I arrive at the Administration Building with three minutes to spare. The receptionist is the same as always, lips pursed, eyes flicking from my face to the nameplate on her desk.
“Mr. Roth,” she says, voice clipped. “They’re waiting for you.”
“Of course they are.”
I cross the lobby, ignoring the stares as I approach the conference room.
At the door, I pause. I could walk away. I could torch this entire institution and watch the world burn. But I don’t.
Revenge is better when it’s slow.
I open the door and step inside.
The Feral Boys are already there: Rhett sprawled in his chair, arms crossed; Bam to the right, flicking that stupid knife open and shut; Colton, playing on his phone, a stupid grin spread over his face.
Five Board members sit on the far side, hands folded, faces shadowed by the low light.
I take my seat and let the silence build.
Mr. Steele clears his throat.
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Roth. We have much to discuss.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “I’m all ears.”
Steele, Marcus, the two Abernathy brothers, and some woman I don’t recognize shuffle papers before Steele clears his throat. They wear their suits like armor, but the lines are softer than the cuts we favor. They’re the last generation, and they know it.
Steele opens the meeting with a look, not a word. His eyes find each of us in turn, pausing long enough to remind us we’re still on his leash.
“Let’s get started,” he says. His voice is silk over ice. “Mr. Roth, I assume you won’t mind that Dean Marcus has joined us. Your father declined. And look, you found your way back to decorum.”
I glance at my tie, feigning surprise. “Always a pleasure to rise to your standards.”
He doesn’t smile.
Dean Marcus sits third from the left, hands folded, face arranged in what’s supposed to be neutrality. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone, really. I search for a crack—some sign that he knows I fucked his daughter on his desk, that I left her sobbing and remade, but all I see is vacancy.
The Abernathy twins whisper to each other. They’re some big wig oil and gas founder. Guess they pulled in the big guns for this meeting. Usually these guys stay in the shadows, but not today. The old woman wheezes, maybe a laugh, maybe a death rattle.
Steele steeples his fingers. “You know why we’re here.”
Rhett snorts. “Because tradition demands it.”
“Because protocol demands it,” Steele corrects, voice never rising. “Because if we don’t maintain the appearance of order, the world will assume we’ve lost it.”
Colton says nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
Steele produces a folder from the stack in front of him. It’s thick, bound in leather, heavier than it needs to be. He lays it in the center of the table, perfectly set between himself and us.
“This is the contract,” he says. “It outlines your obligations as the chosen Hunter. The terms are non-negotiable, but we allow you the dignity of reading them before you sign.”
He slides the folder to me. I don’t open it right away. I run my fingers along the spine, feeling for traps.
Steele continues. “You will find nothing unfamiliar. The Hunt proceeds as it has for a century. The only innovation is that we trust you will not deviate from the script, like the rest of you have. Amara’s name has been added to the Book and your signature solidifies the terms of our agreements.”
Rhett grins. “You make us sound like actors.”
“You are,” says Marcus. His voice is flat. “You exist to perform.”
