He’s fighting for his life.
“Hey, Rossi!” The shout rips out of my throat before I can stop it. “Try hitting the puck instead of the wall!”
Focus stays locked on the rink. No acknowledgment. Then his head snaps toward my voice, a hitch in motion just long enough to register.
He knows I’m here.
Play resumes. Gio steals the puck, movement exploding into raw aggression. A defender gets dodged with violence that makes everyone gasp. He barrels toward the net, flying, completely unchecked.
And then he misses.
The shot should have sealed it—wide-open net, goalie down—but it sails high. Iron screams as the puck cracks off the crossbar, echoing like a gunshot.
One heartbeat of silence.
Then a collective groan.
“Shit!” Frustration boils over as I yell. “My grandmother has better aim, and she’s blind!”
The crease holds him still, stick clattering to the ice. His gaze lifts to the stands, scanning chaos, then locks onto me withterrifying precision. No celebration. No acknowledgment. Just a stare—chest heaving, eyes burning with rage threaded through something sharper.
Pure hunger.
For a suspended second, everything else dissolves. Just him and me, tied together by his miss and my voice.
He turns first, skating back to the bench, head bowed. Tension in my shoulders tightens instead of easing.
Play resets, but the energy shifts. The Titans move as one now, synchronized and brutal. Opponents scramble. Whatever recklessness lived there sharpens into something lethal.
Less than a minute remains. The puck squirts loose in the neutral zone.
Instant reaction—Gio explodes forward, speed smearing the stands into color. Two defenders split by a move so filthy it feels criminal. He drives hard to the net, body committing in one fluid motion, wrist snapping top shelf.
The lamp lights before the goalie even processes the release.
A horn blares. The building detonates. Undefeated again. Sound goes feral, crashing in a physical wave over the glass.
By the crease, he pauses, glove resting on his stick. His eyes lift and find me immediately.
I freeze.
The realization hits with the force of the goal itself. I focused him. I sharpened the blade. I pulled the trigger.
And now he’s coming for me.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 5
Zoë
Friday morning comes with fluorescent lights and a line.
A plain line. A bureaucratic one. A quiet, obedient line of students clutching phones and portfolios and coffee like talismans, waiting their turn to be told yes or no by someone who knows their name only as a file.
The administrative wing of the design building smells like floor wax and quiet power. The kind of clean meant to read as professional and ends up reading as predatory. Glass walls. Nameplates. A reception desk that feels like a checkpoint.
And there it is—exactly where it’s always been.
