Elias Vance didn't fall asleep until morning.

  His mind wouldn't stop. Thought after thought—clashing, looping, grinding down what was left of his nerves.

  So much for being the calm one. That broke fast.

  The dreams came in waves.

  Shellbody in office wear.

  Knives in its chests.

  Grinning like it knew something he didn't.

  And always—

  That voice from the Signal. Slow. Heavy. Like it was still speaking.

  He finally cracked his eyes open around noon. Head pounding.

  The laptop slid off his chest.

  He pulled the curtain aside.

  There, across from him—

  A man in uniform.

  Police issue.

  Sitting on the lower bunk. Watching.

  Elias's arm jerked.

  Breath hitched.

  Chest tightened like someone had yanked the air out.

  Then the cop looked up—

  Young face.

  Easy smile.

  “Well, well. Spooked our little baby, huh?”

  Zachariah Trohm had that classic look.

  All innocence.

  Like he didn't mean it. At all.

  Elias dragged in a breath.

  Barely stopped himself from swinging.

  He straightened the bedding instead.

  Grabbed his phone.

  Got down.

  Not a word.

  But next time?

  Maybe.

  "Food's here. Got takeout for you."

  Trohm jerked his chin at the desk.

  Takeout bag. Grease bleeding through the corners.

  GrubMore logo, half-smudged beneath the fold.

  Elias shook his head.

  "No appetite."

  Zachariah raised a brow, half-grinning.

  "Seriously? Wasn't even your first time. You're acting like it hit harder than your actual first kill."

  Elias licked his lips.

  Should he say it?

  The killing wasn’t the issue.

  Dead bodies? Routine.

  For them. For the Red Index. Just part of the game.

  But the Signal?

  That wasn't routine.

  That thing didn't belong in the world they understood.

  And if he spoke it out loud—

  Would they call him crazy?

  The Red Index hadn't even been around a year.

  Just four people.

  No history. No polish.

  Still, they built a stage.

  Started pulling strings that snapped lives.

  That's the thing—

  When there's only four, one crack breaks all of it.

  If they thought Elias was slipping—

  Losing grip.

  Seeing things.

  What then?

  Even Elias had to laugh sometimes.

  Four kids.

  A spark of adrenaline.

  Boom—Red Index formed.

  Ten bodies later?

  Still the same duct-taped operation.

  Still acting like control was a thing.

  “That whole thing got ruled accidental. No pressure, alright? They didn't even bother with an investigation.

  Didn't matter that you pissed all over the place near the Velvet Heat like some mangy stray marking territory—

  Still didn't stick to you.”

  “I'm not thinking about that.”

  Elias waved him off.

  Grabbed the towel.

  The washbasin.

  “Sit. I'll be back.”

  Zachariah gave a nod.

  Elias finished brushing his teeth.

  Dunked his whole face into the basin—ice-cold water biting down.

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  He yanked back up.

  Water splashed everywhere.

  Towel. Face wiped.

  He grabbed his things and stepped out of the bathroom.

  Didn't get far.

  A student—short, fast, not watching—slammed straight into his chest.

  Elias staggered two steps back.

  The kid went straight down.

  Clothes soaked.

  “S-Sorry! I'm so sorry!”

  The kid scrambled up, already bowing, words tripping over each other.

  Elias gave a nod.

  Didn't say a word.

  Walked off. Back to the dorm.

  Back in the dorm, Zachariah was still camped out by the window, flipping through one of Elias's books on criminal psychology.

  Looked way too into it.

  “You got nothing better to do today? Just casually reading in my room?”

  “Got assigned a case, actually.”

  “Student interviews?”

  “Yeah. Supposed to check in on a few.”

  “And you're doing that by loitering in my dorm?”

  “Not much to ask, really.”

  Zachariah let out a dry laugh.

  “Three donated cadavers went missing from the lab.

  What am I supposed to do—walk up to random students like, ‘Hey there, seen any corpses lately?’”

  Elias was half-dressed, pulling on a shirt as he moved to the window.

  From this high up in McAllister Hall, the Durant Commons field behind the dorm stretched wide.

  Down below, two officers in uniform were already pacing the track, stopping students one by one.

  "Everyone else is working.

  You're just hanging out here.

  Gotta love this good old daddy-powered society," Elias said flatly.

  "Come on, Prince Elias. Can the pot stop roasting the kettle?"

  Zachariah didn't even look up.

  "You know how it is.

  My dad pushed me into this.

  Every time I screwed up as a kid?

  He'd walk in, didn't even take the uniform off.

  Just grabbed the belt and let it fly.

  That's what made me hate cops.

  Made me scared of them, too.

  So of course—he forced me into the academy.

  Now I am one.

  You know what that feels like?"

  Elias shrugged.

  "Like being forced to hook up with a dead girl from a traffic accident."

  Zachariah shut the book.

  "That's disgusting.

  But accurate."

  "Three cadavers gone missing.

  What do you think happened?"

  "I'm not a cop.

  Just a student."

  Elias shrugged again.

  “If you were just a regular student, I wouldn't be standing here.”

  Zachariah lit a cigarette.

  Offered one to Elias.

  Then leaned against the balcony railing with both hands.

  “Delaney wants out.

  Her family's pushing her to take a job at the Langston diplomatic exchange thing.”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “You know Isaac only joined because he had a thing for her.

  Now she's leaving—

  He's not exactly dying to stick around, either.”

  Red Index was built on thrill-chasing and barely-formed impulse.

  Now?

  Fracturing.

  Elias took a drag.

  Coughed immediately.

  Hard.

  “—Khhk—”

  Zachariah thumped him on the back.

  Didn’t say anything.

  Elias wiped his mouth with a tissue.

  Voice flat.

  “Maybe that's the best ending we get.

  We've got ten bodies on us.

  Right now, everything looks clean.

  But you keep walking by the river long enough—

  Eventually, you get wet.”

  “Tsk, tsk.

  That's not something you should be saying.”

  Zachariah flicked the ash off his cigarette.

  “Look, the ones we killed?

  Sure, maybe not death sentence types on paper—

  but they weren't saints either.

  I don't lose sleep over any of them.”

  He glanced sideways.

  “And you—

  You're already soaked in it.

  Down to the marrow.

  If Red Index falls apart,

  how are you gonna get your fix then?”

  Typical cop—

  He paused like something just clicked.

  “Wait.

  You find something else?

  Something that hits even harder?”

  Elias gave a faint smile.

  “Maybe.”

  He was about to say more—

  when Zachariah's phone went off.

  “Yeah, Captain? I'm in the dorms.

  Got it. Heading back.”

  He raised the phone toward Elias.

  “I'm out.

  We'll talk later.

  The four of us.

  Figure this thing out.

  If it's over, it's over.”

  —

  Elias never liked the library much.

  Too structured. Too watched.

  Like studying under a camera.

  He ended up in a review hall near East Administration—

  a place more feared for exams than any rumor.

  The Truett ethics draft? Still hanging.

  An empty classroom with only two or three others?

  Better.

  Quieter.

  The kind of quiet that didn't just silence noise—it pressed it down.

  Once the draft was done, he figured he'd step out.

  Grab a drink.

  Smoke a cigarette.

  Come back and tear it apart one more time.

  There were two other students in the room—

  a guy and a girl.

  One front-left.

  One front-right.

  Elias sat dead-center, but in the back row.

  He stepped out.

  Lit a cigarette.

  Slid a bill into the vending machine.

  Ding.

  He crouched.

  The can was warm.

  Fresh from the coil.

  Then—

  Perfume.

  Soft. Synthetic. Close.

  “Eli, treat me? I'm broke.”

  He stood up slow.

  Didn't look at her.

  “Change just dropped.

  Still in the tray.

  Buy your own.”

  He walked off, coffee in hand.

  Back to the classroom.

  She stayed where she was.

  Face tight.

  Elias dropped back into his seat.

  Pulled the draft back up.

  Time to tear it apart.

  Then—

  She walked in.

  Same girl.

  Backpack slung over one shoulder.

  This time?

  No eye contact.

  No hello.

  No attempt to sit anywhere near him.

  She picked a seat near the front.

  Middle row. Centered.

  Bag down.

  Then came the performance.

  Earbuds.

  Snacks.

  Compact mirror.

  Textbook.

  Lip balm.

  Pens.

  Each thing louder than the last.

  Tiny explosions in the silence.

  Enough to make the other two students in the room shift uncomfortably.

  Some people prepped longer than they studied.

  Then she screamed.

  The sound snapped.

  Sharp and fast.

  The kind that makes your teeth hurt.

  Elias stood.

  The desk creaked behind him.

  She was holding something.

  Both hands.

  Arms stiff.

  It hung low.

  Wet.

  Heavy.

  The air caught it—metal and rot.

  He took a step.

  Not folded.

  Edges curled.

  Stretched wrong.

  Skin.

  Human.