Genny holds my gaze for a second longer, searching for a fracture I won't let her find. Then she nods, a short, sharp movement, and turns back to her screen. But the formation doesn't break. They stay tense, coiled, waiting for the next explosion. Even my friends can't intervene directly because Gio hasn't broken a rule. He hasn't touched me. He hasn't threatened me. He's just sitting there, a silent, radioactive isotope contaminating the room. I am utterly alone. Surrounded by people who care about me, I have never been more isolated.
The silence doesn't last. It's shattered by a vibration, sharp and synchronized, rippling through the room like a seismic aftershock. It starts at Clara's desk, then Talia's, then Genny's. A chorus of chimes that makes the hockey players look up from their slouching. I glance at my phone, face-up on the table. Thescreen lights up with a notification from The Briarcliff Whisper. The campus gossip blog. The headline is a screaming block of caps: EXPOSED: GIO ROSSI'S VIOLENT PAST.
I don't open it. I don't have to. The preview text is enough. Multiple suspensions for aggravated assault. Insubordination charges. A history of instability. My stomach drops. This is the narrative that's been haunting the hallways for weeks. Gio Rossi, the loose cannon. The punk who can't control his temper. The liability.
I look up, my heart hammering against my ribs, expecting chaos. Expecting Gio to explode, to throw a chair, to roar denial. The guys are already reaching for their phones, eyes widening as they read the leaked files. The air in the room is suddenly electric with whispered curses and shifting bodies.
But Gio doesn't move. He's still sitting in that chair, facing me. He hasn't checked his phone. He hasn't flinched. His hands are resting on the table, loose and relaxed. He's looking at me with that same terrifying blankness.
It hits me then, cold and hard. He knew. He knew this was coming. He's not surprised. He's not angry. He's just... waiting. My mind races, trying to connect the dots. Rylan. Gio's former best friend, now a ghost in their dynamic. Gio called him out weeks ago for what he said about Talia, for the disrespect toward the Coach's daughter. They aren't close anymore, but the history is there. Is this retaliation? I don't have proof. It's just a suspicion, a dark instinct whispering in the back of my mind. But the timing is too convenient. This isn't just a leak. It's a warning shot. Someone is showing us what they're willing to do. And if this is what they're willing to put on blast—public records, school disciplinary files—what the hell is being held back? What is worse than a history of violence?
The narrative on the screen clashes violently with the man in front of me. The blog says he's unstable, a chaotic force ofnature. But Gio Rossi hasn't moved a muscle. He is the most controlled thing in this room. He is a statue in a sea of panic.
"Did you see this?" Genny breathes, her eyes wide as she scrolls. "Zoë, he—"
"I see it," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intend. I can't look away from Gio. He's watching me watch the room. He's gauging my reaction. Waiting to see if I believe the file. Waiting to see if I run. The punk narrative is a lie. Or maybe it's just a mask. But the man sitting two tables away, the one who just ran off a peer with two words and is now weathering a public assassination attempt without blinking... he's something else entirely. He's dangerous, but not in the way the blog says. My suspicion curdles into something heavier. This isn't just a smear campaign. It's a declaration of war. And Gio is the only one who seems to know the rules of engagement.
The room is dissolving into chaos. Whispers are escalating into arguments, the hockey team shifting from confusion to defensive aggression as they read the lies on their screens. The air is thick with betrayal. But Gio is still sitting there, an island of terrifying calm in the center of the storm. He hasn't looked at his phone. He hasn't looked at his teammates. He's just looking at me. Waiting.
My instinct is to recoil. To look away, to pack my bag, to run from the blast radius before the shrapnel hits. That's what the blog wants. That's what whoever leaked this wants—isolation. They want him to stand alone. They want me to see a monster and retreat.
I don't retreat. I drag my gaze away from the screen, away from the words aggravated assault and unstable, and lock it onto him. I don't smile. I don't soften. I just hold his stare, letting the silence stretch between us, taut and vibrating. I am accepting his war. If this is a battlefield, and someone just fired a warningshot across his bow, then I am choosing my position. I give him a small, sharp nod. I'm not running.
Something shifts in his face. It's microscopic—a fractional relaxation of the muscle in his jaw, a change in the pressure of his stare. He doesn't thank me. He doesn't smile. He just nods back, once. A transaction sealed.
I turn back to my laptop. The screen is still glowing with the smear campaign, but I minimize the window. My pen comes up in my hand.
"Because it's noise," I say, my voice steady. "And we have work to do."
I'm his stability. He's losing his grip, the ground shifting beneath him, but I'm anchoring him. I'm complicit now. I've walked into the lion's den, looked the beast in the eye, and decided to stay.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 23
Zoë
The Student Union is a monument to beige mediocrity. A sea of laminate tables and uncomfortable chairs, all bathed in the flat, unforgiving light of a thousand fluorescent panels. It's the perfect place to pretend we're just two students. The lie tastes like ash in my mouth.
I'm already at a table when he arrives. Without looking up, I feel him approach the same way I feel a change in barometric pressure. A shift in the atmosphere that signals a storm. He drops his backpack onto the chair across from me, the thud too loud for the quiet hum of the room.
"You're late," I say, not looking up from my laptop. The spreadsheet for the ethics case study is open, a grid of meaningless numbers.
"I'm here," he says, his voice a low rumble. He sits, his long legs sprawling under the table, his knee brushing mine. I pull my leg back, a sharp, reflexive jerk. The contact was fleeting, but it left a trail of heat, an unwelcome ghost of his hands on my skin in the supply closet. I hate myself for the way my body remembers.
"The prompt asks us to analyze the conflict between individual autonomy and systemic good," I say, my voice clipped and professional. "I think we should structure it around deontological versus utilitarian frameworks."
He leans forward, his elbows on the table, crowding my space. He smells like cold air and something clean that makes my stomach clench. "That's what everyone's going to do. It's the easy answer."
"It's the right answer," I counter, finally looking at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on mine. "The assignment is to follow instructions."
A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth. "You love following instructions, don't you, Barnes?" The double meaning lands like a punch. Heat crawls up my neck, and I redirect my anger to the screen. "Let's just get this done. I'll take the first section on deontology. You can take utilitarianism."
"No." He reaches across the table, his finger tapping the screen right over the paragraph I was about to copy into a new document. His hand is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. My fingers still over the keyboard, I freeze. "We start with the system. The corporation. The pressure they were under. That's the interesting part. The ethics of some middle manager is secondary."
"That's not the assignment," I say, my voice tighter than before.
"The assignment is a case study," he counters, his finger still on my screen. He's not touching me, but he might as well be. Theproximity is a violation. "You study the whole case. The parts that fit into a neat little box come later."
