Chapter 1 – Raelyn
“Be careful,”I mutter, rolling my eyes. “It’s just research. Why’s he acting like I’m a spy for a criminal organization?”
A student passing by gives me a look for talking to myself. I flash him a mind-your-business grin and keep walking, clutching my assignment printouts to my chest while sliding my bag higher up my arm.
It’s noon. I’m exhausted. And more than a little irritated.
Professor Kieran’s reaction still needles me.
I expected him to be proud of my work, but his expression was too cautious, too stiff, like I’d wandered into a minefield instead of submitting a criminology paper. He praised my analysis, my sources, and my attention to patterns. Then he went quiet before telling me I’m “digging too deep.” He suggested I redirect my focus.
Redirect.
As if curiosity is something you can switch off.
All I want now is to get home, eat Ellie’s pie, and drown the day in milk tea and silence.
The criminology building is packed at this hour. The hallway buzzes with noise—voices overlapping, shoes scuffing against tile, laughter bouncing off the walls. I weave through the crowd with practiced ease, nudging past backpacks and elbows, my boots striking a steady rhythm against the floor.
Noise doesn’t bother me. Never has.
My paper—”Digital Crime Networks and Adaptive Syndicate Structures”—is something I actually care about. Not just academically. Personally. It’s a tribute, whether Professor Kieran sees it or not. A nod to the instincts I inherit from my father, the man who taught me to question patterns and follow what doesn’t want to be seen.
Professor Kieran says I’m digging too deep.
I shrug it off.
It is academic.
Everything in that paper comes from open sources, historical cases, and my own analysis. No classified material. No lines crossed. No laws broken.
If Professor Kieran is too soft to understand that, that’s on him.
Not my problem.
I tighten my grip on the papers and keep moving.
I turn the corner—and walk straight into someone. Solid. Unmoving. Like I’ve slammed into a wall that breathes.
My papers fly from my hands, scattering across the floor. My heart lurches in embarrassment, heat rushing to my face as I drop to my knees to gather them.
“I’m so sorry—” I start, already bracing for irritation.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s a presence beside me. Close. Quiet. Heavy in a way that makes the air feel different.
I look up.
The man kneeling across from me is watching me with storm-gray eyes, unnervingly calm and sharply observant. He’s not startled or annoyed. As if this exact moment was anticipated. As if I’m an interruption he expected.
Something tightens low in my stomach.
He’s dressed in charcoal and black, elegant but understated—no logos, no excess. Every line of him is deliberate. Controlled. His gaze strips through me with unsettling precision, and I have the strange, irrational sense that he’s seeing things I haven’t said aloud. Things I don’t even know how to name.
I don’t like it.
I also can’t look away.