Chapter 2 The Shattered Image

The air in the auxiliary gym at Redwood Heights always tasted like old pennies and straight-up bleach. It was a massive vibe shift from the rest of the academy, which usually smelled like expensive perfume and fresh grass. Mason Cruz actually preferred the copper smell. It felt real.

He was about three minutes into a heavy bag drill, his knuckles thudding against the leather in a steady rhythm. One, two, slip. One, two, hook.

"You are lagging, Mase," a voice shouted from the side.

Mason did not even look. He knew that voice by heart. Gabriel Cruz was standing there with his arms crossed, his work boots planted solid on the hardwood. He was not just Mason's dad; he was the guy who taught him that a boxing ring is the only place in the world where you cannot fake it.

"I am hitting the mark," Mason grunted. His breath was coming in short, controlled puffs. "You are hitting a bag that stays still. A bag doesn't hit you back. In the tournament, those guys are going to be way faster than you. You keep dropping that left shoulder and you will be looking at the ceiling before the first round even ends." Gabriel walked over and grabbed the bag to stop it from swinging. "Again. And this time, lead with the intent to end the fight, not just to finish the drill."

Mason wiped sweat out of his eyes with his shoulder. He had been training since he was five. The trophies and that 3,500 USD prize money on the line were secondary to the one thing Gabriel had drilled into his head: Discipline is the only thing that actually survives a hit. He went at it again. For the next hour, the world narrowed down to his own heart rate and the snap of leather. By the time they called it, Mason's hands were shaking from exhaustion, and his graphic tee was basically glued to his chest.

"Good work," Gabriel said, tossing him a towel. "Do not forget you are picking up Miguel from soccer tomorrow. Your mom wants everyone home for dinner."

"I got it," Mason said. He grabbed his gear, and the heavy silence of the evening took over the gym as his dad headed toward the office.

Redwood Heights Academy was basically one big aesthetic lie, Mason thought as he walked out into the cool twilight. The brickwork was perfect, the scholarships were a big deal, and the students were all being groomed for a world his family helped build but did not really live in. His dad's construction crew had literally poured the concrete for the new science wing, but Mason still felt like a guest who had stayed way too long He reached his Dodge Challenger, the black paint shining under the parking lot lights. He had bought it with his own fight money and a huge chunk of his savings, and he treated that car better than most people treat their own families. He popped the trunk and tossed his damp wraps inside.

Then he heard it.

It was a sound that did not fit in the manicured world of Redwood Heights. A scream. It was jagged, high-pitched, and vibrating with the kind of terror that makes the hair on your arms stand up. It was not just some girl who lost her keys; it was the sound of someone losing their grip on safety Mason went totally still. In the ring, his best tool wasn't his power; it was his ability to watch. He blocked out the hum of the highway and focused. Footsteps.Fast, uneven, stumbling. Someone was running on the asphalt, heading straight for the auxiliary lot.

A figure came around the corner of the gym, and Mason felt a sharp jolt of recognition.

It was Lilly Moore.

He knew her, obviously. Everyone did. She was the Student Council President, the girl on every Future Leaders banner. She was the one who always had a sarcastic comment for anyone breaking a rule, her hair always perfect, her blazer never having a single wrinkle. She was at the very top of the social ladder. Pressed, perfect, and totally untouchable.

Right now, she was literally falling apart.

She slammed into the side of his Challenger, her hands leaving messy smears on the black wax. She did not even seem to notice the car; she just leaned on it like her bones had turned to lead. Her head dropped between her knees, and she started making a sound Mason had only heard a few times in the gym. It was the sound of a fighter whose lungs were totally empty after a body blow. Mason did not move toward her. He did not even drop his bag. He stood by the open trunk, scanning the parking lot behind her. He saw her shoulders shaking with violent tremors. He saw the holes in her ripped skinny jeans and the blood starting to bead through the white threads of her leggings.

She looked like she was waiting for a monster to follow her around that corner.

"Hey," he said. His voice was low, sounding like gravel in the quiet air. Lilly's head snapped up. Her face was a ghostly, translucent pale, her hazel eyes bloodshot and wide with a strange emptiness. She looked at him, but he could tell she wasn't seeing Mason Cruz. She was seeing a threat. Or maybe she was just seeing the end of the world.

She did not speak. She could not. Her chest was hitching in those short, shallow bursts that meant her brain was screaming for air it could not catch.

Mason's ears caught a new sound. The distant thrum of a turbocharged engine. An Audi. He had seen Tristan Calloway driving that silver RS5 enough to know the exhaust note. The engine revved, then faded, heading toward the main exit He looked back at Lilly. The Perfect one. The girl who always had everything handled. And here she was, hiding in the shadow of a car she probably thought was trash, looking like she had just crawled out of a wreck. Even with her nose ring and those butterfly tattoos on her collarbone, she usually looked so composed. Not today.

He did not know what had happened. He did not care about the drama of the school elite. But he knew what fear looked like. He had seen it in the eyes of guys twice her size right before they folded under the lights. He reached into the trunk, moving slowly and steadily so he would not startle her. He grabbed an unopened water from his cooler. He did not walk over to her or try to offer a hand. He knew better. When someone is that far gone, a hand on the shoulder feels like a trap. He tossed the bottle. It landed with a soft clink on the asphalt and rolled until it stopped exactly two feet away from her Converse.

"Drink," he said, keeping his voice flat and bored. "Then get up. You are blocking my tires."

Lilly stared at the bottle for a long time, then looked up at him. The total normalcy of his annoyance, the fact that he was worried about his car instead of her breakdown, seemed to act like a tether. The wildness in her eyes receded a bit, replaced by a flicker of the sharp sarcasm he knew was buried under all that perfection.

She did not get up yet. Her hands were still shaking so hard she had to use both to get the cap off. But she drank.

Mason leaned back against the trunk, crossed his arms over his graphic tee, and just waited. He did not ask what happened. He did not offer a ride. He just stayed there, a silent weight in the dark, making sure that if Tristan did come back, he would have to go through him first.