still cost her everything. Classic Toni — one mistake and it follows her forever.”

Rachel’s pen stilled mid-note. Her gaze sharpened. She asked, “Why would that even be in a police file?”

Leah cut in, flat. “Because it didn’t stay campus security. It got handed off to the locals. Cameras, statements… someone made sure it stuck.” Her mouth twisted, like she almost said more but didn’t.

The room went taut around it. Even Fatin’s jaw tightened, her silence sharper than words. A beat that wasn’t just about Toni anymore, but about whoever had made sure the fallout carried.

“The leak,” Shelby said suddenly, looking at Leah. “That’s why they came. It’s everywhere already. Galanis’s article, the audio—people are tearing it apart in real time.” They hadn’t even finished scrubbing their own devices, deciding what to burn and what to keep. Shelby’s SIM still sat cracked on the table, half-snapped but not broken. The proof was all around them.

Fatin nodded, slow. “That and Marco. That and... everything.”

“I sent them to the motel for tonight,” Leah said, her voice flat. “But if Toni stays in Arizona much longer… that won’t hold.”

“Are we going to tell Toni they came?” Harlow asked, glancing at the door.

“No. Not now,” Fatin stated, firm, fast.

“You killed the feed because of her?” Rachel asked, her gaze sharp on Fatin.

“Because if Toni sees her tonight, it'll crack her wide open,” Fatin said sternly.

“And none of us can handle that right now,” Leah added, her jaw tight. Marco’s name hadn’t been spoken aloud in hours—but he hovered at the edge of every breath, every choice. They couldn't afford another collapse.

Later—after Harlow and Rachel drifted off, after Fatin disappeared for her ritual skin care—Leah pulled her car keys from her pocket and set them on the table beside Shelby’s half-snapped SIM. She added a folded billfold of cash and a paper bag already packed. Her voice stayed steady, though strain edged through it. “Take this to the motel. I’ll send you the room number. Straight there, straight back. Don’t linger.”

Leah’s hand hovered a beat too long over the keys, like she wanted to snatch them back. When Shelby reached for them, Leah’s fingers tightened first, then released. Her jaw locked, the muscle twitching as if she’d swallowed something bitter.

Shelby hesitated, the weight of it pressing down—Leah’s trust, the table’s silence, the ghost of Toni’s name still burning in the air. Toni hadn’t wanted her in Arizona. Now she was the one carrying supplies to Martha—and to the girl who broke everything.

She closed her hand around the keys, rose, and slipped into the night. The compound air hit sharp, all ozone and freeway hum. A sodium streetlight flickered overhead, buzzing like it might burn out. Far off, the motel’s neon bled against the horizon—red door, waiting. Every step toward it felt heavier, like the silence inside had followed her out.

---

the name they give you

[TONI] CLINIC — ARIZONA — SUNDAY — 2:00 A.M.

A text from Dante came in:

SMS EXTRACT — DEVICE: TONI — 02:03 A.M.

Dante • 10:42 PM

I tore apart the guest bedroom. Found one pen—it's Shelby's... it's a weird-looking one.

Toni • 10:43 PM

Give it to Harlow... it's probably bugged.

Dante • 10:47 PM

I'm sorry, T—look, I met Nora. That conversation definitely doesn't seem real...

Toni • 10:48 PM

Nothing has felt real for the last two weeks.

She exited from the messaging app. Her name blinked back at her from the screen—tagged, trending, exposed. #WhoIsToniShalifoe threaded beneath theories, insults, half-truths, and lies. She clicked the phone dark; heart thudding with disgust, fingers tight around plastic.

@trialcamgirl [10:42 PM] ummmm tell me why TONI’S ex — yes, THE ex — was just seen outside the compound 👀 #WhoIsToniShalifoe #ReganVale #LegacyLeaks

@fedfilesleaker [10:47 PM] If that really was Regan Vale, the timing is messy. Galanis audio’s got half the internet saying Toni crossed a line w/ Shelby — and now her ex shows up? #WhoIsToniShalifoe #GalanisLeak

@xxgalanisstan34 [10:49 PM] connecting the dots here: Galanis drops “she can’t say no to her” about Shelby → Regan shows up unannounced → ??? #WhoIsToniShalifoe #Messy

@forensictea [10:50 PM] remember when Regan was the one telling ppl Toni was “too much”? imagine what she’s walking into rn #WhoIsToniShalifoe #ReganVale

@publicdefenderalt [10:53 PM] hot take: this isn’t about Shelby OR Regan. Regan’s there bc of the Marco situation. Y’all just want it to be messy. #WhoIsToniShalifoe

Toni’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Regan’s name burned on the screen, brighter than the hashtags, louder than the noise. Her chest tightened, memory slicing quick—the glass spidering across a windshield, blood on her knuckles, the way Regan had looked at her after. Like she didn’t know her anymore.

Her hand twitched around the phone. She wanted to hurl it against the wall, hear it crack, feel that shatter echo the way it had once in the parking lot. Instead she locked the screen. Black glass. Silent. Her grip held until her knuckles ached.

Dot glanced up from the desk, pen paused between her fingers. “What now?”

Toni forced her hand to ease, set the phone face down. “Noise.” Her voice was flat, though her pulse refused to slow.

Dot watched her too long, knowing it wasn’t just noise, but letting it go. Marco stirred on the couch, shifting against the pillows, breath rough but steady. Toni clung to the sound—anything but the past clawing at her ribs.

Shalifoe wasn’t even hers. Not really. It belonged to the last family that hadn’t lasted—one more stop in the churn of beds and paperwork. She barely remembered their faces: a kitchen with vinyl chairs, the smell of boiled cabbage, a boy who locked his door when she walked by. They sent her back after three months, said she was too loud, too angry, too much. But the name stuck. It followed her into every intake form after, stamped like it belonged to her. She carried it like a debt.

She was eight. A plastic bag with her clothes slumped by the door, half of them not even hers anymore. The foster dad argued with a social worker in the kitchen, words spitting over Toni’s head: “Can’t keep her. She doesn’t listen. Breaks things. Picks fights.” The worker never looked at her, just shuffled papers, already deciding where to send her next. Toni sat on the steps, sneakers untied, hands locked around the one toy she hadn’t lost yet. Nobody asked what happened. Nobody asked if she wanted to stay.

That was the way of it: names given, names erased, homes that cracked and folded until only the file remained. Shalifoe wasn’t blood, wasn’t history. Just a label that survived when nothing else did.

She tried to remember when Shalifoe first felt like hers. Not the intake guess scribbled by strangers, not her mother slurring it through smoke. The first time it landed solid was Martha—always Martha.

They were ten, maybe eleven; crouched on the curb outside the Blackburn house, eating melting ice cream from a carton with stolen spoons. Streetlight glow, bare knees knocked together. Martha nudged her shoulder, casual as breathing. "Doesn’t matter what they call you. You’re Toni. That’s enough." Toni hadn’t known how to answer. She just kept eating, throat tight around words she didn’t have yet.

Years later, after Resolve spat her back out raw and mean, that same house door had opened again. Martha barefoot in pajama pants, eyes red from waiting. No questions. No lectures. Just: "You’re staying here tonight. No arguing." And Toni—who’d survived needles, silence, and being told she was dangerous—stepped inside like she finally belonged to something that wouldn’t let go.

Toni dragged in a breath, shallow and sharp. Behind her lids, headlines still flickered—violent, unstable, unnatural. David Goodkind’s voice hissed like static: diseased, dangerous, disposable. Down the hall, a monitor chirped; Marco flinched in his sleep and settled again, as if even that voice could find him through walls.

The leaks had stripped away privacy, dignity, trust. But maybe the deepest truth wasn’t something they could touch. They could write a thousand threads about Toni Shalifoe, but they couldn’t touch the parts she’d never let them see.

She didn’t know what pulled her back. Maybe not a snap, just the quiet breaking somewhere else.

---

the red door

[SHELBY] RED DOOR MOTEL — SUNDAY — LATE

Sodium light pooled over cracked concrete. The soda machine at the stairwell clacked and gave nothing.

Shelby left her phone face down in the cup holder without ceremony. Paper bag under her arm, keys palmed, she took the stairs two at a time until the rail rasped her skin and the motion shook the noise out of her head.

One knock. Just once.

A chain slid. The red door opened to a hand’s width and a room too neat to be meant for sleeping. Regan filled the gap—hoodie sleeves to her wrists, hair pulled back like she’d stopped fighting the day an hour ago.

Regan’s highbrows lifted, her mouth formed an o, “Damn, so that part wasn’t clickbait.”

“Care package,” Shelby said, lifting the bag.

Regan’s mouth tipped toward a smile. “Leah packs like a mom.”

“She has drawers,” Shelby said. “I don’t ask.”

Regan stepped out just far enough for their shadows to touch. Her eyes flicked to Shelby’s empty hands, then back. She braced one shoulder to the doorframe, like she was keeping the room from answering for her.

“Not tonight,” Shelby said.

“After that clip and the Galanis audio, I’m jumpy about mics,” Regan said.

“Fair.”

A car hissed past. The ice machine dropped cubes like small hail.

The hallway held its breath.

“I’m not repeating what they’re saying online. That she forced herself on you—that’s not Toni. But I did see the clips—you two at each other’s throats at the summit, and then suddenly it’s racy photos and a sex tape?”

Shame flared, old as her father’s voice and the media drills he paid for. Shelby let it burn and then made space around it. The only thing worse than being seen like that was letting Legacy be the ones who explained it. She wanted the part where she didn’t flinch, where she didn’t ask the woman she loved to fold herself smaller so Shelby could pass for safe.

Shelby let it land, the way you press a bruise to see if it still hurts. She didn’t look away; her grip loosened until the metal stopped biting.

“We met at the summit,” she said—no heat, just fact. “Clips aren’t context.”

Regan held her gaze. Didn’t push.

“And yeah,” Shelby said. “I know the file—high school through senior year. The window.” Shelby kept her voice even; Regan’s jaw worked once, then froze. “I’m not quoting it back to you.” She added, low—an offering, not a weapon: “I know you caught one—trying to hold her back.”

A muscle jumped in Regan’s jaw. “That night wasn’t the whole story. I hadn't been able to handle her much sooner than that.”

“I figured.”

They stood in the hum and chlorine, moths battering themselves against the light.

“We were together for years,” Regan said. “I know the set of her shoulders when she’s carrying fire and water at the same time.” She looked at Shelby, exact, not unkind. “Feels like you’re adding kindling.” Regan said it flat; she shifted her weight half a step closer and not all the way.

She could swing the file like a bat. She didn’t. ‘Sometimes caring about someone looks like arson,’ she said, and set it down. “Sometimes it is that. Sometimes I make it worse before I don’t”.

Shelby continued:

“I didn’t come here for absolution.”

Regan’s eyebrows lifted. “Does she trust you?”

“She tries,” Shelby said. “I try back.” She opened both hands—empty, no performance—then let them drop. The weight of Regan’s words—of her knowing—hit like a chill. She didn't clench Leah's keys. She just stood there, letting the cold air touch her skin.

Regan weighed that. “I asked because I wasn’t sure you knew what you were holding.” A beat. Softer: “I didn’t. Not then.”

Shelby nodded and pushed on. “How’s Martha?”

“Asleep,” Regan said. “She likes ugly blankets.”

“They’re honest.”

Regan nudged the bag. “Tell Leah we’re fine.”

“I will.”

She turned, paused. “I know she steps into the hit. I was trained to disappear. I want her, and I won’t ask her to go quiet just so I can feel safe.”

Regan took it in. “Then don’t. That’s what broke us before.”

---

the siege

[TONI] CLINIC — ARIZONA — SUNDAY NIGHT — 9:03 P.M.

The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee, a kind of sterile exhaustion that clung to the walls. Toni sat hood-up in a plastic chair, styrofoam cup gone cold in her hand. Down the hall, a monitor ticked steady. Marco was finally asleep. Safe, for now.

Three short knocks. A pause. Two more.

Dot was on her feet before Toni could move, the sleep gone from her face. Toni felt the dread before she knew why.
“Don’t,” she said. “Dot, no.”

The knob turned anyway, like the decision had been made somewhere far away from them.

He entered like he’d paid for the lights. Dark suit, not a wrinkle. No hurry. His eyes didn’t bother with Dot or the peeling paint—just slid past them to the cracked door of Marco’s room and stopped there, as if checking on something he already owned.

Dot didn’t clock the face. Mateo either. Toni did.

David Goodkind.

Toni’s throat locked, but her hands didn’t—they curled into fists before she even knew it.

“Ms. Reid isn’t here,” he said mildly, the kind of voice that sold poison as vitamin supplements. “Unfortunate. Her filings are becoming… theatrical.” His gaze found Toni. “Bold choices tend to be.”

Mateo shifted from his post by the wall, big enough to block the door if it came to that. Goodkind glanced at him, the way you’d glance at furniture—registering size, not threat.

“Continuity of care is delicate,” Goodkind went on. “Transfers are so easily misunderstood. We’d hate to see another promising young woman injured by escalation.” His eyes stayed on Toni. “You remember how quickly things… escalated in Minnesota.”

The air thinned. Minnesota. The report. The window. So it was you. Campus to cops. A nudge and a phone call. She’d always suspected the police showing up hadn’t been chance—now it was confirmed, dropped in her lap like a blade.

Mateo took half a step forward. Dot’s fingers brushed her back pocket.
“Buddy,” Dot said, her voice bone-dry, “you lost? Urgent care’s down the street.”

Goodkind’s mouth twitched—maybe amusement, maybe annoyance. “I don’t get lost. And I don’t repeat myself.” His attention flicked to Toni, sharpened. “Shelby is… proving herself. In ways I hadn’t predicted. Efficient, when properly motivated.” A pause, precise enough to cut. “Shame she’s willing to burn with you.”

The words landed harder than the Minnesota dig. Shelby—his own daughter—wasn t a person in his mouth, just a variable to be managed.

Toni stood before she realized she was doing it.
“You don’t get to say her name.”

Goodkind didn’t step closer; he didn’t have to. “Paperwork, not theater. Cooperate, and we’ll arrange proper placement. Refuse, and the process becomes public. No one wants that.”

“Try me,” Toni said, low.

For a moment, they just stared—his calm like ice, hers like a lit fuse.

He set his hand on the doorframe like a blessing. “Tell Ms. Reid to stop performing and start cooperating.” Then he was gone. The latch clicked; the room didn’t breathe.

Toni’s hands were welded to the chair. She pried them free, every joint screaming. Dot still hadn’t moved.
“Say it,” Dot whispered.

“We’re not safe,” Toni said. “He found us.” She turned to Mateo. “Get the Jeep.”

Mateo nodded once and was gone. Dot tossed her coffee in the trash, muttering, “Guess I’ll pack the fun snacks.”

The monitor down the hall kept counting.

This wasn’t a war. Wars have fronts. This was a siege—and he’d just walked through the gate.

The door opened again—too soon, too quiet to be him. The doctor Harlow knew stepped in, eyes tired, pen tapping a clipboard.

“I heard raised voices,” she said, not looking up. “Doesn’t change my note—he’s not going anywhere for at least five days. Ribs, oxygen, blood pressure… fentanyl washout and propofol rebound. You try to move him before that and you’ll be wheeling him to the morgue instead. No transports. No exceptions.”

Dot let out a humorless breath. “Great. Five days. We’ll crochet a welcome mat.”

Toni didn’t look over. “Pack batteries.”

Mateo reappeared in the doorway, jaw tight. “You’re saying we just sit here and wait for him to come back?”

“I’m saying you keep him alive,” the doctor replied, already turning for the hall. “That’s your only job.” The latch clicked again. The smell of bleach got louder.

Quiet isn’t empty; it just changes shape.

Toni didn’t move. Five days in one place. Five days with David Goodkind knowing exactly where they were.

Five days would pass like vapor and iron—heavy as vapor, thin as iron, impossible to hold. The war hadn’t waited. Neither had the ghosts. Some wore names she’d already buried. Some were still waiting outside.

---

---

DAY 1

CEASE + DESIST

Rachel — courthouse payphone, voice low: “They filed a cease-and-desist to gag the leaks. I’m burning through every contact in New York — if we crack Legacy in their own backyard, this whole thing topples.”

---

Leah’s laptop fan whined. Martha’s mug left a wet ring that spread like a satellite.

DAY 2

NORA + JESSICA

Encrypted Signal Call — low bandwidth, faces pixelated:

Nora: “That call was pathetically altered. Shelby’s feelings for that girl are pretty real — I’ve heard it in her voice. And Galanis? He’s a fuckin pig. Plays golf with Eliot Dane.”

Silence stretches, low buzz on the line. The weight of it sits there — Shelby’s truth bent for clicks, the kind of lie that ruins lives. Nora doesn’t let it settle.

Nora: “And Jess — you know it. This isn’t just about Shelby. It’s the same machine that came for you. That’ll keep coming if we don’t stop it.”

Jessica (fidgeting with her sleeve): “You really think I can speak without them tearing me apart again? They made me say it was therapy. Like I asked for it.”

Rachel (steady, clipped): “Not this time. Not alone. You come in with me — I’ll anchor it in filings, not gossip. They can’t bury it if it’s on the record.”

The silence buzzes again, different this time — not just static, but Jessica holding the weight. Thin at first, then steadier, edged with something like resolve.

---

DAY 3

SHELBY’S PEN

Harlow — den: the split barrel on the mat, a curl of smoke. “Serial’s clean. Not retail. Goodkind’s bulk order, high-frequency RF. He tagged this unit ‘gift.’”

Shelby — leaning in, voice flat: “My birthday. He said solid gold. Said it was ‘timeless.’” She exhales, a hard, empty sound. “Turns out he meant the part where it never stopped.”

Blue light on both of them. Harlow doesn’t look up. He taps the coil once. “He didn’t give you a keepsake. He wired you.”

The fan still whined. The ring went dark, sticky at the edge.

DAY 4

REGAN VALE — FILES

Rachel — scrolling ancient court PDFs, paper edges yellow in the scan: “Vale isn’t random. Cross‑ref her birth records — maternal line ties her to Eliot Dane. Uncle. That’s the bloodline.”

She leans closer to the screen, jaw tightening. “That’s how they knew exactly where to cut Toni open. Not an accident. Not fallout. It was design.”

Leah: half‑whisper. “So Regan wasn’t just Toni's first love. She wasn’t random. Was she placed?”

Rachel: “She could have been exploited, just like they're doing to Shelby now.”

---

braided together

[SHELBY] COMPOUND — UPSTAIRS — DAY 4 - 11 PM.

Shelby sat on the edge of the spare bed, shoes still on, spine rigid. The house had gone quiet in fragments—Rachel pacing downstairs, Harlow still clacking keys, Fatin in the bathroom with the faucet running. But silence never held here; it just pressed in new directions. Her own head refused to still.

They’d insisted she stay after the Galanis leak, like walls and locks could contain the fallout.

Her phone buzzed once. Unknown number. No preview. She almost let it die. But her thumb moved anyway, opening it. The voice note was short. Forty-seven seconds. She pressed play.

The voice was low. Worn. A girl’s, but ground down at the edges. Static crawled underneath like insects.

"They said you and Toni sent people." The voice was steady, not soft. "A girl with cropped hair. A boy who wouldn’t look away. They told me she was trying to pull me out."

"I couldn’t go. They keep me moving — drop points, cash counts. If I disappear, someone else takes the route. And they don’t make it back."

"They say I’m earning my keep. But I know what it is. Body for errands, hands for numbers. Easier than killing me. More useful."

"And when I stop moving, they make me watch things. They rolled in a TV cart, squeaky wheels, grainy screen. Your face. Reframe. You were smiling, saying God made you new. They paused the tape, made us list the things you did right."

"I tried. I really tried. But my mouth was heavy, and the pills blurred my words. I couldn’t sound like you."

"I’ve read the articles, I’ve heard the leaks. Your name, braided with hers. Like it was a script. Like you both wanted to be a part of this."

"Don’t let them do that to me. Don’t let me be a clip they play back. Don’t let me vanish again, I don't want them to own me."

The audio clicked off. Shelby stared at the dark screen. Her heart gave a sudden, hard lurch in her chest, a frantic beat against her ribs. She felt the weight of someone else's ruin braided into her own survival. She whispered, not to the room, but to the voice still hanging in the air,

Jasmine.

It wasn’t a question. And she didn’t sleep again that night. Outside, the street was quiet — the kind of quiet that waits for something to arrive.

---

trace the signal

[LEAH] COMPOUND — TECH ROOM — DAY 5 — 4:41 A.M.

Harlow hunched over the desk, monitors casting his face in static blue. Red wedges carved across the map. “Same number that hit Shelby,” he said. “One ping in Arizona, two miles off the clinic. Two more here in L.A., ten minutes apart.”

Leah leaned closer, arms folded tight, eyes tracking not just the map but the rhythm behind it. To her, the coordinates weren’t neutral—they were choices, intent. “Show me the overlap.”

Harlow dragged the cursor. “Arizona routes through Tower 6, sector C. Roof interference muddies the reflection, but it narrows to this block.” A pin dropped: LAT 33.50, −112.09.

Leah’s mouth twitched. “That’s the alley behind the clinic. Where you’d wait if you didn’t want to be seen leaving.”

He toggled to the second map. “L.A. trace: Tower 17, sector B. Tower 22, sector A. Cross puts it here.” Another pin dropped: 34.09, −118.27.

Leah exhaled through her nose, pen tapping against her palm. “Half-mile radius. Red Door to the laundromat. That’s not drift. That’s a circle. She’s orbiting them.”

“Then we stop giving her blind spots,” Harlow said. His fingers flew. “I’ll widen the geofence, a mile out. If the SIM flips, I’ll lock onto the IMEI. Nothing slips.”

Leah stilled, watching the pins glow like wounds on the map. Harlow saw angles and sectors; she saw proximity, escalation. “She isn’t running from us,” Leah said finally. “She’s tracing us. Testing how close she can stand before someone opens the door.”

Harlow printed stills: motel eaves, stairwell sightline, the clinic’s rear exit. Each frame crisp, cold. Leah gathered them like evidence for a story no one else wanted to write.

Her jaw set. “We have locations. At dawn, we move.”

Silence from the fan. The ring had dried to a bruise on the desk. They didn’t scrub it.

---

DAY 5

PROTECTIVE FILING

Draft: Attach: Toni’s sealed record; Eliot Dane’s conviction; Jessica’s statement (pending).
Cursor blinks over: Rachel Reid, J.D.

 

Five Days Later

---

you made it back

[MARCO] COMPOUND — LOS ANGELES

The door wasn’t locked. It never was. Leah stood in the threshold, the last words between them still sharp in her head. She said the name anyway — testing if it still had a place here. “Toni?”

The air inside was thick, like the house had been holding its breath for too long.

Marco stepped across the threshold, and the air seemed to exhale with him. He moved like a person learning gravity again. Dot took most of the weight at his shoulder; Mateo stayed tight on the other side, his fingers a constant at Marco’s elbow—not steering so much as lending his balance when the tremor went through him. His focus skittered, eyes catching on light and edge more than on faces. When he tried for a word, only a dry sound came, and then a hum—fractured, half a melody he’d been clinging to in the dark.

Fatin was in the kitchen, a coffee mug in her hand. Marco’s eyes, still adjusting, found her first. She froze, not from surprise, but from the sudden, physical release of five days of held breath. Her muscles went slack, the mug in her hand tipping just enough for coffee to run over her knuckles. She didn’t seem to notice.

Leah, by the whiteboard, lowered her hand slowly from the frame she had been gripping, the tension in her knuckles finally fading. Harlow, seated at the table, blinked once, slow, as if adjusting to a light he hadn’t expected, then exhaled through his nose—a sound halfway between relief and disbelief.

A small gasp escaped someone near the door, a tiny, grateful sound. Dot stayed by the door, her palm hovering at Toni’s back like she wasn’t ready to let go. Mateo held position just inside, his stance angled toward Marco but his eyes tracking the others—a quiet inventory of the room.

And then there was someone Marco didn’t know—a woman in the hallway, dark hair, sharp shoulders, watching him with the measured stillness of someone who takes notes for a living.

Marco blinked at the light. His throat worked around words that came out rough, papery. “This is… home?”

Toni’s voice broke open for the first time in five days. “Yeah,” she said. “You made it back.”

Her words anchored him just enough to keep moving.

He let his gaze travel—old faces, old friends, all of them looking at him like he was a miracle they’d been waiting for—until it caught on Shelby.

The rest of the room blurred. She stood exactly as she had in that gala hallway: spine straight, hands still, eyes locked. Armor. He remembered wanting to warn her, and the moment he didn’t.

Now, her eyes searched his face—relief flickering quick and unguarded, before tightening into something else.

Like she was already measuring what his being here might shift, and how fast it might reach Toni. He gave her the smallest nod he had in him. She returned it, sharp, like a promise and a warning folded into one.

Toni glanced between them. Her gaze caught on Shelby for a beat too long—unreadable. No smile. No question. Just a flicker that passed before anyone could name it. The air seemed to tighten. Then Toni drew his focus back. A flicker crossed his mind—a memory that didn’t fit—and then it was gone.

He took her hand. Leah pressed her fingers to her mouth. The stranger murmured something he didn’t catch. Fatin set her mug down without drinking. Harlow shifted his weight forward, like he might close the space, then stopped himself.

Marco could feel the house adjusting around him, everyone recalibrating with him in the room.

He was here.

Marco was home.