Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Another lousy day," ashes scatter across the grass beneath her. Home conflicts, a best friend's silence, and academic failures pile up. Max's life seems mired in a quagmire she can't escape. The onset of her decline is indistinct; it wasn't gradual but rather instantaneous, and assistance is futile. She would only reject it. Her parents are detained by work, Chloe is preoccupied with her new companion, leaving Max in solitude.

She extinguishes her cigarette on the weathered bench, muttering, "Guess I should head home. It's not like anyone's there," then departs, gesturing defiantly at the fading sun, "To hell with the world. I'm done," and strides into the encroaching night, towards her fate.

The street is shrouded in darkness. Familiar as this path is, tonight it feels alien. A shadow flickers, whispering, "Hey, psst, come here." It's Jack's voice, a known face to Max. She sighs, attempting to leave, but he seizes her arm.

Jack has the appearance of a disreputable youth, eighteen like Max, yet seemingly years older.

"Listen to me," he pleads. The last time they spoke, it ended with Max spending the night in a cell.
"What do you want, Jack? Make it quick," she retorts, knowing his jobs are always a gamble, but usually, they pay off.

"I've got some people interested in you lately. Really powerful people who can change things around here. You just have to do one job for them," he insists. She's heard this spiel from him too many times and is not prepared to fall for it again.

"Yeah, right, buddy. How many times have you spun that tale?" she scoffs, having heard enough, and walks away. But Jack persists.

"Listen, Max. This is the real deal. After this, no more petty crimes, you'll be in charge of this town," he promises. Max, unable to stand his begging any longer, gives in.

"Fine. But if I'm not convinced, we're through," she warns. Jack's grin widens, revealing his secrets.

"I'll consider it. The plan seems quite risky. If I'm putting my life on the line for this, I need some assurance of safety," she compares this to the small-time robberies she's accustomed to. This job is in a completely different league.

"Don't worry, I'll get back to them soon. Be prepared," he says before vanishing into the night, leaving Max alone. She allows herself to dream of the vast opportunities if the job succeeds, but then she promptly snaps back to reality. "Pfft, I stopped dreaming a long time ago," she mutters, shaking her head as she continues her walk home.

The truth is, she chooses this route because it takes her by her 'best friend's' house, Chloe Price. They haven't spoken since Max entered this lifestyle. On one hand, she's grateful; she wouldn't want Chloe to see what she's become. On the other hand, Chloe's support might be exactly what she needs. Regardless, it's not an option. She walks past the house, glancing up to see Chloe embracing her partner. Max doesn't know the girl's name and has no desire to. This girl has taken away her only friend, and for that, Max harbors no forgiveness.

"Hey babe, who's this?" A picture of Max and Chloe dressed up for Halloween as kids catches her eye.
"Oh my god, I remember this day. We ate so much candy that I threw up later that night," Chloe says, trying to suppress her giggles.
"Her name is Max, my best friend. She's been having a tough time recently," she says, picking up the photo and becoming lost in thought.

"Hey, why don't you introduce me to her sometime?" Rachel suggests with a smile. The thought of introducing her two favorite people makes her happy.
"Hell yes. Let's do it on Monday," she agrees with a nod.

For dinner, it's leftover pizza again since her parents are out. She places four slices of meat lovers' pizza on a plate and heats them in the microwave. Leaning on the counter, she starts to daydream, only to shake her head once more.

*Come on, Max. In what world will you pull off something like this? Get everything you've ever wanted and the power to do what you want? Got to admit, sounds awfully tempting though" the cars, houses and running this town won't leave her mind. A better life awaits her. *Maybe Chloe will like me again*.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Sits at the table constantly eyeing her phone.

Pizza
Phone
Pizza
Phone
Pizza
Phone

*This is my opportunity to make something of myself. Make my parents proud of me, maybe they'd actually care about me*

Phone
Phone
Phone
Pizza
Phone
Pizza

*No, I can't. Can't be proud of me when I'm in the ground. Not going to make Chloe like me again*

Phone
Phond
Phone
Phone
Pizza
Phone

*Do this and I won't need simpletons like her. I can befriend who I want when I want. Leave this town and control my life*

Phone
Phone
Phone
Phone
Phone<
Pizza

*Control my life? Been on my own for a while now. Think I'm controlling it well enough*

Phone
Phone
Phone
Phone
Phone
Phone

*I want more*

"Fuck it" snatches her phone. Dials Jack's number in a hurry.

"Jack? I'm in"

"Excellent"

Chapter Text

"So, what's the plan?"

Perched in a blacked-out Impala opposite the Portland police station, Max receives the briefing from Jack.

“It's 1:55 AM right now. At 2, the front guard will leave his post for a coffee run to the 7/11 down the street. That's your signal to move. Once you're in, head directly to the main computer and erase any incriminating evidence against the gang's boss," Max nods in understanding. She retrieves her black hockey mask from her bag. "How very Canadian of you," Jack quips. He always makes a joke before a job—it helps to ease the tension.

At 2 a.m. sharp, the guard departs from his station. "Okay, we're on. Remember, you have ten minutes to get in and out. Don't let me down," she whispers, closing the car door softly and gazing upward.

*If I should die before I wake, have I made peace or a mistake?*

Taking a deep breath, she proceeds.

She slips quietly through a side window, muttering, "Damn, this seemed easier in the movies," and carefully shuts it without a noise. Her pocket vibrates with a buzz.

Jack: Btw, the gang's hacker has taken the cameras offline. You've got 10 minutes.
*Good to know*

With the cameras down and no guards in sight, she slips into the chief's room. *This is the easiest job yet.*

“Ah, password locked. Just my luck," she mutters, rummaging through his things for anything useful.

"HEY!" At the shout, she instinctively draws her gun, facing off with the guard. It's not her first standoff.

"Put the gun down, miss. We can sort this out," he pleads, fear evident in his trembling hands, inadvertently giving Max the upper hand.
"Really? You're shaking, by the way. So much for being a 'tough cop,'" she taunts.

"James, right? Help me out, and I'll disappear. It's that simple," she says, always preferring to negotiate rather to resort to violence.
"I can't do that," he replies, firming his grip on his pistol. Max quickly grabs a photo frame from his desk “Is this your daughter?” She holds it up. James breaks “Ye…yes it is. “ Max passes him his photo “She’s been hounding me to give this up before it kills me. But…I can’t. I need to see it through…” he sheds a tear. Max puts her gun back in her pocket and pulls him in “Go home to your daughter. I know what it’s like to not have a father in your life no matter how much you beg. You don’t want her to end up like me. Help me out, and go home.” He takes a moment to compose himself “Okay. You’re right. Thank you.” He makes his way to the computer and unlocks it “There…I’m free..right?” Max nods “Of course. Go home to your daughter.” He turns to leave.

BANG

Thump

“Just kidding!” She giggles as blood gushes from his head “I don’t give a fuck about your daughter. Now back to what I was doing.” In truth Max was going to let him go until she recognised the girl in the photo as Chloe’s girlfriend.

Jack: 2 minutes

*There you are* she found the folder detailing everything about the group. Their locations, names, plans. Everything. “How’d they get this info anyway? Meh question for another day.” She deletes it and makes her way out.

She gets in Jack’s car and puts her mask back in her bag “Soooo? How’d it go?” He asks in anticipation. “Smooth as silk.” She boasts. Jack throws her a shirt “To cover the blood. I’m not going to ask.” Max puts it on “Are you sure? It’s quite the story” she giggles. Jack smiles “I’m good.”

"Get some sleep, so you won't look tired for school later. Saves on the questions” he suggests. Max puts her seat in the lying position and shuts her eyes.

“Max, wake up," she stirs awake at the front of Blackwell.
"Cheers, man. Catch you later," after a secret handshake, she exits and ascends the steps.

"Hey, Max."

Chapter Text

“Fuck.”

Max froze.

Chloe’s presence usually lit her up inside—but today, it wasn’t Chloe that made her stomach twist. It was the blonde girl beside her, radiant and unfamiliar, like a spotlight aimed straight at Max’s insecurities.

“Heyyyy, Maxi. Long time no see.”
Chloe’s voice was warm, almost too warm. The joy in it caught Max off guard.
*Maybe she doesn’t know. Or maybe she’s pretending not to.*

Max’s reply came out sharper than she intended.<
“Surprised you’re talking to me again.”
Her tone carried a quiet edge, the kind that hinted at all the words they hadn’t said.
*If we’d just talked… maybe things wouldn’t have gone so sideways.*

Chloe shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, I know. Anyway—meet my distraction. Rachel Amber.”
She gestured to the girl beside her, who extended a hand with practiced ease.

Max hesitated. Rachel’s smile was effortless, magnetic. Max’s own felt brittle in comparison.
*Keep a low profile,* she reminded herself. *Don’t let it show.*

“It’s great to finally meet you, Rachel,” Max said, masking the tension with a smile. “I hope Chloe hasn’t been too much trouble.”
She threw a playful wink Chloe’s way, trying to summon the old rhythm.

“Dude, she’s been terrible. Please save me.”
Rachel laughed, and Chloe groaned, rolling her eyes.

Max watched them—easy, comfortable, already synced.
She smiled, but something inside her tugged.
*They’re laughing. That’s good. That’s… good.*
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being just slightly out of frame.

“Oh, my mum’s calling,” Rachel says, pulling out her phone.

Max stiffens, her smile faltering.
She watches Rachel’s expression shift—lighthearted to tight-lipped in seconds.

“What? Come home? But I’ve only just arrived at school…”
Rachel’s voice dips, concern threading through the words. Max listens, every nerve alert.

Perfect.

“Sorry, my mum needs me home urgently,” Rachel says, planting a quick kiss on Chloe’s cheek and tossing Max a friendly wave before disappearing down the hall.

Silence settles between Max and Chloe like fog.

“So… how have things been?” Max asks, her voice too casual, too rehearsed.
She hadn’t expected this moment. Not today.

“Everything’s been incredible. Rachel’s amazing, really. My parents love her.”
Chloe beams, unaware of the way each word lands like a blow.
Max nods, swallowing the sting.
Regret doesn’t even cover it anymore.

“That’s great. She seems wonderful. You two look good together.”
Max forces the words out, then grabs the nearest excuse.
“Anyway, I should head to class.”

She walks away quickly, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

Outside the classroom, she pulls out her phone.

Max: Dude, I ran into both Chloe and Rachel.
Jack: The odds on that.
Max: Rachel’s mum called her. Told her to come home.
Max: Only a matter of time.
Jack: Yeesh. Keep it cool?
Max: Yeah. Don’t think they suspected anything.
Jack: Excellent.

Max slides into her seat. Chloe’s beside her.
Too close. Too familiar.
Her mind won’t stop replaying last night.

BANG
Thump
BANG
Thump
BANG
BANG
BANG

She clenches her fists. Smacks her temple lightly.
*Focus. Focus.*

Chloe leans over, whispering, “You okay?”
Max flashes a thumbs-up, her smile brittle.
She bolts the moment class ends.

Jack: Meet me at the lighthouse after school.
Max: Reasoning?
Jack: You gotta meet your new friends.
Max: Oh shit. Yep yep. See you then.

“Who you messaging?”
Chloe’s voice is teasing, her eyes curious as she peeks over Max’s shoulder.

Max snaps her phone shut, shoving it deep into her pocket.
“Nobody.”

Chloe crosses her arms, eyes narrowing.
“Mmmhmm.”

The sound isn’t angry—it’s worse. It’s skeptical. Dismissive. Like she’s bracing for disappointment.

Max steps forward, her voice low but firm.
“Maybe if you’d bothered to be in my life this past year, I’d have told you.”
Her words hang heavy in the air, each one laced with the ache of abandonment.
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t need to.

“For now, stay out of my business.”

Chloe flinches—not visibly, but Max sees it. A flicker in her eyes. A shift in her stance.
The noise quieting around them.

Chloe looks away, jaw clenched.
“Right. Got it.”
She turns, but doesn’t walk off. Not yet.

Max watches her, heart pounding.
She hadn’t meant to say it like that. But she also meant every word.

Chloe walks away without another word, her boots tapping on the marble flooring. Max watches her retreat, heart thudding.

*I didn’t mean for it to come out that mean. But… I meant what I said. Ugh. Anyway.*

She exhales sharply, trying to shake the guilt off like rain from her jacket.

Then she sees her.

Tall. Black hair pulled into a loose braid. A tattoo curling near her right shoulder blade—something abstract, maybe wings or flame. The girl stands at the edge of the crowd of students, eyes locked on Max with quiet intensity.

Max blinks.
The girl nods once. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just… knowing.

Then she turns and disappears into the throng of students heading back towards class.

*The hell?*

Max scans the crowd, pulse quickening. But the girl’s gone. Like she was never there.

She pulls out her phone, fingers hovering.
*Do I tell Jack? Or would that just sound paranoid?*

Instead, she types a note to herself:
Tattoo. Right shoulder. Black braid.

She stares at the words.
They feel like the beginning of something. Or the end.

The wind whips across the hilltop, tugging at Max’s jacket as she reaches the summit. Jack’s silhouette is still, arms folded, gaze fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to read the future in the waves.

Max slows her steps, breath uneven.
Her boots crunch against the dirt and grass, each sound louder than it should be.

*I don’t know if this is a good idea, Max. Joining a gang. It isn’t you.*
Her logical side is calm, persistent.
*Can it, logic. This is a great idea. Get all the money and shit you want and don’t have to answer to anyone.*
Her darker voice is louder today. Tempting. Reckless.

Max stops short.
“Shut it. Both of you.”
She says it aloud, voice sharp, cutting through the wind.

Jack turns, eyebrows raised.
“Talking to yourself again?”
His tone is light, but his eyes are searching.

Max shrugs, trying to play it off.
“Just sorting out the committee in my head.”

Jack doesn’t laugh. He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“You sure you want this? Once you’re in, there’s no backing out. No rewinds. No clean exits.”

Max looks past him, toward the lighthouse.
Its shadow stretches long across the cliffside, like a warning.

“I don’t want clean,” she says.
“I want control.”

Jack studies her for a moment, then nods slowly.
“Alright. Then let’s go meet the others.”

Max hesitates.
Her heart pounds. Her mind races.
But her feet move.

The door creaks open slowly, revealing a narrow spiral staircase bathed in amber light. The air inside smells of rust and sea salt, old wood and secrets. Jack steps aside, gesturing for Max to follow.

She hesitates at the threshold.
This is it. No turning back.

The voice in her head is quiet now—both sides watching, waiting.

She descends.

Each step echoes, the sound swallowed by the thick stone walls. At the bottom, the room is dimly lit, windows fogged with sea spray. A group waits—four figures, each distinct, each watching her with unreadable expressions.

The tall girl with the black braid is there.
Tattoo visible. Eyes sharp.

Max’s breath catches.
She wasn’t just passing by.

Jack closes the door behind them.
“Everyone, this is Max.”

No one speaks.
The silence is heavy, expectant.

The girl with the braid steps forward.
“You’ve seen me before.”
It’s not a question.

Max nods slowly.
“At school. You were watching me.”

The girl tilts her head.
“I was watching your choice.”

Max’s pulse quickens.
*What the hell have I walked into?*

Jack places a hand on her shoulder.
“Welcome to the edge, Max. You step off, or you step in. Your call.”

She swallows her anxieties down and nods “Okay” she says. Girl with the braids smiles “Excellent.”

“Okay, enough with the darkness. Light it up.” She says.

Max’s breath catches at the phrase—light it up—and for a moment, she wonders if it’s metaphorical. But the girl with the braid is already moving, pulling open a rusted cabinet tucked into the lighthouse wall.

Inside: flares, lanterns, a battered speaker, and a small box of matches.

The others begin to stir. The boy with the scar tosses his coin aside and grabs a flare. The gum-chewer flicks on the speaker, low bass humming through the floorboards. The girl with the notebook closes it with a snap and stands, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Max watches, unsure.
*Is this a ritual? A test? A warning?*

The braid girl hands her a flare.
“You want in? You light it. You own it.”

Max takes it, fingers trembling slightly.
She strikes the match. The flare ignites with a hiss, casting red light across her face, painting the room in flickering fire.

The others cheer—not loudly, but with a kind of reverence.
The speaker pulses. The lighthouse glows from within like a beacon of rebellion.

Max feels it then.
Not belonging. Not yet.
But possibility.

She holds the flare high, the heat licking her skin, the smoke curling upward like a signal.

The braid girl leans in, voice low.
“Welcome to the edge, Max. Now let’s see what you do with it.”

Max squints as the overhead lights flicker on, flooding the room with sterile brightness. What she thought was a forgotten relic of the coast transforms before her eyes.

The lighthouse isn’t just a hideout—it’s a nerve center.

Rows of monitors line the curved stone walls, each screen pulsing with live feeds: street corners, school hallways, alleyways she recognizes. Dots blink on a digital map—members in motion, tracked in real time. The cameras mounted atop the lighthouse are cleverly disguised, their lenses sweeping across the town like silent sentinels.

Max’s breath catches.

Beyond the tech, the space opens up—hallways leading to a dining hall where people laugh over mismatched plates, bedrooms tucked behind sliding panels, a workshop humming with soldering irons and blueprints. A personal armoury for when technology isn’t the answer. There are at least twenty people here. Maybe more. All moving with purpose. All part of something bigger.

The girl with the braid watches Max’s reaction, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“We’re not just a gang,” she says.
“We’re a system. A network. A family, if you earn it.”

Max steps forward slowly, absorbing the scale.
*This isn’t chaos. It’s organized. Strategic. Dangerous.*

Notebook girl slides past her, already scribbling again.
Jack leans against a console, smirking.
“Still think it’s just about flares and attitude?”

Max doesn’t answer.
She’s too busy recalibrating everything she thought she knew.

She turns to the girl with the braid—clearly the one in charge.
“Can I have a name?” she asks, voice steady but cautious.

The braided girl smiles, slow and deliberate.
“Not until you earn it,” she says. “A little job. Break into my house. Steal something priceless. Something I… acquired.”

Max arches a brow, unimpressed.
“That’s it? Just a break-in?” Her tone borders on bored, but there’s a flicker of curiosity beneath it.

The girl’s smile widens, almost fond.
“Wait and see, Caulfield.”

The mansion loomed above them—two stories of polished stone and glass, easily the grandest house in Arcadia Bay. Max stood at the edge of the driveway, neck craned, eyes wide.

“Wow,” she breathed.

Jack chuckled beside her, hands in his pockets.
“Yep. Good luck.”

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, then stayed behind, watching as she crossed the threshold alone.

What neither Jack nor the braided girl had mentioned—what Max would soon discover—was that the house was wired with cameras in every corner. And the artifact she’d been sent to steal? A decoy sat in plain sight, gleaming under a spotlight. The real one waited behind a locked door, silent and unseen.

Max steps through the front door, and the hush hits her first—thick, expensive silence. The kind that feels curated.

Her boots echo against polished floors as she moves deeper into the foyer. Marble. Chandeliers. A gallery of curated wealth. But something’s off.

She pauses.

There—just above the archway. A tiny red blink. Then another, tucked into the corner of a bookshelf. Cameras. Watching. Recording.

Max exhales slowly, her awe curdling into unease.
*Of course.*

She keeps her movements deliberate, casual. No sudden gestures. No panic. She’s being watched, and she knows it.

In the center of the room, beneath a skylight, sits the artifact. Ornate. Ancient-looking. Too obvious.

She circles it once, then again, slower. No alarms. No tripwires. But it’s wrong. Too clean. Too staged.

Max crouches, pretending to inspect the base. Her fingers brush the edge—plastic. A replica.

She glances toward the hallway beyond. A door. Closed. Unmarked.

That’s where it is.

She straightens, eyes flicking once toward a camera lens. Then she walks away from the decoy, toward the real test.

Max slips through the door, careful not to let it creak.

The hallway beyond is dim, lit only by a single recessed light that casts long shadows across the floor. The air shifts—cooler, stiller. Less curated.

She moves slowly, her footsteps muffled by thick carpet. No cameras here. No blinking lights. Just silence.

At the end of the hall, a small study. Bookshelves line the walls, cluttered and uneven. A desk sits beneath the window, and on it—something wrapped in velvet.

Max approaches, heart ticking faster now. She peels back the fabric.

The real artifact.

It’s older than she expected. Not polished, not pristine. Cracked in places. Worn by time.

She lifts it gently, and something shifts beneath her fingers—a hidden compartment, maybe. Or a mechanism.

But before she can inspect it further, a voice crackles through a speaker tucked into the ceiling.

“Well done, Caulfield,” the braided girl says. “Now let’s see if you can get out.”

Max holds the artifact in her hands, its weight unfamiliar, its surface rough with age. She’s not sure what it is exactly—some kind of ceremonial object? A relic? But she knows it matters.

She hears the braided girl’s voice through the speaker again, smooth and amused.
“Well done, Caulfield. Didn’t think you’d get this far.”

Max doesn’t respond. She just stares at the object, then at the room around her. No alarms. No guards. Just silence and surveillance.

They hadn’t expected her to notice the cameras.
They hadn’t expected her to spot the decoy.
They hadn’t expected her to be careful.

She was supposed to stumble. To panic. To fail.

Max slips the artifact into her bag, then glances once at the ceiling—at the hidden speaker, the unseen eyes.

*Let them watch.*

She walks back down the hallway, slower this time. Not cautious. Intentional.

She’s not just passing a test.
She’s rewriting the rules.

Back at the lighthouse, the braided girl leans over the console, tapping the screen with growing irritation.
The feed flickers, then dies.

“Ugh. Connor really needs to get this fixed,” she mutters, dragging a hand through her braid. The cameras had gone dark just as Max reached the study.

She doesn’t like not knowing.

Outside the mansion, Jack kicks at a loose stone on the driveway, half-expecting sirens or a panicked retreat.

Instead, Max strolls out like she’s leaving a museum tour. No scratches. No alarms. Just a quiet smirk.

Jack straightens, blinking.
“You’re kidding.”

Max tosses him a look, smug but light.
“Shall we go?”

She brushes past him, the artifact tucked safely in her bag. Jack hesitates, then follows, still trying to figure out how she pulled it off.

Back at the lighthouse, the braided girl leans over Connor’s shoulder, frustration etched across her face as static flickers across the monitor.

“Seriously, Connor,” she mutters. “This feed is a joke.”

Behind them, the door creaks open.

Max steps in, casual, confident. She tosses the artifact toward the braided girl without breaking stride.
“Hey, Braids.”

The girl catches it mid-air, instinctively. Her fingers tighten around the velvet-wrapped object as she unwraps it, inspecting every crack and curve.

Connor straightens, eyebrows raised. The rest of the core drifts closer, drawn by the shift in energy.

The braided girl looks up, stunned.
“I… was wrong about you.”

Max shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in her eyes—pride, maybe. Or the quiet satisfaction of being seen.
“Yeah,” she says. “You were.”

Braids returns from her room, the artifact safely tucked away. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on Max.

“Well,” she says, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Looks like I owe you some answers.”

She gestures around the room.
“Name’s Steph. I run this crew—though it’s more democracy than dictatorship.”

She nods toward the guy hunched over a blinking console.
“That’s Connor. Tech nut. Also my brother, unfortunately.”

Connor throws her a mock glare but doesn’t look up.

Steph points to the girl scribbling in a weathered notebook.
“Mia. Best friend since forever. She remembers everything, so don’t lie to her.”

Then to the guy flipping a coin between his fingers, boots propped on the table.
“Josh. If a job needs bullets instead of code, he’s your guy. Just don’t ask him to hack anything. He once tried to fix a toaster with a pistol.”

Josh grins without looking up. “It worked.”

Steph rolls her eyes, then turns back to Max.
“That’s the core team. We’ve got others, but these are the ones you’ll see most.”

She steps closer, voice lowering just a touch.
“For now, you’ll start small. Get your footing. After that…” She winks. “Well, who knows.”

Max stands near the doorway, arms crossed loosely, her bag still slung over one shoulder. She listens as Steph introduces the crew, each name landing like a small test.

Connor, Mia, Josh. A brother, a best friend, a wildcard. A group with history.

Max nods, absorbing it all, but her expression stays unreadable. She’s used to being the outsider. Used to people underestimating her, or worse—forgetting she’s there.

But Steph’s tone is different now. Respectful. Curious.

Max meets her gaze.
“So I’m your rookie?” she says, voice dry but not cold.

Steph grins. “For now.”

Max lets the silence stretch, then finally cracks a smile. Just a small one.
“Fine. I’ll play along.”

She steps further into the room, her posture loosening just a little. Not trust. Not yet. But something close.

Max lingers near the edge of the room, her fingers grazing the strap of her bag. The introductions swirl around her—names, roles, histories—but she doesn’t jump in. Not yet.

She watches Mia scribble something in her notebook without looking up. Josh flips his coin again, the metallic click oddly soothing. Connor mutters to himself as he rewires a console.

They’re a unit. Not perfect, but practiced.

Steph’s wink still hangs in the air, and Max isn’t sure if it was meant to reassure or challenge. Maybe both.

She clears her throat, just loud enough.
“So… what kind of ‘smaller jobs’ are we talking?”

Steph turns, surprised but pleased.
“Curious already?”

Max shrugs, eyes scanning the room.
“Just want to know what I’m walking into.”

Mia glances up, meeting Max’s gaze for the first time. There’s no judgment in her eyes—just quiet interest.
“You’ll do fine,” she says softly.

Max doesn’t smile, but something shifts in her posture. A little less tension in her shoulders. A little more weight in her stance.

She’s not in. Not yet. But she’s no longer outside.

Later that night, the lighthouse hums with low conversation and flickering screens. Max finds herself on the outer edge again, perched on the windowsill, watching the ocean churn beneath the moonlight.

She doesn’t expect company.

But Mia drifts over without a word, notebook in hand. She sits cross-legged on the floor nearby, not too close, not too far.

For a while, they say nothing. Just the sound of waves and Connor muttering in the background.

Then Mia speaks, voice soft.
“You noticed the cameras before you even stepped inside.”

Max glances down, surprised.
“You were watching?”

Mia shrugs. “I watch everything.” She taps her pen against the notebook. “Most people miss the obvious. You didn’t.”

Max doesn’t answer right away. She’s not used to being seen like that—not for what she notices, but for how she moves through the world.

“You write everything down?” she asks.

“Not everything,” Mia says. “Just the parts that matter.”

Max nods slowly, then looks back out the window.
“Hope I make the cut.”

Mia smiles, just barely.
“You already did.”

Chapter Text

Max steps onto Blackwell grounds the next morning, the soles of her boots crunching faintly against scattered gravel. The air is crisp, tinged with the scent of damp leaves and distant cigarette smoke. She walks with purpose, shoulders squared, the weight of yesterday’s choice settling into her spine like a second skin.

She drops onto a sun-warmed bench, the wood slightly sticky from morning dew. Her phone buzzes in her palm.

Steph: Meet Josh in the junkyard later.
Max: Why?

A shadow stretches across her screen. Max looks up—Steph’s already there, her hoodie pulled tight, strands of dyed hair clinging to her cheek from the breeze. She slides onto the bench beside Max, her movements quick, practiced. A faint whiff of spray paint clings to her—metallic, sharp, familiar.

“Bang bang practice.”

Max’s fingers tighten around her phone. Steph leans in, voice low, eyes flicking toward the admin building where a janitor sweeps without looking up.

“That test in Portland? Got me thinking. Leave the hacking to Connor and the crew. You—you’re better as an infiltrator. Feels more… you.”

Max nods slowly, her jaw tense. A dog barks in the distance. Someone laughs too loudly behind the dorms.

Steph stands, brushing her hands on her jeans like she’s wiping off the conversation.

“Good. We didn’t talk. You didn’t see me. Catch you later.”

She’s gone before Max can reply, her boots thudding softly against the pavement. Max stays seated, the bench creaking beneath her, the scent of paint lingering like a promise.

Max makes a mental note of Steph’s instructions, then deletes the thread with a swipe. The screen goes dark. She slips the phone into her pocket and exhales, the breath catching slightly in her throat.

The courtyard stretches before her—sunlight fractured through rustling leaves, the distant hum of a lawnmower, a breeze carrying the scent of cut grass and old brick. Students drift past in loose clusters, laughter echoing off stone walls. But Max’s gaze lands on Chloe.

She’s sitting alone on the low wall near the fountain, shoulders hunched, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. Her eyes are fixed on something invisible—something heavy. The wind tugs at her hoodie, revealing the edge of a fading bruise near her collarbone.

Max’s chest tightens. She wants to go to her. Say something. Anything.

But yesterday’s argument still burns at the edges of her memory—sharp words, words said, the ache of things left unsaid. She watches Chloe for a moment longer, then looks away.

*Stay out of my business*

Max stands, the bench creaking beneath her, and walks off without turning back.

Max walks the halls toward her first class, the sound of her boots echoing against linoleum. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on faded posters and half-torn flyers. She passes students in loose conversation, their voices a blur—none of it touches her.

She slips into the classroom early, the door creaking slightly behind her. The air smells faintly of dry erase markers and old coffee. She chooses a seat near the window, where the light slants in soft and golden, and sets her bag down with deliberate care. Her fingers drum lightly on the desk. Waiting.

Thirty seconds later, the door swings open again.

Chloe steps in, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t look at Max. Just scans the room, then drops into a seat at a table across the aisle. Her movements are clipped, her jaw tight. The distance between them feels louder than any argument.

Max glances over once—just once—but Chloe’s eyes stay fixed on the front of the room. No nod. No flicker of recognition.

The silence between them settles like dust.

Class blurs past in a haze of half-listened lectures and scribbled notes. By the time Max reaches the cafeteria, her stomach growls louder than her thoughts. She grabs a tray—greasy fries, lukewarm coffee—and finds a quiet table near the window. The hum of conversation surrounds her, but she’s not part of it.

She checks her phone. No new updates. No messages. Just the blank silence of a screen that used to buzz with purpose. She locks it and sets it aside, picking at her food.

Across the room, Chloe walks in. Her gait is slower than usual, shoulders slumped, eyes shadowed. She grabs her own tray and drops into a seat far from Max, facing the wall. No glance. No smirk. Just silence.

Max tries to focus on her fries. On being tough. Detached. But her heart won’t play along.

She exhales sharply, pushes back her chair. *So much for being a ‘tough gangster’,* she mutters to herself, the words bitter and soft.

She crosses the room and sits across from Chloe, the tray clattering slightly as she sets it down. Chloe blinks, surprised.

“Max? Didn’t think you’d want to talk after yesterday.”

Max shrugs, eyes steady.

“I didn’t. I just want to know what’s got you down today.”

The words hang between them, fragile and real. Chloe studies her for a beat, then sighs.

“Rachel’s dad got killed two nights ago,” Chloe says, voice flat but fraying at the edges. “She’s not handling it well. I’m just… tired. Been taking care of her while she grieves.”

There it is again. Rachel.

The name hits like a bruise. The girl who stole Chloe for a year. Who became her lifeline while Max was drowning. Who took away the only person who might’ve stopped her.

Max feels the old ache rise—sharp, bitter, familiar. But she swallows it. Pushes it down alongside the memory of the gun, the recoil, the silence that followed.

She forces herself to meet Chloe’s eyes.

“Oh… fuck. I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

Chloe nods, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her coffee cup, tracing a chipped corner like it might give her answers.

“Thanks. Yeah. She’s not taking it well.”

Max watches her, the exhaustion in her posture, the way her shoulders sag like she’s been holding up someone else’s world for too long. And maybe she has.

The silence stretches, not awkward—just heavy. Max wants to say more. Wants to ask if Chloe’s okay. If she’s sleeping. If she’s eating. But the words knot in her throat.

No more words are shared between them. Instead they eat in silence.

Chloe rises first, brushing crumbs off her jeans, her movements slow but deliberate.

Chloe: “Thanks, Max. For… you know.”

Max nods, the words sticking in her throat. She watches Chloe walk away, shoulders still heavy, but maybe—just maybe—less alone.

She gathers her tray, ready to leave, when her phone buzzes.

She stares at Steph’s message.

“Don’t get soft.”

The words pulse on the screen like a warning. Or a dare.

She looks up. Steph’s still watching, arms folded, expression unreadable. No nod. No smirk. Just expectation.

Max slips the phone into her pocket and straightens her spine. The warmth from her conversation with Chloe cools fast—replaced by something sharper. She walks past Steph without a word, her footsteps deliberate, her jaw set.

She won’t apologize for caring. But she won’t let it slow her down either.

Outside, the wind picks up, tugging at her jacket. She pulls it tighter, eyes scanning the campus like it’s a map she’s learning to own. The junkyard’s waiting. Josh is waiting. And whatever Steph has planned next—Max will be ready.

She’s not soft. Not anymore.

The junkyard smells like rust and gasoline, the air thick with heat and the metallic tang of old machinery. Max steps over a broken muffler, boots crunching glass, her breath steady but sharp. Josh is already there—lean, wiry, hoodie up, eyes scanning her like he’s sizing up a threat.

”Steph said you’re ready.”

Max doesn’t answer. She just nods, jaw tight.

He tosses her a pistol. Not loaded. Not yet.

“Show me.”

She catches it, the weight familiar now. Portland taught her more than she expected. She checks the chamber, slides into stance, and fires at the rusted fridge across the lot—click. click. click. No bullets. Just form.

Josh watches, arms crossed, unimpressed. “You’re clean. But clean gets you killed.”

He walks over, adjusts her grip, his fingers cold against hers. “You hesitate, you die. You flinch, you fail. You care too much—someone else pays for it.”

Max doesn’t flinch. Not this time. She reloads. Real bullets now. The junkyard goes quiet, like it’s holding its breath.

She fires again—this time, the fridge dents. A bird takes off from a nearby tree. Josh nods once.

“Better. Again.”

Max keeps going. Her arms ache. Her ears ring. But she doesn’t stop.

She’s not soft. Not anymore.

Josh tosses the pistol back into a crate and steps closer, cracking his knuckles.

“Shooting’s the easy part. Let’s see if you can take a hit.”

Max squares up, heart thudding. The junkyard feels tighter now—walls of rusted metal closing in, the scent of oil thick in her nose. A crow caws overhead, sharp and mocking.

Josh doesn’t wait. He lunges, not full force, but enough to knock her off balance. Max stumbles, catches herself on a dented car hood, breath ragged.

“Again.”

She turns, fists up. He swings low this time—testing reflexes. She dodges, barely, her shoulder grazing a jagged bumper.

Sweat beads at her temple. Her arms ache from the earlier drills. But she doesn’t back down.

Josh feints, then lands a blow to her ribs. Not enough to break anything—but enough to hurt. Max gasps, knees buckling, but she stays upright.

“You want in this life? You earn it. Pain’s part of the deal.”

Max wipes blood from her lip. Her eyes burn—not from tears, but from fury. Not at Josh. At herself. At everything she’s lost and everything she’s trying to become.

She charges this time. Not reckless—focused. She ducks his swing, lands a hit to his side. He grunts, surprised.

“Better.”

He steps back, nodding once. Approval, rough and reluctant. Max breathes hard, chest heaving. Her body screams. But her mind is clear.

She’s in. All the way.

Max doesn’t speak on the walk home. Her ribs throb with every breath, her knuckles raw, her muscles screaming. The junkyard dust clings to her skin, gritty and sour, like it’s trying to remind her what she’s becoming.

She showers in silence. The water stings where Josh’s blows landed, and for a moment, she just stands there, forehead pressed to the tile, letting the heat blur everything.

Later, in her room, she lies on her bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow and indifferent. Her phone buzzes once—some group thread she doesn’t care about. She doesn’t check it.

Her body feels stronger. Her mind sharper. But something inside her feels… off. Like she’s traded something she didn’t mean to. Like every punch she took knocked loose a piece of who she used to be.

She thinks of Chloe. Of the way her voice cracked when she said “I miss when things were simple.”
Max does too. But she’s not sure she gets to miss anything anymore.

She rolls over, face buried in the pillow, and lets herself feel it—just for a minute. The ache. The guilt. The fear that this new version of her might be too good at shutting things out.

Then she sits up, wipes her face, and grabs her phone. No softness. Not tonight.

Max hears the crunch of tires on gravel, then the slam of a car door. A moment later, the front door creaks open.

“Max! I’m home!”

The voice is bright, familiar, and distant all at once. Max rises slowly, her ribs still sore from training, her mind heavier than it should be. She walks downstairs, each step echoing in the quiet house.

“Hey, Mum.”

Vanessa beams and pulls her into a hug, arms warm and firm. She smells like airport coffee and lavender hand cream. Max stiffens for a second, then lets herself lean in—just a little.

”There you are! How’ve you been?”

Max hesitates. Her throat tightens. *I can’t tell her I joined a gang. Or that I killed the chief of police in Portland. Or that I’m not sure who I am anymore.*

She forces a smile, the kind that feels like a mask.

“I’ve been good. Just the usual. School and home.”

Vanessa nods, satisfied, brushing a strand of hair from Max’s face like she used to when Max was small.

“That’s my girl. We’ve missed you.”

Max swallows hard. *You wouldn’t say that if you knew.*

She follows her mother into the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and old wood wrapping around her like a memory. But the warmth doesn’t reach her bones.

Max joins her mother at the dinner table an hour later. The air feels brittle, like it might splinter under the weight of silence. Outside, a siren wails—distant, but sharp enough to make her flinch.

Vanessa scrolls absently through her phone, then sets it down with a sigh. “He was supposed to be home tonight,” she says. “Got pulled into the Portland chief of police case. Murder.”

Max’s hand stills on her glass. The siren fades, swallowed by the quiet hum of the house.

Vanessa softens. “He’ll come back when he can.”

Max nods, eyes locked on her plate. The food looks untouched, untouched like the truth she’s trying not to taste. She picks up her fork, then sets it down again.

“That sucks,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “Hope they catch whoever did it.”

Vanessa smiles faintly. “He usually does.”

Max forces a smile in return, but her gaze drifts to the window. Another siren cuts through the night—closer this time. Her reflection stares back at her, pale and unreadable.

Chapter Text

Max waves her mother goodbye the next morning, her smile brief and brittle. As soon as the door closes behind her, she walks quickly down the road—far enough that the house disappears behind hedges and morning haze.

She glances once over her shoulder, then swings her bag off and drops it into the boot of a black Mercedes waiting at the curb. The door clicks shut behind her as she climbs in.

Steph glances over, grinning. “On time. That’s what I like to see.”

Max shrugs, eyes forward. “Less time at home, the better.”

Steph nods, shifting the car into gear. The engine hums low as they pull away.

Max leans back, but her gaze drifts to the rearview mirror. For a moment, she sees her mother still standing in the doorway—smaller now, framed by morning light, one hand raised as if she hadn’t stopped waving.

Max blinks. The image vanishes. Just trees. Just road.

Steph glances at her. “You okay?”

Max hesitates. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Steph doesn’t press, but her eyes linger a beat too long before turning back to the road.

Max shifts in her seat, the silence stretching. Another siren cuts through the morning air, distant but rising. She grips the edge of her seat, knuckles pale.

Steph turns the music up slightly, as if to drown it out. “Long night?”

Max nods, but doesn’t elaborate. Her reflection in the window stares back—tight-lipped, unreadable.

Steph pulls up a few houses down from the mansion—two stories of polished stone and manicured hedges, the kind of place that whispers power even in silence.

She kills the engine but doesn’t turn to Max right away. Her gaze lingers on the house, calculating.

“This one’s different from your test,” she says finally. “I need the documents James Amber kept on me—and on our group.”

Max shifts in her seat, fingers curling around the door handle.

“Connor traced them to his office,” Steph continues. “Front portion of the house. Easy access if you’re quick.”

She finally looks at Max. “Sneak in. Grab the files. Leave. No detours. No heroics. And don’t get spotted.”

Max nods, but doesn’t move. Her eyes are fixed on the mansion’s second-floor window, where a curtain stirs—just slightly, like someone’s watching.

“Rachel and her mother are home,” Steph adds, voice low. “So be smart.”

Max’s hand drops from the door. She swallows, throat tight. The air feels heavier now, like the car itself is holding its breath.

Steph watches her. “You hesitating?”

Max shakes her head, too quickly. “No. Just… thinking.”

Steph doesn’t press, but her tone sharpens. “Don’t think too long.”

Max opens the door and steps out, the sound of distant sirens rising behind her like a warning.

Max slips through the open window and lands softly in the lounge room. The air inside is still, heavy with the scent of polished wood and something floral. She crouches low, scanning the space.

Okay. Nobody here. Good.

She moves in slow, deliberate steps toward the edge of the room, eyes locked on the office door. Just a few more feet—

“Rachel!”

Max freezes. The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Sara, Rachel’s mother, enters the kitchen—directly across from Max, who drops behind the couch, heart hammering.

Footsteps echo on the stairs. Rachel appears a moment later, her long blonde hair tangled, eyes bleary.

“Yes, mother?” she says, voice flat.

“I need something from your father’s office. Can you help me look?”

Rachel nods, and the two disappear into the very room Max was about to enter.

Max clenches her jaw. “Shit,” she breathes, barely audible.

She presses herself lower behind the couch, the fabric brushing her cheek. From the office, muffled voices drift out—too soft to make out, but close enough to feel dangerous.

Max presses herself lower behind the couch, breath shallow. From the office, she hears the soft murmur of Rachel and Sara’s voices—too close, too calm. She needs a window. A crack in their rhythm.

Her eyes dart across the room. A vase sits on a narrow console table near the hallway—delicate, glass, balanced too close to the edge.

She slides her phone from her pocket, sets the timer for ten seconds, and tosses it gently across the floor. It lands behind the table with a soft thud.

Five… four… three…

The timer buzzes—sharp, insect-like.

The vase trembles, then tips. It shatters against the hardwood with a crisp, echoing crack.

Footsteps. Voices.

“What was that?” Sara calls out.

Max hears Rachel’s reply, muffled but concerned. The office door creaks open.

Max doesn’t wait. She darts from behind the couch, low and fast, slipping into the hallway and toward the office. Her heart pounds like footsteps behind her.

She reaches the door just as Rachel rounds the corner toward the lounge.

Max slides inside, silent as breath.

Max slips into the office just as Rachel rounds the corner. She presses herself against the wall behind the door, heart thudding in her ears.

Footsteps approach. Then stop.

Rachel stands just outside, silent.

Max doesn’t dare move. The room is dim, lit only by the slant of morning light through the blinds. Dust floats in the air, suspended like time itself.

Outside, Rachel shifts. Max can hear it—the soft creak of floorboards, the rustle of fabric. A breath held. A breath released.

“Did you hear something?” Rachel asks.

Sara’s voice replies, distant. “Probably the vase. I’ll clean it later.”

Rachel doesn’t answer right away. Max watches the shadow under the door—still, then shifting slightly, like Rachel’s leaning in.

Max’s fingers curl around the edge of the desk. She wills herself invisible.

Then, finally, Rachel steps away. Her footsteps retreat, slow and uncertain.

Max exhales, barely.

Max rifles through drawers and boxes with practiced precision, fingers skimming over receipts, letters, and clipped newspaper articles. Her breath catches when she finds a folder labeled The Black Braid.

*Perfect.*

She slips it into her bag and keeps searching. Another folder: The Lighthouse Gang. Her pulse quickens. She doesn’t read it—just stuffs it deep into the bag.

*Got everything. Time to ghost.*

She turns toward the door—

The knob turns.

Max drops instantly, sliding beneath the desk. Her breath hitches. The wood is cold against her back, the carpet scratchy beneath her palms.

The door creaks open.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

A pair of heels enters the room—Sara. Max recognizes the rhythm of her walk, the faint scent of perfume trailing behind her.

Sara mutters something under her breath. Papers rustle. A drawer opens.

Max clamps a hand over her mouth. Her bag presses against her ribs, the stolen documents like a heartbeat.

Then—silence.

Sara stands still. Max can see the edge of her skirt, the way her foot shifts slightly, as if she senses something off.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Max waits, counting each breath like a prayer. The silence stretches, then breaks—Sara’s footsteps retreat, the door clicks shut.

She slides out from under the desk, slow and silent. Her knees ache, her palms are damp, but her grip on the bag is firm.

She retraces her steps through the hallway, past the shattered vase, careful not to crunch the glass. The lounge is empty now, the window still cracked open like an invitation.

Max climbs through, landing softly on the grass outside. No alarms. No voices. Just the wind and the distant hum of traffic.

She walks quickly down the side of the house, ducking behind hedges until she reaches the street. The Mercedes is still there, engine idling.

Steph watches her approach, one brow raised. “Clean?”

Max nods, breath steady now. “Clean.”

Steph smirks and unlocks the door. “Told you. You’re a natural.”

Max slides in, the bag tucked tight against her side. As they pull away, she glances once at the mansion in the rearview mirror. The curtain stirs again—but this time, no one’s watching.

They pull up beside the lighthouse, the sea wind tugging at the edges of the quiet. The hideout door looms ahead—weathered wood, rusted hinges, a place that keeps secrets like breath.

Steph steps out first, waits at the door. Max joins her, bag slung over one shoulder, face unreadable.

“Files, please,” Steph says.

Max hands them over without a word.

Steph flips through the folders, eyes scanning the labels. “You didn’t look in them, right?”

Max shakes her head.

Steph nods, satisfied. “Good. It’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re just not ready yet.”

Max turns to leave, but Steph’s voice stops her.

“I’ll be honest, Max. When Jack first mentioned you—some kid from a prestigious academy—I thought he was joking. What would you know about this life?”

Max doesn’t respond. The wind picks up, brushing hair across her face.

“But you’ve done two jobs. Clean. Quiet. No mess. That’s rare.”

Steph steps closer, her voice lower now. “I’m impressed.”

Max meets her gaze, just for a moment. There’s something in her eyes—not pride, not relief. Something quieter. Something heavier.

Steph watches her a beat longer, then unlocks the hideout door. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Max nods and walks away, the sound of waves crashing below like applause she doesn’t want.

Rachel stands in the hallway, arms crossed, watching her mother disappear into the kitchen. The house feels too quiet now, like it’s holding its breath.

She turns back toward the office, something tugging at her—an itch beneath the surface.

Inside, the air is still. The blinds cast long shadows across the desk. She steps in slowly, eyes scanning the room.

The drawer she opened earlier is slightly ajar. She’s sure she closed it.

Rachel kneels, fingers brushing the edge. A folder is missing. She knows it. She doesn’t know how, but she does.

She checks the others—The Black Braid, The Lighthouse Gang. Gone.

Her breath catches. She stands, heart thudding, and looks around. Nothing’s broken. No signs of forced entry. But the carpet beneath the desk is scuffed, like someone had knelt there. Like someone had hidden.

Rachel walks to the window. It’s open—barely. Just enough.

She stares out at the yard, the hedges, the street beyond. Her reflection in the glass looks pale, uncertain.

Then she sees it: a faint footprint in the garden bed. Not hers. Not her mother’s.

*Someone was here.*

Rachel presses a hand to the window frame, her jaw tightening. She doesn’t know who. Not yet. But she will.

Rachel: As if killing my dad wasn’t enough. They snuck into my house and stole documents relating to them.
Chloe: Fuck. They’re relentless.
Rachel: I’ll find them. If I have to follow in my dad’s footsteps to do it.
Chloe: I’m with you.

Max lounges on her bed, one leg dangling off the edge, flipping through an old comic she found in the storage room. The knock on her door is soft but deliberate.

“Come in,” she calls, not looking up.

Steph steps in, hands behind her back, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I’ve got something for you.”

Max sits up, curious. “I like presents.”

Steph walks over and sits beside her, then reveals what she’s been hiding—a sleek, matte-black mask. Not just any mask. It hums faintly in her hands, lined with microtech: voice modulation, X-ray vision, camera cloaking, thermal filters. The kind of gear you don’t hand out lightly.

Max whistles. “Damn. This is serious.”

Steph nods. “You’ve earned it.”

Max takes the mask, sets the voice changer with a few taps, and slides it on. She turns to Steph, trying to sound menacing.

“I’m here to kill you,” she says.

But the voice that comes out is high-pitched, squeaky, and unmistakably chipmunk.

Steph blinks—then bursts out laughing. Not the usual smirk or dry chuckle. A real laugh. The kind that cracks through her usual cool like sunlight through storm clouds.

Max pulls the mask off, grinning. “Okay, maybe not that setting.”

Steph wipes a tear from her eye, still chuckling. “You’re terrifying. Truly.”

Max leans back, mask in her lap. “Glad I could break the ice.”

Steph’s smile lingers a little longer than usual. “You’re not just good at the job, Max. You’re good for the gang.”

Steph gets up, mask in hand, and heads for the door. She pauses just long enough to flash Max a final smirk—less calculated this time, more real. Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Max leans back against the pillows, the mask still warm in her lap. The laughter, the praise, the moment—it lingers like sunlight after rain.

“Maybe I can break through her cold exterior more often,” she says to herself, a grin tugging at her lips.

She glances at the mask again, then at the door. Steph’s approval felt good. Too good. And that unsettles her more than she wants to admit.

Still, for now, she lets herself feel it. The win. The warmth. The possibility.

Outside, the lighthouse hums with quiet energy. Inside, Max feels something shift—not just in her standing with the gang, but in herself.

Chapter Text

Max wakes to the thud of hurried footsteps echoing up the lighthouse stairs. She slips from bed, barefoot and silent, drawn by the urgency. The air is cool against her skin as she climbs, each step creaking beneath her weight.

At the top, moonlight spills across the worn floorboards. Steph and Mia sit side by side on the edge of the lookout, legs dangling into the night, faces tilted toward the stars. Max crouches just inside the doorway, unseen, listening.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Mia murmurs, voice low.

Steph doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers trace the edge of the railing, then still. “You know… for once, I think she will. She’s got the fire. The talent. It’s just—can she hold her shape when the pressure hits?”

Mia nudges her gently. “You gave her the mask?”

Steph nods. “She earned it. I haven’t felt this kind of spark about a new recruit since… you.” Her voice softens as she leans into Mia’s shoulder. “It’s different this time. Feels like something’s shifting.”

Mia smiles, brushing a kiss to Steph’s temple. “You did good, babe. You always do.”

Max exhales, quiet and steady. She retreats down the stairs, the warmth of their words tucked against her chest.

The morning light slants through the kitchen windows, casting long shadows across the table. Max sits alone, spooning cereal in slow circles, her thoughts still tangled in last night’s conversation. The mask. The stars. The way Steph’s voice had softened when she spoke about her.

Connor slides into the seat beside her with a grin that’s all sunshine and mischief.

“Howdy, Max!”

She looks up, startled, then smiles. “Hey, Connor. How’s it going?”

“Going great!” he says, grabbing a slice of toast and biting into it like it owes him something. “It’s Saturday. Best day of the week. No work. No obligations. Just you and whatever you want.”

Max chuckles, the sound small but genuine. “That sounds… nice.”

Connor leans back in his chair, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. “We call it a ‘free day.’ Basically, do whatever makes you feel alive. Thinking of grabbing a beer later. You should tag along.”

Max hesitates, spoon halfway to her mouth. The idea of joining—of being part of something easy and unguarded—feels both foreign and tempting.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, and for once, she means it.

The bar is dim and familiar, its walls lined with faded posters and the low hum of conversation. Max slides onto a stool beside Connor, the wood worn smooth beneath her fingers. She orders a whiskey, voice steady.

“On the hard stuff,” Connor teases, raising an eyebrow as he signals for a beer. They clink glasses. “Cheers,” he grins.

Max takes a sip, the burn grounding her. Connor leans in slightly, elbows on the bar.

“Now I’ve got you here,” he says, “I’ve gotta ask—how’re you liking the group? The gang?”

She pauses, watching the ice swirl in her glass. “It’s been… interesting,” she says slowly. “No regrets so far. But lying to friends and family—it’s harder than I thought.”

Her voice dips, and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades. Chloe’s laugh. Her mother’s quiet concern. The weight of what she hasn’t said.

Connor’s tone softens. “Yeah. I know. It’s hard. But the alternative—being alone, being powerless—that’s worse.”

Max nods, the whiskey warming her chest. She doesn’t answer right away, but something in her posture shifts—less guarded, more present.

Connor takes a long sip of his beer, then grins over the rim. “So… thoughts on our wonderful leader?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Max chuckles, swirling the last of her whiskey. “Intense when she needs to be. Honestly, she kind of freaked me out at first—kept showing up everywhere like some cryptic ghost with a clipboard.”

Connor snorts.

“But,” Max adds casually, “I made her laugh last night.”

Connor nearly chokes. “You made her laugh?”

Max shrugs, feigning innocence. “Yeeaahhh?”

He stares at her like she’s just announced she tamed a dragon. “That’s… impressive. I’ve been trying for months. Closest I got was a smirk. Maybe.”

Max smiles into her glass, the warmth of the moment settling in her chest. “Guess I caught her off guard.”

Connor leans back, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “You’re full of surprises, Max.” She doesn’t deny it.

A smile creeps up on Max as she swirls the last of her whiskey. “So… brother and sister?”

Connor nods, tipping his beer toward her. “Yep.”

“Who’s older?”

He groans theatrically, rolling his eyes. “Ugh. Her—by seven minutes. And trust me, she never lets me forget it.”

Max giggles, the sound light and genuine. “I never would’ve guessed you two are twins.”

Connor smirks, leaning back with mock pride. “I know, right? I’m clearly the good-looking one.”

Max laughs, shaking her head as she flags the bartender for another drink. The warmth between them settles into something easy—like the kind of friendship that sneaks up on you when you weren’t looking.

A couple more drinks slide across the bar, and the edges of the day begin to blur. Max feels the warmth in her cheeks, the pleasant fuzziness behind her eyes. Her laughter comes easier now, spilling out in bursts as Connor recounts some ridiculous story involving a stolen traffic cone and a very confused raccoon.

She wipes a tear from her eye, giggling. “You’re seriously unhinged.”

Connor raises his glass in mock salute. “And proud of it.”

Max leans her elbow on the bar, chin resting in her hand. “I needed this,” she admits, voice softer now. “It’s been a while since I felt… normal.”

Connor glances at her, the teasing fading just a little. “You are normal, Max. Just… with extra layers.”

She snorts. “Like an onion?”

“Like a parfait,” he corrects, grinning. “Way more delicious.”

Max laughs again, but this time it lingers—less guarded, more real. The bar hums around them, but for a moment, it’s just the two of them in their own little bubble of warmth and whiskey.

Max’s hand hovers over her empty glass, about to signal the bartender, when the door creaks open. A gust of cool air sweeps through the bar, and instinctively, she glances toward it.

Chloe.

Rachel.

Her breath catches. She snaps her gaze away, heart thudding. The whiskey warmth in her chest turns sharp. She yanks her hoodie up, shadowing her face, and hunches slightly over the bar.

Connor notices the shift immediately. “You good?” he asks, voice low.

Max doesn’t look at him. “I know them,” she whispers, barely audible.

Connor follows her gaze, then back to her. “Friends?”

Max nods once, tight. “Used to be.”

The sound of boots on wood draws closer. Chloe’s laugh—unmistakable, raw and bright—echoes through the room. Max presses her fingers to her temple, trying to disappear into the hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

Connor doesn’t push. But his posture shifts—more alert now, protective in a quiet way.

Max keeps her head down, hoodie pulled tight, but her senses are on high alert. Every laugh, every footstep from Chloe and Rachel feels magnified, like the room’s gravity has shifted.

She risks a glance.

Chloe’s leaning against the bar, animated, gesturing with her hands as she talks. Rachel’s beside her, poised and radiant, scanning the room with that quiet, magnetic calm. Max ducks her head again, heart thudding.

Then Rachel pauses.

Her gaze lingers—just for a moment—on Max’s hunched figure. Not long enough to be sure. Not long enough to say she knows. But something flickers in her eyes. Recognition? Curiosity? A ghost of memory?

Max holds her breath.

Chloe turns slightly, following Rachel’s line of sight. Her eyes skim past Max, then move on. No reaction. No sign she’s seen her. But Max feels the heat rise in her chest anyway, like she’s been caught in a lie she hasn’t told yet.

Connor leans in, voice low. “Want to bounce?”

Max nods her head, barely. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t know if they saw her. But she knows she saw them.

Max slides into Connor’s car, the door thunking shut behind her. Only then does she exhale—a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Connor settles into the driver’s seat, glancing over.

“Lighthouse?” he asks.

Max shakes her head. “Junkyard. I want to practice.”

He nods, pulling out. “With what?”

She reaches into her bag and draws out a pistol, the metal dull in the low light. “One I stole from my dad.”

Connor doesn’t comment. Just drives.

At the junkyard, he drops her off without ceremony, tires kicking up dust as he peels away. Max stands for a moment, watching the car shrink into the distance, then turns toward the wreckage.

She moves methodically, collecting empty beer bottles from the gravel and rusted frames. A plank balanced between two crumpled sedans becomes her makeshift target range. She sets the last bottle down, steps back, and pulls the pistol from her waistband.

The gun feels heavier than it did in the bag.

She raises it. Takes aim.

She fires.

The first bottle shatters. *Fuck Rachel.*

The second explodes. *Fuck Chloe.*

The third. *Fuck Mum.*

The fourth. *Fuck Dad.*

She raises the pistol for the fifth, breath sharp, shoulders tight—ready to obliterate whatever name comes next.

A voice cuts through the silence.

“Good aim, considering you’re four whiskeys deep.”

Max lowers the gun, turns. Mia stands behind her, arms crossed, half-smiling.

“I do better after a few,” Max says, voice flat.

Max doesn’t even look.

She fires, and the fifth bottle shatters like the rest—glass scattering across rust and gravel.

Mia raises an eyebrow. “Apparently so.”

Max smirks as she reloads, fingers working the magazine with practiced ease. “Whatcha doing here?” she asks. “Keeping tabs on your new recruit?”

Mia mirrors the smirk, then pulls her own pistol from her jacket. “You’re not the only one who comes here to practice.”

Max’s gaze flicks from the gun to Mia’s face. “You know how to handle that? I thought you were just…” She pauses. “Actually, I don’t know what your role is.”

Mia lets out a quiet laugh. “Everyone learns to shoot. You never know when things go sideways.”

Mia lifts the pistol with practiced ease and fires.

The bottle explodes in a clean burst of glass and dust.

Max watches her, but it’s not the shot that unsettles her—it’s Mia’s eyes. Calm. Focused. Not triumphant, not angry. Just… still.

Like she’s done this before. Like it means nothing.

Max swallows, the weight of her own gun suddenly heavier in her grip.

“You’re good,” she says, trying for casual.

Mia shrugs. “You learn fast when you don’t have a choice.”

Max lines up ten bottles on the plank, each one catching the late light like a dare.

“Let’s play a game,” she says, loading her pistol. “First to shoot five wins.”

Mia smirks, already lifting her gun. “You’re on, fresh meat.”

Max takes the first shot. The bottle shatters cleanly.

Mia fires next—another hit. The glass sings as it breaks.

Second round: Max nails it again, jaw tight, eyes locked. Mia follows, but her bottle wobbles before falling. Not a clean break.

Max smirks. “That count?”

Mia shrugs. “Still down.”

Third shot—Max misses. The bottle stays standing, untouched. Her fingers twitch.

Mia doesn’t miss. Her third bottle explodes, and now she’s ahead.

Max reloads slower this time. The game’s no longer playful. Her fourth shot hits, but the rhythm’s off. She’s breathing harder.

Mia lines up her fourth. Fires. Misses.

Max glances at her, surprised. Mia’s expression doesn’t change, but her grip shifts—tighter now.

Fifth round. Max fires. Hit.

Mia hesitates. Just for a second. Then shoots. The bottle breaks.

Five each.

They lower their guns. Dust settles. The junkyard’s quiet again.

Max exhales. “Guess we’re both dangerous.”

Mia smiles, but there’s something unreadable in her eyes. “Guess so.”

Mia holsters her gun and turns without ceremony. “Thanks for the game,” she says over her shoulder.

Max watches her go, the echo of shattered glass still humming in her ears.

She’s not sure what unsettles her more—Mia’s aim, or the calm behind it.

The junkyard feels different now. Quieter. Like something was tested and left unresolved.

Max lowers her pistol, but doesn’t put it away.

She’s not done yet.

Max lifts the gun again.

No bottles left. Just rusted metal and silence.

She fires anyway.

The sound cracks through the junkyard, echoing off twisted frames and broken glass. A bird startles from a nearby hood and takes flight. She lowers the pistol, breath uneven. It wasn’t about hitting anything. It was about not being done.

Max steps into the hideout, the door clicking shut behind her. She’s halfway to her room when Steph’s voice crackles through the intercom.

“Max. My room.”

No explanation. Just the clipped command.

Max climbs to the second level, boots heavy on the metal stairs. Steph waits with her arms folded, posture sharp. Connor sits at the table, one leg bouncing, eyes flicking between them.

Steph doesn’t waste time.

“Connor mentioned your little detour at the pub. Said you ran into some people you weren’t thrilled to see.” Her tone is calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “I need names, Max. Not for retaliation—just to make sure I don’t schedule jobs that put them in the crossfire.”

She pauses, gaze steady.

“You have my word. This is about protection, not punishment.”

Max exhales, the weight of the question settling in her chest. “Okay. I trust you.”

She leans against the wall, arms crossed, voice low. “The blue-haired girl is Chloe Price. We were inseparable growing up—until last year. Things started to drift.”

Steph nods, waiting.

Max hesitates. “Her partner’s… more complicated. I killed her father.” She lets the words hang. “Her name is Rachel Amber.”

Steph’s eyes widen, the name hitting like a slap. “You know Rachel?”

Max shrugs, gaze distant. “I wouldn’t say that. We met once. Morning after the job.” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t worry—I don’t like her.”

Steph nods, arms still folded. “Okay. Good. Thank you, Max.”

She glances toward the window, then back. “I’ll do what I can to keep Rachel out of it. Our target was her father—not her.”

A beat passes. The air feels heavier.

“You’re dismissed.”

Max lingers for half a second, unreadable, then turns and walks out, boots echoing down the hall.

Steph rubs her temples, muttering under her breath. “Of course it was Amber.”

Connor leans back in his chair, casual. “I doubt she’ll do anything.”

Steph’s gaze snaps to him, sharp. “You don’t know her like I do.”

She straightens, voice low but certain. “She’ll finish what her father started. Not now. She’s smart—she’ll wait. But give it a few years.”

Her eyes drift toward the window, distant. “She’ll come for us. One way or another.”

Max rounds the corner and nearly bumps into Mia, fresh from whatever mission had her gone.

“Sup, sharpshooter,” Mia says with a wink, brushing dust off her jacket.

Max smiles, the tension from upstairs still lingering in her shoulders. “You weren’t half bad yourself.”

They pass each other with a nod—no need for more.

Max slips into her room, shuts the door, and flops onto the bed. The mattress creaks under her weight. For a moment, she just stares at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle in.

Max is deep in sleep, limbs tangled in the sheets, when a knock rattles her door.

“Max? Max, wake up!” Steph’s voice is urgent, bubbling with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. “You’ve got to see this!”

Max groans, blinking against the dim light. “What?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Steph doesn’t answer—just waves her over. “Hurry up!”

Still half-dreaming, Max pulls on her jacket and follows Steph up the stairs. The air is cool, the night quiet.

At the top, Steph steps aside, revealing the sky.

A cascade of shooting stars streaks across the darkness, silent and brilliant. Max’s breath catches. The whole horizon seems alive, shimmering with motion.

Steph grins, eyes reflecting the sky. “Worth it?”

Max doesn’t answer—just stares, the weight of the day momentarily forgotten.

Max settles beside Steph, the rooftop cool beneath them. Steph’s eyes stay fixed on the sky, wide with wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs.

Max smiles, the stars reflected faintly in her gaze. “It really is.”

They sit in silence, the kind that feels earned—no tension, no urgency. Just the hush of the night and the streaks of light carving across the dark.

Steph breaks it, voice soft. “I’ve always loved shooting stars. I look for them after I make a big decision. If I don’t see any, I take it as a sign—bad call. I make amends.”

She pauses, watching one blaze across the horizon.

“If I do…” She turns to Max, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. “Well. You weren’t half bad, that big decision.”

Max doesn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth lifts. The stars keep falling.

Max leans back, letting the rooftop chill settle into her bones. She glances at Steph—black braid, black clothes, all sharp edges and shadow. But her smile is radiant, eyes wide with wonder as another star streaks across the sky.

It catches Max off guard. That kind of joy. That kind of softness.

She watches Steph a moment longer, then asks, quiet but curious, “Why’d you get me up and not Mia? Aren’t you two… together?”

Steph doesn’t look away from the sky. “Mia’s seen this before,” she says, voice low. “She doesn’t believe in signs.”

Another star blazes overhead.

“I thought you might,” Steph adds, finally turning to Max. Her smile lingers, but there’s something else behind it—something unspoken.

Max doesn’t answer. She just watches the stars fall, wondering what Steph sees in them, and what she sees in her.

Chapter Text

Monday

Max steps into her first class of the week and freezes.

“Hey Max!” Steph calls, waving her over like they’ve done this a hundred times. They haven’t. Steph’s never been in any of Max’s classes before—she’d remember.

Max slides into the seat beside her, slow and cautious. “Hi Steph…”

Steph’s grinning too wide. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

Max studies her. The brightness is off. Too polished. She knows Steph well enough to recognize the performance and plays along.

“Great day,” she echoes, reaching into her bag for her workbook.

Steph’s gaze drifts to the dorm building outside. “You won’t need that today.”

Max pauses. “Why not?”

Steph winks.

Chloe and Rachel slip into the room a moment later. Rachel’s first day back since losing her dad. She pauses, eyes locking on Steph. Something flickers—recognition, suspicion, grief—before she shrugs and sinks into the seat beside Chloe.

Max catches Steph’s exhale. “Phew,” she mutters, barely audible.

Then Jefferson walks in.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, setting his bag down. His gaze lands on Rachel. “Good to see you back.”

Rachel nods. “Thank you, sir.”

Class settles into quiet work. Max keeps glancing at Steph, still trying to decode why her leader—her unpredictable, magnetic, dangerous leader—is suddenly in her class.

Jefferson breaks the silence. “Who wants to share something they shot this week?”

A student starts describing a photo. Steph doesn’t listen. She lifts her hand toward the window, fingers curled into a mock gun.

Bang.

Glass shatters. A bullet tears through the room and hits Jefferson in the neck. He crumples, blood blooming across his shirt.

Screams erupt. Chairs scrape. Students flee.

Except Max. And Steph.

Steph grins, eyes on the dorm building. “God, I love that girl.”

Max turns. Mia stands in the window across the quad, calm as ever, packing away her sniper rifle like it’s just another Monday.

Steph walks to Jefferson, kneels beside his twitching body. She leans in, voice low and venomous.

“Payback, motherfucker. Remember me?”

She spits in his face.

Steph stomps his head.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five.

The sound is sickening. Wet. Final.

Max grabs her arm, yanking her back. “Steph—enough. We have to go. Now.”

Steph blinks, breath ragged. The fury drains from her face, replaced by something colder. Composed.

She straightens, wipes blood from her boot on the edge of Jefferson’s desk, and follows Max out the door.

They cross the grass in silence, Steph’s boots leaving dark impressions in the dew. Her car waits at the edge of the lot, engine off, windows down like it’s been expecting her.

From the steps, Rachel watches.

“I swear I know her,” she murmurs to Chloe, arms folded tight across her chest. Her voice is low, wary. “She’s familiar.”

Chloe doesn’t answer right away. Her jaw’s clenched, eyes still wide from the blood, the bang, the way Jefferson dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

“She didn’t rush,” Rachel adds. “Everyone else ran. She stayed. Max stayed.”

Chloe finally speaks, voice hoarse. “Don’t look into it too hard. Everyone reacts differently to fight or flight situations.”

Rachel shrugs watching them get into the car and drive away “I guess.”

Steph pulls around the corner and Mia climbs in, dropping her bag with a thud.

“Good shooting, Tex,” Steph says, eyes on the road.

Mia smirks. “Cheers, babe. Felt good to use it again. Been a while.”

Steph drives. The lighthouse looms ahead, stark against the fading sky.

She glances at Max. “Glovebox. Black folder. Open it.”

Max hesitates, then reaches in. The folder’s cold, slick. Inside: a photo. Steph—drugged, wrists bound, unconscious on a tile floor. Her face slack. Her body small.

Max stares. Her breath catches.

Steph doesn’t look away. “Now do you understand why I ordered his death?”

Max nods, voice low. “Fully. If I’d known this, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

Steph smiles, slow and sharp. “Good to know.”

Steph parks at the lighthouse. The wind’s stronger here, tugging at their clothes, whispering through the grass.

“Go ahead,” she tells Mia, nodding toward the base.

Then she grabs Max’s arm, pulling her aside.

“Max,” she says, voice low but firm. “I don’t want you thinking we kill people for the fuck of it. We don’t. Never have. Never will. Everyone we’ve taken out—there was a reason. Just because you don’t know it doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Understood?”

Max meets her gaze. “Understood.”

Steph nods once and starts up the hill.

Max hesitates, then calls after her. “Can I ask you something?”

Steph doesn’t answer.

“You know Rachel, don’t you? You looked relieved when she didn’t recognize you.”

Steph stops at the lighthouse door. Her hand rests on the handle.

“I did once,” she says. “That’s all you’re getting for now.”

Max nods, the wind catching her hair as she steps inside.

Max sits cross-legged on her bed, turning the mask over in her hands. The others are celebrating downstairs—music, laughter, the hum of adrenaline—but she’d declined. Too much noise. Too much aftermath.

Her door creaks open.

“Mind if I join?” Mia asks.

Max shrugs. “Sure.”

Mia drops beside her, eyes flicking to the mask. “To your liking?”

Max sets it down beside her. “I think so. Need to see it in action before I say for sure.”

Mia grins. “Steph and I might be working on one as we speak. But I didn’t tell you.”

She winks. Max smiles. “Hell yes.”

Bzzt.

Max’s phone buzzes. A message lights the screen.

Vanessa: Come home.

Her smile fades. “Dammit.”

Mia watches her. “You okay?”

Max stuffs the phone into her pocket. “Yeah. Just my mum. Wants me home. Not a great thing to say for a criminal, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” Mia replies coldly.

Max leaves her room and goes downstairs to leave.

Steph’s voice cuts through. “Where you going?” Max stops, hand on the doorknob. “Home for a bit…” she says, barely above a whisper. Steph stands, eyes narrowing. “Want a ride?”

Max turns, surprised. Then she smiles—small, grateful. “Sure.” Steph nods, already reaching for her keys.

The car hums beneath them, headlights cutting through the dusk as they wind toward town. The lighthouse fades in the rearview.

Steph drives one-handed, the other tapping rhythmically on the wheel. Max watches the blur of trees, the way the sky bruises into night.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this happened?” Max asks, voice soft. Steph doesn’t answer right away. “Sometimes. But it’s pointless.” Max nods. “Still. I think I’d be in art school. Maybe New York. Maybe broke.”

Steph smirks. “Definitely broke.”

They lapse into silence again. The kind that isn’t awkward—just heavy.

Max glances over. “You said you knew Rachel once.” Steph’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“Were you close?”

Steph exhales through her nose. “Close enough that I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Max doesn’t push. She just sits with it.

Steph flicks on the indicator. “You ever gonna tell your mum what you’re part of?”

Max laughs, bitter. “She still thinks I’m the quiet one.” Steph glances at her. “You are. Quiet doesn’t mean harmless.” Max looks out the window. “Neither does loud.”

They pull into her street. Porch light on. Curtains drawn.

Steph parks but doesn’t kill the engine.

Max spots the car in the driveway. Her stomach drops.
“Fuuuuccckkk,” she mutters.

Steph follows her gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Max’s hand hovers over the door handle. “My dad’s home.” She opens the door, voice low. “He’s a detective. He’s been digging into the Portland chief of police’s death.”

Steph drums her fingers on the wheel. “That’s… complicated.”

Max nods, already halfway out. “Yeah.”

She pauses, one foot still in the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

Steph watches her go. “Anytime.”

Max steps inside. Her parents are hunched over the kitchen table, papers scattered like fallen leaves.

“Uh… hey, guys?”

Ryan glances up, distracted. “Evening, Max. How’re you holding up?”

She shrugs, lingering in the doorway. “I’m alright. How’s the case?”

Ryan sighs, flipping through notes. “Frustrating. No leads. Whoever did it was an expert.”

Max’s heart stutters. *Ooh, I’m an expert,* she thinks, smirking—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

She watches him scribble, oblivious. He’s looking for someone brilliant, someone invisible.
She’s right here. And he doesn’t see her.

Steph pulls over at the beach. The ocean is dark, restless. She watches the waves churn, then dials.

“Connor, I need you to double-check the Portland job. Max’s dad is a detective—he’s digging into it.”

Connor groans. “Again? I’ve checked it four times.”

Steph doesn’t flinch. “Make it five. I don’t want even a whisper of evidence.”

A pause. Then: “Fine.”

She hangs up, eyes still on the water. It doesn’t feel clean. Not yet. Steph opens the glovebox and pulls out a worn envelope. Inside, a photo: Rachel beaming on the Los Angeles pier, sunlight in her hair. Steph beside her, clutching fairy floss, flashing a peace sign like nothing could touch them.

Before the fracture.

She traces the edge of the photo with her thumb. A single tear slips down her cheek.

Then she slides it back into the envelope, shuts the glovebox, and starts the engine.

Steph walks back into base and over to Connor who once again confirms there’s no trace. Satisfied she goes to her room and takes a shower.

Max is still at home. She sits in the lounge, scrolling through her phone, the glow casting faint shadows across her face. Her dad, Ryan, hunches over a stack of paperwork at the coffee table, flipping pages, scribbling notes, chasing ghosts.

After a moment, Max slides closer, settling beside him on the couch.
“Any luck?” she asks, voice low.

Ryan exhales through his nose, shakes his head without looking up.
“Nothing. No camera footage. No DNA. No trace.” He pauses, fingers tapping the edge of a report. “I almost respect them.”

Bzzt.

Steph: How’s it going?

Max glances at the message, then gets up and heads to her room. Door closed. Phone in hand.

Max: Good. Slightly awkward asking him about a murder I did, but I don’t think he suspects anything.

Steph: You’re insane.
Your dad’s a detective.
Your mum’s a cop.
Your best friend is dating the daughter of the cop you killed.
Like… what?

Max stares at the screen.

Max: How do you know my mum’s a cop?

Steph: Oh… Connor did some digging.

Max: Ffs.

Steph: Sorry he gets curious sometimes.

Max: It’s fine.

Max opens the bedside drawer and wraps her fingers around the gun.
It’s cold. Familiar.

She sits on the edge of the bed, weight forward, the weapon resting in her lap like a secret she’s stopped fearing.

The memory comes again—sharp, fast, uninvited.
The chief of police.
The shot.
The silence after.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry.
Guilt used to claw at her. Now it barely whispers.

Every day, it fades.
Every day, she holds the gun a little steadier.