THE HUNTER .

---

The office door slams behind us with a dead, echoing thud. Like a final breath held too long.

No one speaks.

Not even a whisper.

Then—

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

A sharp, single vibration like a goddamn nerve twitch under skin.

I pull it out. The screen glares up at me like it knows something I don't.

Unknown number.

Blocked ID.

Just a message.

I swipe.

One sentence.

No name.

No emoji.

No bullshit.

> "You're welcome. But now you owe me."

And just like that—

My blood goes cold.

"What the fuck?"

My voice cuts the silence like a slap.

Shaiza snaps her head to me.

"What?"

I don't answer. Not right away.

My thumb is still on the screen. Still rereading that line. That stupid, perfect sentence that sounds more like a threat dressed as a favor.

"Someone texted me."

Ruby leans in fast.

"Who?"

I shake my head once. Sharp.

"I don't know. It's a blocked number."

That's when the silence shifts. Like the air itself just raised its eyebrows.

Ifrah's voice drops low.

"What if it's... him?"

I frown. Look up. "Who?"

She leans in like she's delivering some conspiracy theory from the underworld.

"The Dean."

Silence.

All of us freeze like statues made of panic and paranoia.

"What the actual fuck are you talking about?" Shaiza hisses.

Ifrah's hands go up, eyes wide behind those oversized glasses. "Think about it. We were this close—this fucking close—to getting kicked out. Expelled. Done. But he let us walk out. No warning. No suspension. No record. Nothing. Then you get that message. Coincidence? I don't think so."

Ruby stares at her like she's grown a second head. "You think the Dean texted her? Are you high?!"

Ifrah shrugs, looking nervous but committed. "I'm just saying... maybe he likes her or something—"

"Bitch, what?"

I hold up my hand and give her the middle finger, slow and dramatic like I'm painting a masterpiece in the air.

"Put that theory in a blender and choke on it."

But we're all thinking the same thing now.

None of this adds up.

Why didn't we get expelled?

Why no official report?

Why didn't he even raise his voice?

And who the fuck sent that message?

It wasn't a get-out-of-jail-free card.

It was a transaction.

A threat laced in a favor.

And now I owe someone.

And I don't even know who the hell they are.

---

We reach the ground field.

Sun's starting to dip, casting everything in that warm, dangerous gold that makes even mistakes look pretty.

We don't speak until we're settled on the gallery steps.

The concrete is warm under us. Like it's been holding secrets all day.

Shaiza sits with her elbows on her knees, chewing her bottom lip raw.

Ifrah's legs are crossed, still hugging that same damn bag like it's going to sprout wings and save her.

Ruby throws herself back on the steps like the sky personally wronged her.

Me?

I just sit.

Palms pressed to the edge of the gallery rail.

Eyes on the ground. But my head's not here.

It's still in that office. That message.

The words "you owe me" playing on a fucking loop in my skull like background noise I can't mute.

"Someone set this up."

Shaiza mutters it. But it's not really for us—it's for herself.

Like she's trying to convince her own mouth that her brain didn't just invent a horror plot.

"The Dean's not soft. He's kicked people out for way less. One girl got suspended for yelling at a lab assistant. And we just—slap a rich girl in public—and walk? Just like that?"

Ruby nods, eyes closed. "It's a fucking trap. It feels like a trap."

"Or protection." Ifrah's voice is tiny.

"From who?" Shaiza snaps. "And why us?"

I lean back.

Wind brushes my skin like it's trying to listen.

"Not us."

I stare at my phone.

"Me."

They go still.

Even Ruby lifts her head.

Then—before the silence can swallow us whole—

Footsteps.

Behind us.

Sharp, loud, intentional.

We turn.

And there he is.

Shadin.

Walking across the field like he's dragging a storm behind him.

His brows are furrowed. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His jaw looks like it could crush metal.

He doesn't say anything.

Doesn't greet.

Doesn't smile.

Just—

He walks straight to me.

And grabs my hand.

Not hard.

But firm. Focused.

His thumb brushes across the back of it like he's looking for something specific.

And I yank back.

"What the hell are you doing?"

My voice isn't soft.

It's sharp. Cut-glass sharp.

His eyes flick to mine.

And there's something in them.

Not anger.

Not confusion.

Something colder.

Like he already knows the next five steps before we even move.

Shadin doesn't answer my question.

He just lifts my hand again—gently this time—and turns my palm upward, thumb skimming across my knuckles like he's memorizing damage.

His gaze lingers on the faint red along the base of my fingers.

Then he steps in closer.

Too close.

I feel the heat of his breath as he tilts his head and looks at my neck.

Eyes narrowing.

His voice drops low.

"Did it hurt?"

My spine goes stiff.

What the hell?

Not because he asked. But because—he's standing with me. In front of my friends. In public. With that look in his eyes. That tone that sounds more like a secret than a question.

Everything stills.

I blink at him. Then snap back, voice sharper than I mean:

"I'm the one who slapped her."

But Shadin just cocks his head.

Unbothered.

"I'm not asking about her."

"I'm asking about her slap."

I freeze.

Every thought in my head slams to a halt.

How the fuck does he know about that?

I pull back half an inch, eyes narrowing.

"How do you know that?"

Shadin doesn't flinch.

Doesn't break eye contact.

Doesn't even blink.

He just leans a little closer, smile curling at the edge like he's already five moves ahead.

"Does it hurt?" he asks again.

This time, it's not soft.

It's low, intimate, loaded.

Like he's asking something else entirely.

And I snap.

"Fuck off," I hiss.

"Your fucking blonde stalker slapped me, and now you're asking me if it hurts? Seriously?"

He stares at me.

Then—

He fucking smirks.

"Yeah," he says.

"But... it was kinda hot."

My jaw almost hits the grass.

"Excuse me—?"

But he's not stopping.

Not today.

Not now.

Shadin takes a step in, like he's deliberately invading my oxygen. Like the wind bends around him and not the other way.

His voice is playful, cocky, slow.

"I mean it."

His eyes flick down to my mouth.

Then back up.

"You—storming in there like an avenging goddess. That look on your face. That slap. God."

He exhales.

"I swear, Arshila, if you weren't already the hottest thing in this entire goddamn university—"

"You are literally insane."

"Nope. Just observant."

I try to take a step back.

He moves with me.

I push his shoulder.

He doesn't budge.

"Shadin."

"You know I always say it," he grins, teeth sharp and stupidly perfect.

"You look hot when you're mad. But today? Today you looked..."

His eyes trail down my throat, lingering.

"...unholy. And I'm into that."

I blink. Mouth open. Breath caught somewhere in my chest.

The kind of stunned silence that only a best friend-turned-menace can deliver.

But he doesn't stop there.

He steps closer again.

Whispers now.

Right into my ear.

"Maybe it's just for me, huh?"

My entire system malfunctions.

For a second, I can't breathe.

Can't think.

The whisper burns under my skin like ink being branded on bone.

My hand flies up and I push him—hard.

He laughs. Doesn't flinch.

Grabs me by the wrist.

Gently. But firmly.

And pulls me close again, like this is a dance he choreographed.

"Relax, tiger."

Then—he pulls something from his back pocket.

An ice pack.

Still cold. Condensation running down the side like it's sweating more than I am.

He presses it into my palm.

"Don't say I never take care of you."

His hand lingers.

Thumb brushing my knuckles again.

And then, as he starts to step back, he smirks.

Voice low, husky, dipped in sin.

"Bye, baby beast."

Winks.

Turns.

And walks away like he just lit the entire field on fire and left me to burn in it.

---

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

I don't even realize my friends walked up until Ruby says, "What the actual fuck just happened?"

Ifrah stares after him, blinking hard like she's buffering.

"Did... he just call you baby beast?"

Shaiza tilts her head, suspicious.

"Was that an actual flirt or some twisted guilt trip for not telling us something?"

I don't answer.

I can't.

Because I'm still standing there.

Ice pack sweating in my hand.

Heart thudding like it's caught between panic and something I'm not ready to name.

Shaiza rubs her temple like she's trying to physically massage the chaos out of her skull.

"What the fuck is happening today?" she mutters, pacing in a tight circle.

"I can't catch up. Everything feels like it's on crack."

I flop back on the stone steps of the gallery, the ice pack still sweating into my palm, heart still doing stupid little stunts in my chest.

"Same," I groan.

"I don't even know what the fuck is real anymore. A few hours ago I was planning to fail a quiz. Now I've started a war, dodged expulsion, and my best friend is apparently auditioning for the role of Hot Possessive Psycho #1."

Ruby squats down in front of me like she's about to hold an intervention, but her eyes are gleaming like she's ready to scream.

"We always told you."

She stabs a finger at my face.

"We TOLD you, Arshila. Shadin is into you. Madly. Obsessively. Eye-fuck-you-across-the-room level into you. And you never fucking listen."

"Yes!" Ifrah chimes in, sitting cross-legged like she's about to start a fucking PowerPoint presentation.

"He only talks to you in this entire damn campus. Like, we don't exist. We're furniture to him. He doesn't even look at other girls. No friends. No acquaintances. No guy group. No nothing. It's literally just you. Because he doesn't want anyone else but you."

I narrow my eyes at her.

"You really had to say it like that?"

"YES." she fires back.

"Because you have the goddamn brain to call him your friend. That man? FRIEND? Babe, he'd burn the whole university if someone touched you wrong. That's not friendship. That's criminal affection."

"Criminal affection—" I start laughing.

"What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

Ruby glares at me.

"You."

She points again.

"You're what's wrong with us."

"You're insane if you think I'm getting with Shadin. The man's like... 90% flirting, 10% actual conversation. He could flirt with a lamppost if it wore lip gloss."

Shaiza slumps down beside me.

"You say that like you didn't just melt when he whispered in your ear."

"I did not melt."

"You froze." she shoots back.

"And when Arshila Eshaal Mirza freezes, that means her whole damn internal system just blue-screened."

"This is bullying."

"This is facts."

I groan and drop the ice pack dramatically on my lap.

"Ugh. No. Can we go back to Cassandra before I get hives from this Shadin shit?"

"Cassandra's probably in her room with a Ouija board plotting our murder." Shaiza deadpans.

"Girl's got eyes like she's rehearsing our funeral speeches in her head."

"She's gonna hit us with her Porsche," I mutter, deadpan.

"And then sue us for blood on the paint job."

"Honestly." Ruby leans back on her hands, staring up at the sky like she's trying to have a conversation with God.

"What if she's the one behind all this?"

I frown.

"Behind what?"

"The non-expulsion," Ruby says slowly, like she's putting puzzle pieces together in real time.

"Think about it. We should have been expelled. Suspended at least. We broke every rule in the fucking book. You marched into a class and slapped a council member's niece in front of an entire crowd."

"Twice," Ifrah adds helpfully.

"Exactly." Ruby points at me.

"And what happened? NOTHING. No calls to parents. No black mark. No written warning. Just a 'don't do it in public' and a fucking text from an unknown number."

We all freeze.

That sentence slams the gallery like thunder.

"What if," she says, voice lower now, serious, cold, "she didn't stop us from being punished out of mercy."

She looks at me. Dead in the eyes.

"What if she let it happen?"

My heart slows. My mouth dries.

"You think... Cassandra made sure we didn't get expelled?"

"Why not?" Ruby shrugs like it's obvious.

"What if she used her pull—her rich-daddy trustee strings—to let it go. Let us walk free. Just so she can play the long game. Make us think we escaped. And then hit us harder. Strategically. Quietly. Viciously. She doesn't want you expelled. She wants you broken."

"Holy shit."

Ifrah's voice is tiny.

"That... that actually makes sense."

Shaiza's eyes flick between us, face hardening.

"Then we need to be careful. All of us. No more solo hero acts, Arshila. If she's plotting something, we stick together. She's not gonna get the chance to turn one of us into a headline."

I stay quiet.

Letting it sink in.

That message.

The Dean's calm voice.

The total erasure of consequences.

It wasn't kindness.

It was a setup.

A goddamn trap.

"Well then," I say finally, staring at my scraped knuckles.

"Guess we better die young and look hot doing it."

---

By the time I get home, the adrenaline is dead.

I crash onto the couch like someone just ripped the batteries out of my soul and replaced them with static. The living room's dim, the TV's off, the fan hums like it's trying to calm a house that never stays still.

I just lay there, limbs sprawled like a corpse on display. Eyes open. Mind racing.

I lie like roadkill on the couch.

Face-down, limbs sprawled, soul slightly hovering outside my body.

Today chewed me up, spat me out, and then slapped me again for good measure.

I close my eyes and try to replay the entire cursed day. But my brain just keeps screaming what the fuck on repeat like it's on a glitchy loop.

First, there was the bus incident. I won't even unpack that one. It was bad. Karma hit me with a tire iron before the day even started.

Then—Cassandra.

Her full glam villain entrance.

That bathroom. That slap. That rage.

Her voice still rings in my skull, a high-pitched hiss of entitlement and bleach fumes.

And then the Dean's office.

The tension. The verdict. The non-verdict. That weird ass mercy that felt like a trick instead of relief.

And then—

The fucking message.

> "You're welcome. But now you owe me."

I rub my forehead.

Who the hell sends something like that with no name?

No threats. No explanation. No identity.

Just an invisible finger pressing against my throat like I'm watching you.

And then—Shadin.

Fucking Shadin.

Touching my neck like he owned it. Whispering shit that made my brain short-circuit and my knees flirt with gravity.

Why the hell did he look at me like that?

And why did I freeze like a dumbass Barbie doll in a horror movie?

I groan into the couch cushion.

What if…

What if the message was from Cassandra?

What if she saved our asses not to protect us—but to own us?

What if I do owe her now?

And she'll come collect one day, smiling in her little pastel suit, asking for my blood type.

I'm gonna die.

I'm gonna die soon.

And as a fucking single.

With unfinished assignments and an expired face mask still sitting on my shelf.

God, what a legacy.

Suddenly, a voice from the other end of the house cuts through my dramatic inner monologue.

"BROOO SHOOT THAT NOOB—SHOOT HIM SHOOT HIM—LET'S GOOO!!!"

Ahil.

My ten-year-old brother. A menace in a human body. Currently screaming into a headset like he's commanding a military operation.

I drag myself off the couch and shuffle down the hallway like a ghost who's seen too much.

His door's wide open. Of course it is.

I peek inside.

He's in front of the TV, PlayStation controller in his hand, yelling at some poor online stranger with the confidence of someone who's never paid a single bill.

"Ahil."

He doesn't turn.

"Ahil."

Nothing.

"AHIL!"

He jumps.

"What!?" he shrieks, yanking off one side of his headphones like I'm the problem.

"Don't you have homework?"

I cross my arms, lean on the doorframe like a disappointed tax officer.

"You're in fifth standard now! YOU ARE A MAN!"

I gesture dramatically at his face.

"Why are you always playing games with jobless online dudes who probably live in their moms' basements and cry into Cheetos?"

He doesn't miss a beat.

He flips me off.

Casual. Precise. Clean form.

"Oh."

I squint.

"So you wanna die tonight."

And then I launch at him.

Not violently. Lovingly. The kind of sibling violence that's mostly laughter and hair-pulling and dramatic shrieking.

He starts screaming as I trap him in a headlock and start whacking him with a pillow.

"SAY YOU'RE SORRY!"

"YOU'RE EVIL!"

"YES, I AM!"

We're tangled in chaos when our mother's voice slices through the house like thunder.

"ARSHILA. AHIL. ENOUGH."

Silence.

Immediate, fearful silence.

We untangle like criminals mid-heist.

He glares at me.

"You're literally the worst."

I smirk.

"Thanks. I work hard."

I walk out, flipping him off over my shoulder as I go.

His dramatic gasp behind me is all the serotonin I need.

"New-gen kids are so fucking spoiled," I mutter as I head to my room.

"At his age, I was writing essays with glitter pens and emotional trauma."

I push open my door and step inside.

My room's quiet. Warm. Safe. For once.

My sanctuary.

My cave of chaos.

I close the door behind me, kick off my shoes, and sigh as I make my way toward the bed. The sheets are still messed up from this morning's war with punctuality. I yank them straight, tug the pillow into place, and—

Freeze.

Because there.

On the corner of my desk.

Sitting like it never left.

Like it didn't disappear three days ago and drive me borderline psychotic trying to find it—

Is my missing book.

The same one I searched for under the bed, in the closet, behind the goddamn fridge—

It's just there.

Plain.

Undisturbed.

Open.

And marked.

Like someone was reading it.

Like someone brought it back.

Like someone wants me to know they touched it.