We spend the next two hours running scenarios. Who covers which exit, how to time hitting them all at the same time, what to do if one of us gets caught. Rhett has a flowchart for every possible fuck-up; Bam has a backup gun for every person in the room.
And Cai has the men, waiting, ready.
The plan is coming together.
I watch them all, weighing strengths and weaknesses. I know who will go balls to the wall, who will snap, who will laugh while pulling the trigger. I know myself.
It is all so beautiful, in its own way. The choreography of war.
Eventually, the whiskey runs out and Bam crashes on the couch, boots still on. Rhett takes the guest bed, muttering about legacy and loyalty as he disappears down the hall. Colton is already outside, heading back to his cabin, a drunk and giggling Eve exiting Bam’s.
Caius lingers, staring at the Board roster one last time. He looks up, and for a second, the mask slips. I see a man who would burn down the world just to see his kid safe.
“We’ll win,” he says, but it’s not a question.
I nod.
He claps me on the shoulder, then heads to the empty cabin at the end of the row that would have been his.
I sit alone at the table, staring at the maps, the names, the future. My hand is steady. My heart is not.
This isn’t about legacy anymore.
It’s about protection.
It’s about making sure no one ever touches her, or any of them, ever again.
I trace the path on the blueprint, finger running from the front gates to the ritual ground at the heart of the campus before putting it on the table and heading out.
It’s not a plan.
It’s a promise.
Outside, the woods are silent as I walk to my cabin. Doors unlocked, it’s musty as fuck, but the couch will do.
Tonight, we planned.
Tomorrow, we will fill a graveyard.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, I dream of something other than violence.
I dream of her, standing in the ruins, alive and unbroken.
The next morning, I head back to Rhett’s. Bam is stomping around the kitchen making eggs in a skillet so black it could absorb light. He hands me a mug of burnt coffee and a nod, then disappears outside to smoke and punch the heavy bag hanging from the porch rafters.
Colton and Rhett are already back at the table, reviewing the plan, revising what doesn’t feel perfect. It’s not nerves. It’s the opposite: a hunger for the moment when the planning stops and the violence starts.
Caius is on the phone, pacing the length of the main room with the exact precision of a man who has measured the space down to the inch. He’s wearing casual clothes, because sleeping in a suit would suck dick. When he hangs up, he pours four fingers of whiskey into a glass and holds it up.
Rhett looks at the bottle, then at me. “Breakfast of champions?”
I take it, the bite familiar, the burn almost pleasant. Bam drifts in, pours his own, and the five of us stand in a loose circle around the fireplace.
No one says a word. This is ritual, not a toast. The last time we did this, it was graduation, and the world was still a place we could shape by force of will.
Today, it’s a place that needs to be razed and rebuilt from the inside out.
I swallow the whiskey, wipe my mouth, and set the glass down.
