CHAPTER 451: ON ME

"No," I said.

"—so everyone’s dying to know. You’ve got TWO girls now? Madison Torres AND Sofia Delgado? What is this, some kind of harem anime situation? Are you the protagonist? Is there a beach episode coming up?"

Nuclear silence descended on our table.

Madison’s expression could’ve stripped paint from a battleship. "Did you just compare us to anime?"

Connor’s tiny hamster brain finally caught up to the fact he’d just stepped on a landmine. "I—no, I meant it as a compliment—"

"How is that a compliment?" Sofia’s voice was quiet but deadly, the sound of a predator before it strikes.

"Connor," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerously low register. "Stop. Talking."

"But the livestream—" he whimpered.

"The people," I said, enunciating each word, "can fuck off."

He pivoted, a true parasite looking for a new host. "Different question! Kayla Richards! She’s back! You two have HISTORY! How do you feel about—"

Across the table, Sarah’s expression went murderously, terrifyingly blank.

"—and TOMMY!" Connor spun again, his survival instincts finally kicking in. "The people are saying Peter was the real genius behind your software! What’s the split? How much of that hundred mil did he get?"

That was it.

Tommy stood up.

Not fast. Not slow. Just... stood. Deliberately. Like a grizzly who had finally been poked one time too many.

"Connor."

"Yeah, bro?"

"Walk with me." His voice was almost unnervingly calm.

"I’m kinda in the middle of—"

Tommy’s hand landed on Connor’s shoulder. It wasn’t a violent gesture. It was just heavy. Final. "NOW."

"Dude, I’m just doing journalism—" Connor stammered.

"Journalism is reporting facts. You’re doing ambulance-chasing gossip for TikTok clout." Tommy started steering him toward the exit, his grip an inescapable vice. "We’re gonna go have a little talk about boundaries."

"BOUNDARIES ARE FOR PEOPLE WITHOUT CONTENT STRATEGIES—"

"THIS IS ME NOT THROWING YOU THROUGH A WINDOW—"

Their voices faded down the hallway, Connor’s pathetic whining protesting against Tommy’s immovable resolve. The entire cafeteria watched them go in stunned silence.

Then it erupted.

Laughter. Applause. Someone started a slow clap that spread like wildfire. A freshman in the back yelled, "GET HIS ASS!"

Connor Hayes had finally pushed the right person, and the consequences were glorious.

Ashley shook her head, a genuine smile finally breaking through her deadpan façade. "Your friend is my new favorite person."

"Tommy’s a saint for not actually throwing him through a window," Madison said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Mia nodded, completely unfazed. "He gets like that. Very sweet until you cross a line."

"It’s hot," Reeves said dreamily looking at me.

"Reeves, he’s taken," Ashley said.

"I KNOW. I’m OBSERVING. For SCIENCE."

The energy around us reset, conversations resuming, but the focus hadn’t shifted. I still felt the eyes. Couldn’t escape them. Girls stealing glances with that helpless, addictive hunger the Lust Presence had created in them.

I let my gaze drift across the sea of faces.

And found Kayla Richards staring right back.

She sat with her little clique of senior-year relics, but she wasn’t with them. Her attention was focused elsewhere.

On me.

Our eyes met from across the chasm of the cafeteria, and something electric sparked in the charged air between us.

She was still beautiful. Even more beautiful than I remembered. Her skin had that expensive, well-moisturized glow. And her lips—fuck, those red lips—were the kind that closed business deals just by existing.

She slowly, deliberately, brushed a lock of hair back from her face. A gesture that screamed, I know you’re watching.

Then she smiled. Small. Private. A ghost of a smile just for me.

And winked.

Not a subtle, friendly wink. A clear, unambiguous we need to talk wink.

My brain, ever the helpful little bastard, supplied a highly detailed instructional video of what those red lips would look like wrapped around—

Focus.

I looked away. Deliberately. Casually. I turned my attention back to my table. To Madison laughing. To Sofia’s quiet, steady presence, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of my hand.

Not giving Kayla the satisfaction. Not yet.

And I was definitely not going to look at Jack Morrison.

But I saw him anyway. Peripheral vision is a bitch like that.

His entire football team was clustered around him. And, strangely—so was the entire basketball team. Two complete sports teams, unified and consolidated around their fallen quarterback.

That wasn’t random. That was planning.

Jack sat at the center of the huddle, not looking broken anymore. He was rallying. Strategizing. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed.

After Trent’s beatdown, Jack had learned a valuable lesson: don’t fuck with Peter Carter alone.

But in numbers? With twenty guys backing him up? That was a different equation entirely. A different kind of physics.

Was he planning something? A coordinated jump after school? A cornering maneuver? A place where even ARIA couldn’t intervene fast enough?

Possible. Stupid, but possible. Wounded pride made people catastrophically, suicidally dumb.

I filed it away. Stay vigilant. Have ARIA monitor his movements and his communications. Flag any suspicious gatherings.

But I didn’t stare. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of my fear or my attention.

Across the cafeteria, Lea Martinez sat with her new, quiet friend.

And the friend just... ate.

Fork. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

She showed no expression. Had no reaction to the comedic chaos of our table. Not to the laughter, not to the collective staring. Not to the frantic, hormonal energy crackling through the room.

She ate as if food were merely fuel and emotions were a complete and total waste of processing power.

Fucking creepy.

Every single person in this cafeteria was affected by something. The Lust Presence, the social upheaval, the fallout of the morning’s drama. Everyone had a reaction.

But this girl existed outside it all. Too still. Too controlled.

I watched her, my own food forgotten.

She raised her fork. Took a bite. Chewed exactly twenty times. Swallowed. Reached for her water. Drank precisely three sips.

Robotic. Ritualistic.

Then—