Page 7 of Redline
She didn’t look back at me, but she didn’t have to. The tilt of her head was a targeted strike, an unnecessary, blatant attempt to remind everyone in the room who the hierarchy favored.
It was so profoundly detached from common sense that I couldn't help it. A short, sharp snort escaped me— the kind of sound you make when someone’s confidence outruns reality.
In the quiet of the lecture hall, it sounded like a gunshot.
Adler stopped writing. Sienna froze. Suddenly, fifty heads turned in unison to stare at me. I hadn't meant to insert myself—I’d spent my whole life perfecting the art of being invisible—but the silence was demanding an explanation.
“Something to add?” Adler asked, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “And your name is?”
“Carter Hayes,” I said, my pulse steadying as I realized the "invisible" ship had sailed. “And I just think it’s funny to suggest that people at the top don't have incentives. If anything, they’re the most desperate. They’re the ones most terrified of losing a status they didn't actually earn themselves. That’s a pretty powerful incentive to keep up appearances.”
Sienna twisted in her seat slipping to reveal the sharp-toothed socialite underneath. “Some people enjoy talking about 'earning' things,” she said, her voice sweet as battery acid, “usually because it’s the only thing they have to offer when they don't actually belong in a room like this.”
I leaned back, setting my pen down. I wasn't angry; I was just bored with her. “If ‘belonging’ means making as much noise asyou did the other night, Sienna, then you’re right. I definitely don’t belong here.”
The air in the room vanished. Half the students inhaled sharply, and the girl sitting next to Sienna actually ducked behind her laptop. Sienna’s eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated venom. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pretty sure I heard plenty,” I said quietly. “Between the rhythmic pounding and the theatrics, I’d say you were workingveryhard for your ‘incentives’. It’s just a shame the walls are thinner than your dignity.”
Her chair skidded back a few inches with a harsh screech. She looked like she was about to vault over the desks.
Professor Adler finally set down the chalk, the sharpclackechoing through the silent room. He looked between us with a mix of professional disappointment and the weary patience of a someone who had seen a thousand petty squabbles.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous calm that cut right through the tension. “Since the two of you are so determined to turn my lecture into a televised debate, I think it’s only fair you put that energy toward something productive. Consider this your first lesson in the real-world application of labor: you’ll both be reporting for set-up duty at the TwoFold Gala this afternoon. Three p.m. sharp.”
He didn't make it sound like an invitation. It was an order, punctuated by the way he crossed his arms over his blazer.
Sienna sat up straighter, looking physically ill, as if he’d just asked her to scrub the floors with a toothbrush. “Professor, my family is a primary donor. I attend the gala every year as aguest. I don’t… volunteer.”
“And yet, here we are,” Adler said, turning back to the board. “Consider it experiential learning. Guest logistics and sponsorpackets. Appropriate attire, please. And let’s try to avoid… distractions.”
His eyes slid briefly and pointedly to her off-the-shoulder sweater. Sienna inhaled like she was choking on humility, her face turning a vivid, ugly shade of red.
I looked down at my notebook. The peace was gone, replaced by the weight of a war I hadn't asked for. But as I watched Sienna gather her things with trembling, furious hands, I realized that for the first time in a long time, I wasn't the one who had crashed.
I spent the next thirty minutes trying to disappear back into the crowd, but the noise followed me through the halls long after the lecture class let out. By the time I made my way toward the business building's event hall at three o’clock, my nerves from my first day were already frayed.
The space was cavernous, all high ceilings and white-and-black fabric that looked like a gala waiting to happen, but the current reality was much less glamorous. It was a labyrinth of cardboard boxes, rolled-up carpets, and enough stress to power a small city. I was navigating a narrow path between a stack of glossy programs and a leaning tower of centerpieces when I turned a corner too sharply.
I collided with something solid, warm, and definitely not made of cardboard.
“Whoa—sorry!”
A box of gold-foiled programs tipped against my chest as the guy holding it stumbled back. I caught the edge of it, our hands brushing briefly. He was a stark contrast to the polished, icy statues wandering the halls of this school. He had dark hair that curled over his forehead in a way that looked entirely unmanaged, and a grin that was friendly without being a performance.
“Definitely my fault,” I said, steadying the box. “I was too busy overthinking my life choices.”
He laughed, and the sound was surprisingly grounded. “Ah, a fellow conscript. Let me guess, you're one of Adler’s experiential learning cases, or did you actually sign up for the glamorous world of swag-bag assembly?”
“Let’s go with conscript,” I said, my gaze drifting to the massive, shimmering banner behind him. It featured a stylized2framed by overlapping checkered flags. I gestured toward it with a dry look. "Is the giant '2' for the number of brain cells the guests will have left?"
The guy didn't flinch. If anything, his grin widened, showing a flash of genuine amusement that didn't feel defensive at all.
“Actually, it’s the grid number for the Valerio family’s invitational,” he said, shifting the weight of the box. “They’re the only reason the stands are packed and the faculty is even entertaining this event. Though your theory is a popular one among the staff.”
He didn't seem to notice my momentary flinch at the name as he gestured to the room with a wry look. “I'm Luka, by the way. Welcome to the TwoFold chaos. It’s a lot of glitter for a lot of excess.”
“The Valerios. Of course,” I muttered, my annoyance for that name resurfacing like a bad case of heartburn. I looked around the cavernous hall, now seeing the F1 logo repeated on everything from napkins to the floor mats. “Is there any corner of this state the Valerio name hasn't marked yet?”
