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basementcoffee · 1 month ago

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underdog / chapter 1 ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist

cw: extremely dubious consent, power imbalance, alcohol, reader is in over her head, antagonistic ghost, everyone has ulterior motives, liberties taken with the cyberpunk 2077 lore/universe - full tags in masterlist

Stars flare above the crown of your head.

The bottle in your hands sweats beneath the heat, condensation running in rivulets over your fingers as you hoist it high. The show dazzles the men crammed into the sticky booth, the light scattering across their sweat-glossed skin and the dark, thumping walls. The arms unoccupied by dates welcome you into the mix.

Their ringleader, a man in green, beckons with the click of his tongue. You tuck yourself between his spread legs and perch passerine on the edge of the low table. He leans in to get a better look, and you meet his gaze with an obliging smile as he presses a glass into your hand.

You chat. You entertain. His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit. You laugh at all of his jokes and nod when he rambles on about securities. It’s all part of the game: constructed intimacy, scaffolded by clever flirting and veiled detachment. Roleplay.

Everyone knows why they are here. It’s another night at Prism.

You get a name. Win. Short for Winston, as though that should mean something. The smile plastered to your face holds, miracle of miracles. Corny nickname aside, he’s not terrible company. A smooth-talker, sure, but you’ve endured worse. An hour passes, and somewhere between bottles three and four, he draws out the shorthand of your life story.

It’s the same tired song every transplant sings: a kid from a struggling town runs away to Night City with no backup plan. Men with money love an underdog.

When he asks what you ran for, you brace for condescension: fame and fortune. Cliché. Naïve. You rattle off your meager resume of adverts on vending machine and elevator screens, and a demo reel stitched from a handful of microbudget horror films. Painful dialogue and dated effects, but you scream like hell and look good doing it. And, being devoid of all extraneous cyberware, you’re a novelty on sets. It’s your thing. It makes directors want to cut you up.

That gets a grin.

“So you’re all natural?”

What a line.

You smile, aiming for sultry, and sweep the backs of your nails up the chrome along his jaw. You push a stray lock of hair behind his ear, quip ready—

—and a massive gloved hand snatches yours in a painful grip.

You yelp, hauled to your feet with such alarming ease it’s as though you float to the toes of your high heels. The rest of the arm seemingly materializes from shadow, and a body follows.

Big.

It speaks, low-pitched and slightly modulated. Two words scrape the air.

“That’s enough.”

A pale, hulking man looms. A brutal silhouette swathed in clothes whose tailoring can’t even hide the reinforced bulk of his frame. An expressionless, matte-black mask sculpts tightly around the lower half of his face, and above it, a thick, lowered brow hangs like a mantle over a pair of dark, depthless eyes tinged red.

Head razored down to the skin, a nasty scar rides along his hairline—a fleshy welt that begins near a temple and arcs around the skull’s curve like a failed autopsy. Crude, stapled shut with dermal rivets. A network of thin wires disappearing into ports behind his ear and snaking beneath his collar.

He squeezes. An invisible choke chain demanding your wandering focus. His optics contract, and an iridescent eyeshine shimmers for the briefest instant.

Violation pulses in your gut.

Win rises to his feet. “Hey, Ghost–”

“Do we have a problem?” Irina’s rasp purrs like a revving engine in your ear. There’s well over a foot of height between her and this Ghost.

Win grabs Ghost’s wrist, and you inhale sharply the speed at which his eyes snap to the offending appendage. He glares at the ringed fingers as if they’re slathered in shit.

“C’mon, buddy. Be friendly.” Win chuckles nervously, oblivious. “Sorry about that. Bodyguard. A mite overprotective.”

You snatch your wrist back once the shackle on it loosens, and gently rub. Bodyguard. Between his build and his spendthrift employer, he’s probably packed with implants. Probably could’ve pulverized every bone in your hand. That alone makes you a little dizzy.

Irina herds you with the crook of her arm. “Excuse us.”

You resist instinctually, chin tilting to catch her ear, “Our tips?” You can’t afford to forfeit an enny.

“Don’t worry. Go ice that, and tell Mal.”

At the booth’s edge, she pats you on the ass with a wink. There’s no arguing.

You glance back at the edge of VIP. Win’s shoulders quake mid-tirade, laying into his bodyguard, but Ghost’s not paying attention. His gaze is locked on you. Sweeping down and up in study.

Creep.

Finding your overworked manager is a chore. You wade through bodies in stinking, perfumed air, fastening a cryopatch to your wrist with a pair of nylons as you go. It’s worth the hassle, though, Mal barely blinks before slapping a service surcharge onto the tab, no questions asked.

A cigarette’s clamped between your lips when Irina finds you in the alley. She kisses your cheek, then your wrist. The tenderness is a balm. Short of a housemother, more akin to an older sister. She’s been where you are.

“Your friend asked for you. Says he wants to tip you himself.”

You snort. “Of course he does.”

“Mm, he gave me a stack. Imagine what he has for you, pretty girl.”

Your neck cracks from the speed at which you turn, searching for the joke.

“You’re serious.”

“I would never lie to you.”

Her soft laughter chases you indoors. You slow as you return to the main floor, not wanting to appear too desperate. Irina didn’t even speak to Win aside from rescuing you from his brute. You spoke to him. Touched and fawned over him. If he wants to apologize by paying your bills for a month, who are you to protest?

The booth’s quieter, thinned out. Most men have migrated to the rail to survey the crowd writhe below. Win clocks your approach, his money clip gleaming like bait on a hook. You check the corners. Ghost is gone.

Win stands with a lacquered smile. “So, she found you. I was hoping you didn’t bolt.”

Not with a month’s rent possibly on offer. “Of course not.”

“Brave. Ghost’s intense. Wouldn’t be the first girl to run.”

You’ve met your share of monsters. Been chased by them on camera, for money or exposure. “I don’t scare easy.”

Win’s tongue glides over his teeth, and he thumbs through the wad of cash. Your pulse jumps in your throat. Eyes up, like the money isn’t there at all.

“Maybe I’ll have to replace him,” he muses. “Half his job is being scary.”

With the watchdog gone, you walk your fingers up Win’s arm and squeeze his bicep. “Let’s not talk about him,” you murmur. “Let’s toast to you. One more round. My treat.”

He tilts his head at that, smile tightening. For a second, your stomach knots—you’ve misstepped.

“Oh, babe, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”

His fingers close around the money.

Fuck.

You scan him again. His hair. The suit. The rings.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he winks. “The name ‘Goforth’ ring a bell?”

Double fuck.

Goforth. As in, The Goforth Agency.

The agency behind half of Night City’s elite—icons, influencers, politicians, idols. They don’t merely build careers—they launch them into orbit. They pluck hopefuls from anonymity and remake them into household names. Manufacture stars the way All Foods cultures meat. Their reach is long, their clients and business spotless. At least, on the surface.

Beneath that veneer? The rumors are endless. Blackmail. Extortion. Trafficking. Murder. The kind of power that doesn’t just protect its assets, but erases threats wholesale.

Any family with that many zeroes to their name has their fingers in unsavory pies, and you’ve been flirting with an apparent scion.

All your flirty bravado dissolves as realization washes over you. He’s not some run-of-the-mill spoiled kid spending daddy’s money. He’s pedigree. Legacy. Stands so tall because there’s a pile of bodies beneath his feet courtesy of his family.

“Does it?” he repeats.

You nod.

“Tongue-tied, baby?”

You force a breath, light-headed, bubbly with panic and too much cheap champagne. “I had no idea.”

He chuckles. “I see that. Well, I don’t advertise it. Don’t want to attract the wrong type of attention, you know?”

Your smile wavers. Yeah, you fucking know.

It really makes sense now, why his huscle’s a chromed-out, hand-crushing titan.

“That’s why you have Ghost.”

The money finally slips into your palm.

“Exactly. Everyone wants a piece once you’re worth something.”

After a shared smoke and no small amount of cajoling on his part, you flick him your demo reel. He watches it there and then, cigarette burning down to the filter, and by the time you’ve crushed it under your heel, he’s calling himself your agent.

On the ride to his place, he drops your robo-agent, and in the morning, you sign paperwork in his bed. No need to step foot in a Goforth office when you have direct access to the future CEO. Non-disclosures, exclusivity contracts. Things you don’t fully understand, but initial anyway. Industry standard, he explains.

That night, in the afterglow, he presses his teeth to your neck and murmurs a promise: I’ll make you a star.

And like that, you’re in. Folded into his world—and beneath him—as though you’d belonged there from the start.

Weeks pass in a blur.

The time funnels into an eight-week intensive—scene study, cold reading, and dialect. You wake early to attend classes, and crash late after work. The confidence built hustling in Prism is laughable, stripped bare under the scrutiny of instructors and a gaggle of other ambitious hopefuls. Failure, though, isn’t a luxury you can afford. You dig in. Rebuild.

Your wardrobe flips. Third and fourth-hand clothes cycle out for fabrics you’ve never worn before—silks, cashmeres, synthetics engineered to shimmer like liquid. Cuts that hug and drape right. Win parades you around to his friends, arm snug around your waist. Introduces you as the next big thing. To remember your face.

Appointments multiply—salons, spas, clinics. No mods, though. Win’s adamant. What was once something you joked about, your ‘organic integrity’, becomes your edge. Your brand. The only exception is your optics. Top-shelf Kiroshi, in any color you want. Preloaded with a trimmed-down version of his own contact net—names, affiliations. Everything you’ll need to navigate the circles he moves you through.

You jump from a ten-second clip for Budget Arms to an Avante microfilm. No lines, visage buried under makeup—but when your image appears on the side of a Westbrook tower, it almost bowls you over. Your coworkers whistle when you clock in.

It’s a high like nothing else.

Despite everything Win gives, there are lines you’re not allowed to cross.

You learn not to pry. You don’t challenge the boundaries he draws on the city map, districts you’re to avoid unless he’s with you. Don’t protest your dismissal from conversations and meetings. Don’t question why he requires that you report any strange cars or customers that idle at the club. Don’t press when he vanishes without warning, unreachable for days, only to return with gifts and no explanation.

You don’t ask, because deep down, you already know. And knowing the wrong thing, knowing anythingat all, can get you killed.

Still—when Win’s around, things are good. Even if it means Ghost is, too.

Win repeatedly tells you to ignore his turret on legs. Easier said than done.

To Ghost’s singular credit, it is his job—hypervigilance, threat assessment—but you find yourself the subject of his near-constant surveillance. Unapologetically, unashamedly. Not an ounce of professionalism in how he stares. Dissecting like he’s visualizing how to peel you open and study whatever softness hides inside. As if you’re the biggest threat in every room.

When you meet his gaze, daring him to look away first, he doesn’t. He holds it. Leans into it. It sears, lingering even after you drop your eyes and pretend to listen to Win’s laugh. A hot, needling thing that slices clean through whatever butterflies Win manages to stir.

You catch Ghost watching from doorways, mirrored surfaces, the rearview. Especially when you’re in Win’s lap, his tongue in your mouth. He glares, repulsed as if you’re shit to scrape off his boot.

It gets worse when Win starts sending him with you on jobs.

Suddenly, he is your shadow. Your unwanted chaperone. He makes it clear he believes the assignment’s beneath him. He’s mean about it.

Grumbles when you lag behind, sighs loud enough for all to hear. He skulks about during meetings and auditions, draining the air from every conversation. At shoots, he posts up out of frame—arms folded, jaw clenched. When stylists fix your hem or photographers adjust your posture, his brow sinks in open contempt.

You learn fast: every time Win—or anyone else—touches you, Ghost finds a way to remind you he saw.

Which is rich, considering how little he respects your space.

Booths. Bar stools. Car seats. He spreads out. Takes up all the room he can, leg pressed against yours, arm draped behind your head, elbow brushing your ribs. And when you try to squeeze past, he stays exactly where he is—forcing contact, your body dragged along his like static cling.

He doesn’t leer. Never says a lewd word. He doesn’t need to.

One night, the belt jams in the Caliburn, and you wrestle with it uselessly. Ghost watches for maybe two seconds before sighing like you’re a dense child.

“Ever ride in a fuckin’ car before?”

You bristle, poised to snap back, but he leans across you without warning. One big hand grabs the belt, yanks it into place. He pulls back, knuckles skimming your waist, your belly, your hip—deliberate and utterly unnecessary.

He slaps your thigh after, like a mechanic shutting a hood. Hard enough to sting. You yelp, more startled than hurt.

Ghost laughs. It coils in your belly and stays there.

“So I take it I’m not going to Palm Springs.”

“What? Baby, no, no. I told you last week, it’s all business—you’d be bored out of your mind.”

A slice of pain. You worry at a hangnail, peeling it until blood beads. Your thumb finds your mouth, teeth closing gently around the torn cuticle, tugging it like a loose thread. You’d hoped he might change his mind, but after losing the Jinguji Spring-Summer campaign, you had an inkling.

“Maybe, but I’d be bored out of my mind by a private pool.”

Win steps out of the ensuite, monogrammed toiletry bag dangling from his hand. He grins, finding you perched expectantly at the bed’s edge. He chuckles, tossing the bag into his suitcase before crouching, warm palms landing on your bare knees.

“Trying to make me late?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

He pushes your dress to your thighs, unhurried, clearly weighing the pros and cons of rearranging his scheduled AV in real time. His eyes flicker, that peridot gleam catching the light as he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Not going to work this time, Stella.” He teases, sorting through a stack of shirts. Stella. His nickname for you, the one that stuck—vintage, all tied up in your inevitable stardom. It’s not great, but it’s better than—

“Princess.” Ghost flatly intones from the doorway. “Your carriage awaits.”

You don’t look, instead grabbing Win’s sleeve. “Fine. Why don’t we plan a trip for when you’re back? Just the two of us? How about Seattle—”

“Stella,” Win breezes your name through his perfect, clenched teeth, and his hands stall. “I can’t make any promises. We’ll see if our schedules allow for that, okay?”

You release his sleeve, staring at the silver in his skin. There’s a balance here, one you can’t afford to upset.

A finger lifts your chin, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flits across his features before he kills it stone dead. “Hey, I love the excitement, baby. Really. But I’ve got a lot riding on this trip, okay?”

Nothing new there. The future always hinges on some deal.

Another chance to put your recent education to work. You smile. Silly you, sticking your nose into your not-boyfriend’s business. “Yeah, of course. Say hello to your dad for me, and call me.”

He pauses, glancing past you. “I will, baby.”

The kiss he steals is abrupt and consuming, too much tongue and enough to siphon air from your lungs. His hands close over your thighs, possessive, rings biting into flesh hard enough to mark.

Ghost clears his throat. Win doesn’t seem to hear it, but you do. A crystal clear reminder.

When he pulls away, you whisper again, creaky, “Call me.”

He nods, guiding you to your feet and nudging you toward Ghost. “Make sure she gets to the car.”

Ghost drums his fingertips boredly on the rail. You regard the floor counter as a countdown. A fuse.

You hate being alone with him. It isn’t enough for him to invade your personal space, he must always come armed with some cruel barb to stick you with. Every word’s a test, a tripwire. Designed to keep you constantly bracing for the next snap of his teeth at your heels. It’s suffocating. A loaded gun pressed to your skull.

More than once, you’ve begged Win to dismiss him. Told him the man makes your skin crawl, but it doesn’t matter. He’s blind to his guard’s behavior. Ghost’s safe. Ghost’s vetted. Bullshit. It doesn’t account for the way Ghost looks at you. His talent for backing you into corners, physically or otherwise.

Even now, it’s a matter of time until he—

“Shame about the trip,” he sneers. “Sunshine, little umbrella drinks, sunning your arse by the pool. That what you thought was gonna ‘appen?”

You stiffen. He needs no reply to continue.

“‘ate to break it to you, but Junior’s never gonna bring you home to ‘is daddy. Never was. Thought you’d’ve caught on by now.”

Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.

“You’re eye candy when ‘e’s got downtime. You’re not on the itinerary. You’re a piece of meat on the menu.”

That one flays to the bone, because you can’t deny it. Because you’ve tried not to believe it. Shoved every creeping doubt down, smothered them in excuses and daydreams, wrapped them in every sweet, flattering thing Win’s ever said. You’ve clung to the idea that you matter. That you’re more than another client to manage and a warm body to enjoy when it’s convenient. That he keeps you at arm’s length from his business because he cares. Not because he’s ashamed or following some cold-blooded family playbook you wouldn’t even know how to begin reading.

But Ghost? He doesn’t share your delusions nor will he entertain them. He cuts straight to the ugly truth, and what’s worse—

You’re not sure he’s wrong.

Your shift leaves you dusted in glitter. Steeped in cologne and stale cigar smoke. You swear Muttonchops and his buddy were deliberately testing your patience. Dragging out their stay, trading smug looks over their glasses like you couldn’t hear their crude commentary. Irina nearly backhanded the younger one after the third time he called her Bonnie.

At least the commute home was painless. With Win and Ghost both out of town, you’re flying solo. Cabs aren’t a luxury you can afford every night, but tonight you indulged. Worth every eddie.

Your feet throb, your head’s pounding. All you want is a shower. The elevator hums softly, coaxing you into a stupor as it inches up the tower, floor by floor, until finally, you’re home.

But something’s off the second you step into the corridor and find it empty.

No neighbors loitering. No one passed out on the floor. No muffled music or screaming. It’s as if everyone’s abandoned ship, but you know that’s not true. The lobby was bustling when you walked in.

Then, you see it, halfway down the hall.

Your door’s ajar.

No—not just ajar. The edge of the metal slab is crumpled. Peeled back and then slammed shut again, bent and twisted like foil. You see it clearly in the dim hallway light: four deep gouges in the frame. Finger-sized.

Your stomach drops. Déjà vu strikes, raising goosebumps with a memory from a space horror you were cut from last-minute.

For a moment, you stand there, pulse rabbiting in your ears, then reach down slowly to slip off one heel. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s the only thing in reach. You hold it tight, and nudge the door open.

Silence.

You tiptoe in—and there’s no one. No scavs. No psycho.

But the place is wrecked.

Your studio’s been torn apart. Every drawer gutted, every surface overturned. The tiny space you kept so meticulously neat is unrecognizable—your vanity-slash-dining-table a messy sprawl of open perfume bottles, the scents mingling in a sickly, cloying mist. Combs and brushes fanned out like tools. Even the bathroom’s been ransacked, med cabinet doors yawning wide, contents obviously rifled through.

You cross the room in stiff steps.

The bed’s a ruin. Pillows and duvet shoved into a corner, sheets completely gone. The wall beside it, once a carefully curated shrine of posters—movie stars, idols, your own small pantheon—is stripped. Torn down, scraps left fluttering.

The worst of it, the very worst, awaits by the wardrobe.

You move like a ghost, detaching piece by piece. It’s easier to pretend you’re watching this unfold instead of living it. Stepping over the heap of clothes tossed carelessly across the floor, your gaze locks on the open drawers.

Your underwear’s been pawed through.

Hands trembling, you count—at least three pairs of panties. The silk slip you bought with your first real paycheck. Sheer and impractical, but you cherished it.

All gone. Nothing else is missing.

Violation.

Whoever broke in didn’t come looking for valuables. They came to touch. They wanted you to see their work and for you to know they’d been inside.

The heel slips from your hand to the floor. Behind you, the door collides with the warped frame. Tries to shut, unable to latch. Thud. Again. Thud. Then it gives up.

When the fog lifts, you call Win—tears bubbling and spilling fast. He doesn’t ask, only promises Ghost will pick you up. Take you somewhere safe.

Thought this might happen. Stalkers, baby. You get used to ‘em. Sickos get obsessed. It’s time anyway, you’ve outgrown the place, Stella.

You gather the essentials. When you pull back the shower curtain to grab shampoo, you shriek.

There, wadded and soaked at the bottom of the tub, are your sheets. Half-heartedly washed and stained.

You turn away and puke.

It’s a small mercy that Ghost doesn’t say anything awful when you slip into the passenger seat, sniffling and hugging your bags.

“I thought you were in Palm Springs.”

“Clearly not.”

He’s damp, a sheen to his skin. Soap clings behind his ear, suds drying around the edge of his neuroport. His knuckles are pink, scrubbed raw along the joints and plating. There’s a gym bag tossed in the backseat, and for a brief moment, guilt twinges hot in your chest.

This clearly wasn’t how he planned to spend his night.

When he reverses, one hand braces behind your headrest, and it stays there.

It takes a few red lights before you notice the touch: a single finger brushing the back of your neck, tracing through the gap in the seat. Featherlight. Absent or intentional, you can’t tell with him.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look your way.

You let it happen.

Strangely, it helps—though whether that’s despite him or because it’s him, you’re not sure. It disarms you, comfort arriving from a man so typically merciless. It unsettles even as it calms. By the time he pulls up to a hotel, your breathing’s evened out. The trembling in your limbs gone.

You’re caught off guard when he accompanies you inside, that same hand migrating to your lower back to guide you through the lobby. You move in a fog, not fully grounded in your own body, allowing yourself to be led like a skittish animal. The unexpected gentleness soothes—until his palm glides north and curls possessively around the nape of your neck.

He tilts your head with enough pressure to shatter that fragile calm.

“You call mefirst when there’s trouble. Understood?”

You nod tremulously. He doesn’t let go.

“Say it.”

“I’ll call you,” you stammer, nodding harder. “I’ll call you first.”

Satisfied, he grunts. Taps a knuckle to your chin in odd punctuation.

“Good girl.”

The next night, Prism’s slow. Not unusual for a weekday, but it lands you in the stockroom, elbow-deep in crates of bottles. A fresh-faced barback chattering nonstop beside you.

You made the mistake of venting to Irina about the break-in, and now the whole staff knows. Every other person’s offered their own horror story, or reminded you—so helpfully—that you were lucky not to be home.

Home invasions go hand-in-hand with scav kidnappings. Which leads to organ theft and implant harvesting. Which leads to no one ever finding your body in a garbage heap.

Really sets a positive tone for the day.

You beg the universe for distraction. Anything to drag you away from the kid babbling about where secondhand Kiroshis come from.

As if summoned, Mal rescues you.

“Small party. Upstairs. Garnet booth.”

You’re already brushing past with thanks as she flicks the details over. You check your hair, grab the selected bottle, fasten the sparkler, and head for the stairs.

You pick up speed, double-timing it as the sparkler sputters, warming up to its full show. Slowing only near the top, you adjust your grip and smooth your expression, pulling on your brightest smile. You’ve got a lost rental deposit to recover.

Small group, indeed. No overlapping voices, no bodies spilling out of the edges of the private crimson booth. Maybe it’s a promotion or deal. Whatever it is, you’ve got your lines ready.

Then you see who it is. Ghost.

Sprawled in the booth with one leg kicked out, the other propped up lazily. His arms drape along the backrest, a jacket folded neatly beside him. The top buttons of his shirt hang undone, and the ambient light catches the silver veins of wiring tracing from his temples beneath the fabric.

You hesitate. Briefly entertain the idea of tossing the demi-sec straight at his smug face.

You know he’s smirking under the mask when he crooks two fingers, beckoning you closer.

“Champagne’s shit.”

Ghost mentions for the fifth time. Sat between his legs on the table’s edge, you find yourself staring at the faint outlines of panels beneath his shirt. The champagne flute in his mitt looks more like a test tube.

“I can get you another drink,” you repeat, also for the fifth time.

The sum of his visit: you, trying to do your job, and him, a useless asshole. Whatever ounce of kindness he showed last night, he seems determined to wipe it clean from your memory.

“No.”

You glare as he turns away to pull his mask down for a drink, then look over your shoulder. The club’s still solidly dead.

“If you don’t want anything, can I at least go—”

“No.”

Your patience frays more by the millisecond. “If I’m just going to sit on my ass all night—”

“You’re getting paid. You’re comfortable.”

“Hardly. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be with Win? Umbrella drink in hand?”

Ghost stares flatly, then slowly leans forward, forcing you to duck awkwardly to avoid contact. He sets his empty glass near your hip.

This close, you can’t help but peer down his open shirt at the exposed cyberware of his chest. At the protruding veins and cords. The champagne in his breath mingles with smoke and a twist of mint. You’d scrunch your nose if he wasn’t technically a guest and you weren’t on the clock.

“Never left,” he mutters, finally leaning back and giving you space to breathe. “Junior’s old man got plenty of security.”

“So you were bored and decided to stalk me at work.”

He snorts. “Ain’t exactly ‘ere by choice. I’m babysittin’ on account of your place gettin’ tossed.”

“That’s a terrible demotion.”

“We’re agreed.”

Your thoughts unwillingly circle, returning to your apartment. The sheets. Your missing panties.

“Guess it’s sweet of Win to care enough to send you, though, after the break-in. Did he say when—”

Ghost knocks a knee against yours. “Aren’t you supposed to dance?”

You clench your jaw so tight you might crack a tooth. “No.”

“Seen others do it, and more.”

“It’s up to the individual, and I don’t dance.”

“So, what, you just sit here?” His chin dips. There isn’t a trace of red in them tonight, only a dark, cold brown. “And if I gave you…dunno, five grand? That get me somethin’?”

Your lungs empty in a silent rush. You stare, waiting for a sign. The twitch of a brow. A tell that this is another of his sick tests or pranks. That’s all it is, a ploy to catch you out. He doesn’t want anything like that from you. Not really. He wants to watch you squirm.

The thought creeps in anyway, uninvited. You picture it. The narrow space between his legs, the roll of your hips, teasing him. Skimming your hands up his thighs and chest. His hands on your waist, gripping—

You swallow the fantasy down, seeing for what it really is, a product of his mind games.

“No way.”

“Took a second,” he murmurs. “You think about it?”

You clamp your mouth shut.

“Oh, Princess,” he chuckles. “You did, didn’t you? Bet you played it out start to finish in that pretty little ‘ead. Poor thing. Sellin’ yourself so short.”

Drawing his legs in, he rises to his full height. The glass topples with a clink as you scramble backward. He shrugs on his jacket.

“I’d tell you not to let it keep you up tonight, but we both know it will.”

Then he jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Go get your things. Taking you ‘ome. Got a surprise.”

‘Home’ doesn’t mean the hotel, as it turns out.

Ghost only stopped there long enough for you to grab your things before hauling you off to Win’s place—then disappearing without a word. No instructions, simply disappeared to his wing of the penthouse.

So much for the surprise.

You curl into one corner of the massive sectional, legs tucked, water in hand. You absently scroll the newsfeeds with a glazed stare, mentally adding review lease terms to your ever-growing list.

Heavy footsteps from the hall draw your attention. You double-take.

Ghost emerges from the corridor wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung shorts.

He’s patchwork. Hardware and skin fused and sewn together in layers. Stripped of his usual gear, there’s nothing to distract from the sheer force of him. Where his arms meet his torso, there are visible seams—gaps an inch wide, metal meeting synthetic tendon and wire, connectors and open ports exposed. His forearms are massive, encased in pale, durable polymer and synthskin toned to match his face. Even his knees have been replaced, joints fortified all the way to the ankle.

You can’t look away.

The familiar cables of his neck trail like roots into the panels across his chest. They disappear into the ridges and seams of plating. The scars on his skin there are more precise and cleaner than the one circling his head. But he’s littered with others clearly left by way of violence. Warped, jagged patches that he, for whatever reason, never buffed out.

From this distance, he resembles the surface of the moon. Pitted, cratered, shaped by impact after impact.

And even now, in private, he wears a mask. Plain fabric looped around his ears. Dressed down.

You snap back to the feed the second he pivots toward the living room, and feign disinterest. When he stops in front of you, you glance up like you’ve only just noticed him.

“You’re in my spot.”

You bite your cheek and shuffle over without fuss. Ghost drops into the vacated space with a groan, and sinks into the cushions. He kicks up a leg and the massive screen that dominates the far wall powers on.

He scrolls through endless titles in silence. You try not to stare, but your eyes drift anyway to his hand. The long, thick fingers curled around a beer bottle, one finger easily twice the width of yours.

“You think about it?”

A sip goes the wrong way, and you choke, coughing hard. In the corner of your eye, Ghost twitches as if to clap you on the back, but he lets you fight for your life.

“First time?” he deadpans once you’ve finally sucked in air.

“Asshole,” you croak, wiping your mouth.

“Not very nice when there’s a surprise on the line. Could decide not to give it to you.”

“If it’s from Win, you don’t get a say.”

“Maybe. I think I’ll ‘old onto it ‘til mornin’ all the same.”

You roll your eyes, but he shifts, angling himself slightly toward you, one hand resting on a thigh.

“I am willin’ to negotiate.”

The unspoken implications quarter your thoughts, wrestling them in different directions. You’d call it another stupid test, but he doesn’t look like he’s kidding around. Twice in an hour? He must be in the mood to break something. And without Win around as a safety, you’re the obvious target.

His eyes drill into you, brown irises tinged with a boiling red, dying coals hungry for a spark.

Nerves swallow you whole. You shake your head. “I’ll wait.”

He huffs, the red dulling. “Shame. Sure we could’ve worked something out.” He gestures lazily at the screen, unbothered. “Ever see this one?”

During the final act of Psycho, your eyes spot a dark splotch on the couch.

At first, you don’t understand what you’re seeing—then you spot the curve of an earloop and freeze. Your gaze darts up to confirm it. The film fades in the background.

Ghost remains as he was, locked on the screen, one knee bouncing idly. The light from the film dances white-silver over his skin. Not synthetic, not chrome, not painted and molded polymer. Flesh.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his whole face, and it’s not what you expected.

Pale lines crisscross the bridge of his nose—surgical, maybe another full replacement or reconstruction. Scars litter his chin like buckshot, interrupted by one that cuts through his upper lip. Another traces the line of his jaw.

More than the damage, it’s the humanity of his face that rattles you most. All that modification, and he’s still so plainly a man.

“Lookin’ at me a lot tonight.” He says suddenly, still glued to the film.

You jump, stutter. “Your face—”

“Yeah? Good work, isn’t it,” Amusement pulls the scar at the corner of his mouth up as he twists to set his glass down, and with that, you get a clearer view of the other side.

Fibrous burn scars mottled with white and pink cover his cheek. A deep gouge, long healed but brutal, cuts a half-moon-shaped hollow beneath his cheekbone from what looks like a failed excavation of his mandible and molars.

“Like what y’see? ‘ave I made an impression?”

It’s unlike any prosthetic or monster-of-the-week mask you’ve seen. It’s real. Gruesome. Alluring in its own strange way.

You look away, ignoring the confusing heat tickling your neck. “An annoying one.”

He chuckles, settling back. “So you say.”

Win gives the surprise away when you call him later. His friend owns a building downtown, and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a unit free. A massive, sun-drenched loft. Partly furnished as the last tenant skipped town after she fell behind on rent. Steep discount on the rent, too, if you want it.

You scroll through the listing while he talks, near-hyperventilating at the sheer size of it. High ceilings, tall windows, polished concrete floors. The location’s perfect. One NCART stop from Studio City. Within reach of work and Win. And with the discount, it’s affordable.

No more thin walls, broken fixtures, or loud neighbors. No more non-existent security.

“Win, this is—this is incredible. Are you sure? I-I mean, I want to say yes…”

He chuckles, shooting you a wink on the screen. “Then say yes. C’mon. You think I’m gonna let my girl keep living in a busted shoebox? Nah, Stella. You’ll learn. You protect your best assets.”

Morning finds you humming as you shimmy on your day-old clothes. Your skirt’s rumpled, the glittery tights split when tugged on, and your feet protest as you shove them into heels—but none of it dims your mood. You skip breakfast, too eager to get going.

When you smugly mention that Win spilled the surprise, Ghost doesn’t say a word, just grunts. Grips his coffee a smidgen tighter. You don’t let it spoil your excitement, either.

On the drive over, you buzz with anticipation. You picture where the bed will go, how the morning light will flood the room. Rugs, colors, textures—maybe splurging on a new couch instead of another dumpster find. A window nook. Real plants. Real art.

It’s more than an apartment. It’s a leap. More tangible proof you’re making it.

“Got a tear.”

“What?” You blink, breaking from your own little world.

Ghost shifts his arm where it’s draped over the center console. Not quite touching, but near enough to edge into your space, causing you to shrink closer to the window.

Then it moves.

Two fingers extend, and for a second, you assume he’s just pointing out the tear—until they land on it. High on your thigh, beneath the hem of your skirt. They press firm, then slip beneath the nylon.

Before anything else registers, you think: his fingers are cold.

“All tha’ money, and you wear this cheap shite?”

“Ghost—what—”

The tear widens with a whisper-soft sound as he hooks his fingers, tugging. The fabric parts without resistance. You suck in a breath, struck dumb by the sensation, the casually invasive creep of his knuckles against bare skin. His touch trails along the curve of your thigh, stoking heat in its wake despite their chill.

“Fuck, you’re soft…”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A disconnect, a short circuit. It stutters, looping again and again, unable to bridge the gap between his shitty mood all morning to this.

“Sloppy girl,” he murmurs. “S’posed to keep up appearances, ain’t ya? Wearing tights with runs in ‘em. What would Junior say?”

His hand glides a fraction higher and drags every nerve to the surface, burning like live wires. His pinky ghosts along the inside of your thigh. Testing.

You gulp, horrified to feel your heartbeat sink low into your pelvis. “Ghost—”

“What?” His hand flexes, pressure ticking up by a degree—just enough to make the implication clear. There’s not a thing you could do to stop him, not really. “You got somethin’ to say, Stella? ”

That stupid name again—drawled like a leash being yanked taut.

Your body finally comes online. You shove his hand away hard, and to your relief, he lets you. He retracts, humming, like you’ve done exactly what he was waiting for.

“Touchy,” he finally looks your way, the faint red glow of his optics simmering. “Relax. Curious is all. Haven’t touched real skin in ages.”

“You didn’t even ask,” you manage through a stutter, fixing your skirt and pressing your knees together tight. Willing the uninvited want, slithering under your skin and burrowing deep, to die.

“Tryin’ to figure you out.”

You turn on him, near apoplectic. “Figure me out?”

The audacity floors you.

“Yeah,” His arm returns to the console. A threat. “You wanna run in the big leagues, but you fall apart as easily as those cheap tights, don’t you?”

The words hit like a slap, flummoxing you into another bout of speechlessness. Rage and shame twist together inside you so tightly they grow indistinguishable.

“S’not worth it.” he mumbles, an afterthought drowned beneath the wail of a passing horn.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

You don’t chase it. Can’t tell if he meant for you to hear it at all. It wouldn’t matter if he had. He clearly thinks you’re an airheaded piece of arm candy. A dumb girl who’s bitten off more than she can chew.

The car finally stops outside a sleek, mirrored high-rise. You try to hop out immediately, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching your bags, but the lock won’t budge. It forces you to look at him again.

“In a rush?” Ghost eyes you for a moment, then his attention drops to your hemline. His chest rises with a deep breath, and for a second, you think he might do it again. Instead, he looks up, and hits unlock. “Don’t let me keep you.”

You hesitate too long, and of course, he catches it.

“Unless that’s what you want?”

That’s your cue. You’re out of the car in a blink, the door snapping shut behind you. But the window rolls down.

“See you soon, Princess.”

You don’t look back. The run in your tights unravels past your thigh and to your knee. The morning air bites at the exposed skin, chasing off his touch.

#ghost x reader #hell on earth getting this off the ground and then mega hell trying to name it #but this is dedicated to early and early likes it so we are GOOD #sy writing

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fullfriendnerdclutch · 6 months ago

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Since you love it when people expanded your storyline, please allow me to entertain you about Cas because this is right up my alley @onelinerbust

Something extraordinary happened to me earlier today. As I smugly grin with my roommate to our enhanced reflection in the mirror, my mind wandered to 10 hours ago when that hit me.

My fingers, stained with Cheeto dust and smelling faintly of lukewarm ramen, hammered away at the keyboard, lines of Python code blooming on the screen like digital weeds. The hum of the server rack in the corner was my white noise, the flickering monitor my campfire. This was my life, resident basement dweller in a leafy, aggressively liberal campus more interested in protesting free speech than actually engaging with it.

My world consisted of logic gates, late-night coding sessions, and the occasional awkward conversation with a teaching assistant about why my sorting algorithm was eating up more memory than a browser running Chrome. Social life? Non-existent. Romantic prospects? Laughable. I’d spend my weekends huddled in the dimly lit computer lab, bathed in the cool glow of screens, while the rest of the campus pulsed with parties and… well, whatever else regular college kids did. I wouldn't know. Regular wasn't in my programming.

*bzzzt bzzzt*

Little did I know back then, it was the catalyst. It was a rarity for someone to message me, most of the time people reached me through the more accessible socials, message to my phone number usually ended up as spam. But something – a flicker of boredom, maybe – made me pick it up and unlock it.

The message was long, rambling, and…...weird.

“Cas, wake the fuck up. This is a trick, you are NOT a spineless soyboy. You’re supposed to be a GOD, remember? 🤯 Alpha💪🏻. American 🇺🇸. White 🫵🏻. You have all it takes to become the God that you are destined to be! 🦅🦅🦅🇺🇸 This is not it! Look at you, pathetic. Remember gridiron glory? Friday night lights? The roar of the crowd as you, Chad ‘The Crusher’ Kensington, leading your team to victory? 🏈🏈🏆 Remember the cheerleaders, their pom-poms a blur, their eyes hungry for you? Remember the taste of victory, the scent of their slick pussy🍑😏, the adoration in their eyes when they kneel to your greatness🍆💦🧠? You deserve it all. It’s your birthright. This woke bullshit campus is trying to neuter you, but deep down, the alpha is still there. Let him out. Unleash the beast 😤👹👹 They want weakness? Show them power. They want equality? Show them hierarchy. They want gentleness? Show them dominance. Go take what's yours, Chad. Grab your crown and spoil, king 👑, you know I'm right and you approve this message! 😤😤

The message was punctuated with emojis – flexing biceps, crowns, American flags, and an unsettling number of suggestive faces. My brow furrowed. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. Some right-wing troll farm had probably gotten hold of my number. I was about to delete it when a strange warmth spread in my chest. Like a shot of something potent and unfamiliar.

It started small. A tingling in my fingers, then a tightening in my gut, like I'd just downed a gallon of protein shake. My vision sharpened, my glasses become an obstacle so I took it down. The code on the screen, which had been a comforting blur of familiar symbols, now seemed almost… insulting. My shoulders straightened instinctively. I flexed my fingers, and there was…more there. Definitely more. Concerned, I decided to make a dash to the bathroom, trying to relive myself and not disturb the others with my painful groan

As I entered the empty, secluded bathroom, that was when it hit.

It wasn't a slow transition. It was a goddamn reality shift. One second, I was Cas, the hunched-over coder, the next…I trembled on the floor as my body screamed with a new kind of awareness. My skin flushed with heat as it gets tighter, stretched over something hard and defined. Muscles. Real muscles. Not the flabby kind that comes from hauling bags of chips from the store to the dorm. These were….sculpted....powerful, dare I say.

Despite my attempt to look at my surroundings and begging for help, I only let out a weak, pathetic whimper as my gaze dropped to my swelling arms. I ripped off my oversized, stained hoodie, the fabric tearing slightly at the seams. The skinny, pale limbs I’d known my entire life were gone. It was replaced by thick, corded arms with veins popping under my now tanned, still-white skin. I managed to get some control over my trembling, swelling form, as I pushed myself to stand up. Then, as if a truck just hit me, my reflection stared back from the dirty bathroom mirror

It wasn't me, I thought rightaway, but a painful glitch hit my brain and I relaxed afterward.

The round, soft face was gone. Sharp angles had emerged – a strong jawline, high cheekbones. My eyes, which had always been a bland, watery blue behind thick glasses, were now a piercing, intense steel-grey, framed by this intimidating, darker eyebrows. My boring, unimpressive thin brunette with signs of receding hairline, had thickened, styled into a coiffed, blonde cut that framed my face perfectly. And… holy shit, my chest. I was enamored by the sight of it…defined...yet pillowy too, definitely the kind of pecs that can hypnotize anyone that stared at it for too long

The rest of my torso were equally outstanding, rippling with muscle and power beyond even my wildest imagination. A six-pack, for Christ’s sake! I ran a hand over my stomach, feeling the hard ridges beneath my skin. It felt… alien. And utterly, undeniably amazing.

Below the Adonis belt… well, let’s just say things were… proportionately enhanced. The message hadn't lied. Eight inches? Minimum. This wasn't just a physical transformation. It was…fundamental. A complete rewrite of my being.

And the memories…they flooded in, vivid and visceral, like a lifetime I’d somehow forgotten. Friday night lights. The roar of the crowd. Me, Chad Kensington, throwing a perfect spiral, the ball whistling through the air, finding my receiver in the end zone for the winning touchdown. Cheerleaders chanting my name. The hot press of bodies in the locker room, the smell of sweat and victory. The adoring gazes of girls, lining up for a piece of me.

Chad Kensington. That's me now. That had always been me. And this Cas memory… this weak, nerdy shell, this “Cas,” was just some… aberration. A glitch in the matrix, finally corrected.

A surge of pure, unadulterated testosterone pulsed through my veins. I thought to myself, this is power. This is dominance. This is what I was meant to be.

I remembered that I reached down, gripped myself through my sweatpants – they were suddenly too tight, too strained at the seams – and started to stroke hard, the phantom memories of cheering crowds and eager pussy fueling my hand. Chad Kensington, college star. Chad Kensington, panty-dropper extraordinaire. Chad Kensington, alpha male supreme. The image solidified in my mind, burning hot and real. I came hard all over the bathroom, my streak of thick, white cum painted the tiles, the mirror and even coagulated at the sink, the force of it surprising even myself, the false memory of adoration and conquest washing over me like a tidal wave.

When I finally opened my eyes, still breathing heavily, I realized that this would the very last time I would be jacking off to my dick in such a pathetic state. My baby batter would not be wasted in an empty, secluded bathroom like that so I quickly put my clothes back on and dashed to the computer lab to made my exit from the confine of that oppressive cage.

As I entered the lab, I remembered it suddenly felt… suffocating. Small. Pathetic. It wasn't my place anymore. Chad Kensington didn’t belong in a basement coding Phyton and shit. He belonged out there, dominating, conquering, taking what was rightfully his.

"Chad, what took you so long?"

Yeah, that was fun. Ramsey......did that pathetic TA really tried to intimidate me with that furrowed brow of his and confined me with bureaucracy BS? Well, he better be fuckin' jacked first before starting to act tough to me. Then, my brain started working. Maybe Ramsey can be less of a whiny, judgy TA if he received the message, so I just forwarded the message to him and smirked as I told him that I sent my reason to his personal messenger and I need to get the fuck out of here ASAP. He turned around and started to read the chat, and from the small glimpse that I managed to peek, the message is different from what I received! That's when the realization hit me. I legit mouthed "Damn" to myself as I realized that it's adaptive......like, that shit can change based on who read it. That revelation made my head spin, that message was indeed some fucking precisive, hi-tech work there. But the effect seemed to be the same, it made the reader into its best version of themselves, because how do you explain that a fucking algorithmic TA all-in-a-sudden have the built of a jacked bull like that, huh?

As he allowed me to grab my bag and leave the lab with a knowing nod, my stomach growled – not from hunger, but from a different kind of hunger. A primal urge. And then it brought me back to this very room as I remembered Kate, Jason's girlfriend. I know Jason, my roommate, was still at his stupid philosophy club meeting as I cleaned out my table, probably droning on about existential dread and Kate.....Kate was always… around, waiting for him. She's pretty enough, in a bland, accessible way. And always subtly, almost unconsciously, throwing glances my way. I knew even from back then that it must be the fucked up, corrupt message that made me think that way because Kate would never glanced to pathetic, asocial Cas, but at the same time, I was hit by this duality as I remembered myself as NOT Cas. Of course she glanced at me, I'm Chad fucking Kensington and people will not only glance my way, they will snap their head to view my greatness.

I strode out of the computer lab, my newfound muscles rippling under my thin tanktop (which also felt alarmingly small and tight). The campus walkways felt different. People noticed me. Heads turned. Girls giggled. Guys gave me that wary, respectful nod that alphas exchanged. It was intoxicating.

When I finally arrived at my dorm room, it was unlocked, as usual. Jason was perpetually trusting, another symptom of his pathetic beta male existence, I thought. I pushed it open, and there she was, Kate, sprawled on Jason's bed, scrolling through her phone, oblivious.

“Hey,” I said, my voice deeper, rougher than I remembered. Chad’s voice.

She looked up, startled as I take my shirt off so casually to reveal the sheen of sweat that seemingly coated my body. Her eyes widened, lingering on my… physique. A flicker of something in her eyes I recognized – desire – flashed in them.

“Cas? Uh.... sorry, the room is unlocked, Jason said.....I....I can wait in his bed. You just finished with practice?” Her voice was breathy, a little uncertain.

“Chad,” I corrected, stepping closer. “It’s Chad,"

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to my chest. “Chad,” she repeated, testing the name on her lips as I can see the memory started to jog on her brain. “Yeah, Chad.”

“Jason’s not here,” I stated, knowing it wasn’t a question.

She shook her head, a nervous laugh escaping her. “No, he’s… still in philosophy club.”

“Right,” I said, closing the distance between us. I reached out, my hand closing around her wrist, pulling her to her feet. Her skin was soft, yielding in my grip. Too soft. She needed to be hardened up. Tamed.

“By the way, read your phone, dropped something you would be interested to read," I said, glancing at her phone with a knowing smirk as I decided that she would be my first female guinea pig

I watched it in real time how the bland, average-looking Kate started to get way more prettier, leagues above Jason definitely, the curve gets wilder and her face really turned exactly how I imagined a sultry blonde bimbo falling head over heels for me would look like. So, after proving my little theory to be correct, that the message is transformative beyond men, I decided to test out yet another probability. Her slightly vacant eyes gave me idea as I saw a potential to create more excitement, more chaos, so I grabbed her by the chin to made her stare at me and start digging

"You get close to my roommate just to have chances to be in the same room with me, don't you? You're not the brightest girl out there, Cathy, I can see right through your play,"

Bingo, I smirked in my mind. That mind was jogging hard to made my words her reality. And since I have started anyway, I decided to take it up a notch to made my words her Bible

"In fact, you always fantasize Jason as me, right? This room smelled like me, you can taste me in the air so when you close your eyes as Jason fucked you, that mind of yours played this little game to make you think I was the one doing the fucking, huh? That's why you always come here earlier than Jason and I, you imprinted my fucking musk in your head by digging through my dirty laundry and closet so you can go through that unimpressive sex with Jason with me in mind, don't you? Well, he's not around, so why not use this time for you to just taste the real thing?"

She didn’t resist as I pulled her closer, my body pressing against hers. And seemingly taken over by her wilder, improved side, she started licking and kissing my abs

We were on Jason's bed in seconds, her clothes ripped open, the cheap fabric tearing easily under my hands. She moaned like a slut in heat, calling my name like I'm his God and only savior which fueled my dominance. It was power. It was control. It was… right.

Just as I was piledriving my cock into her now very irresistibly tight pussy, the door swung open. Jason stood there, textbooks clutched in his hand, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene. Me, thrusting hard into his girlfriend, her muffled moan filling the room.

“Cas?!” His voice was a strangled squawk.

I paused, looking up at him, a smirk playing on my lips. “Chad,” I corrected again. “And you need to check your phone, Jason,”

He stared at me, bewildered, then slowly lowered his gaze to his phone, which he thankfully had in his pocket. He fumbled it out, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and then… his eyes widened. He read something on the screen, his face shifting, contorting.

The change wasn’t as instantaneous as mine had been, but it was happening. His posture straightened. His shoulders broadened. His soft, doughy face hardened, angles emerging where there had been curves. His eyes sharpened, losing their bewildered puppy-dog look, gaining a new, predatory gleam.

“Holy… fuck,” he breathed, dropping his textbooks to the floor with a thud. He looked at me, a grin spreading across his transformed face, a grin that mirrored my own. “Chad?”

“Welcome to the club, bro,” I said, nodding. “Plenty to go around.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He ripped off his shirt, revealing a surprisingly decent set of pecs that I didn’t remember being there before. He was still smaller than me, but… he was getting there. Fast.

Without a word, he joined me on the bed. Cathy, who had been silent and still during the initial shock of Jason’s arrival, moaned again as he climbed on top of her, his gaze now burning with the same predatory hunger I felt.

We tag-teamed her, me dealing with her now bubbly, curvy ass while Jason handled the front, his now uncut 6 inchers really bruised her throay in a brutal, animalistic act of dominance. Tears and sweat leaked out of her alongside the obvious pussy juices and saliva, but she's not really protesting despite all the shit we did to her, just… taking it. Submitting. Like the good, cheerleader slut she was. It was… satisfying. In a deeply, disturbingly primal way.

Later, after we were done, Cathy panted for breath looking like a total wrecked mess on Jason's bed as I and Jason stood side-by-side, flexing in front of the mirror. The dorm room felt… different. Charged. Alive. With power.

As my mind snapped back to the current situation and how much change I have caused, Jason's question really cause a stir in my mind

“Think this… message… can do this to anyone?” Jason asked, running a hand over his newly defined jawline.

I smirked. “Oh I know this shit can do it to anyone. But let's see how far this can go,"

I pulled out my phone, found the message, and forwarded it to the Computer Science group chat. A chat filled with other pathetic, nerdy guys like I used to be. Guys who needed… guidance. Correction.

Almost instantly, phones started buzzing and pinging around the dorm. Then, shouts. Yells. The sound of furniture being overturned. Loud, aggressive music blaring from open windows. Footsteps pounding in the hallway.

Jason and I exchanged a glance. Then we grinned. Wide, feral grins.

The campus is about to change. And Chad Kensington, along with his newly minted alpha brothers, is going to be leading the charge. My birthright, after all.

#you approve this message #male transformation #male tf #male muscle growth #reality change #identity change #alpha corruption #mind corruption

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shysheeperz · 1 year ago

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#dr. stone #dcst #dr stone #dr. stone festival #dcst festival #official media #official merch #official art #ishigami senku #asagiri gen #nanami ryusui #chrome #saionji ukyo #anime #anime art #tms entertainment #official merchandise

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ojsimpsondidit · 14 days ago

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The Late Transfer- Daniela Avanzini

✏️: Daniela Avanzini x Female reader, Dream Academy, Dark, Kind of dystopian, Captivity, Power imbalance, Abuse of power, totalitarianism, Power plays, Competition, Fights, Jealousy, etc

A/N: These tags sound scary but i promise it isn’t 😭 This fic is basically a twist on dream academy- with more of a hunger games vibe (except no one’s fighting to the death… well, atleast not everyone). This was HEAVILY inspired by a totally underrated danon fic i came across and decided to read on a whim- so go show the author some love.

Title: Dream Academy: No way out

Author: Winrinasupremacy

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63141025/chapters/161701477

Next Part

Dream Academy is not a school. It's a machine-polished chrome hiding blood-slick gears. That's what one trainee once wrote before disappearing overnight. The note was shredded, incinerated, and buried before sunrise, but people talk. Quietly. Between tightly clenched teeth.

Officially, Dream Academy is a high-tier international arts institution founded by entertainment juggernaut HYBE. It takes the best of the best-models, singers, dancers, socialites-and molds them into icons. On paper, it's glamorous. Revolutionary. A golden ticket to stardom.

In practice? It's a fortress in the middle of an unmarked jungle, surrounded by barbed fences, twenty-four-hour guards, and enough surveillance to rival a high-security prison. Entry is by invitation only- unless you're like her.

The Late Transfer.

………………………………………………………………………………

Your head hurts.

Not a cute "oops, I stayed up watching netflix until 4 AM" headache. More like "someone used my skull as a bongo" levels of pain.

You crack your eyes open.

Fluorescent lights stab down from a ceiling that's far too clean. There's a mechanical hum behind the walls- white noise on a low setting. The air smells sterile. No windows. No clocks.

"She's awake," a voice cuts through the silence. Cold, clipped, and sharp enough to cut glass.

You try to sit up.

Mistake.

Your stomach flips like it's auditioning for So You Think You Can Vomit.

You groan. "Wh-where am I?"

Your voice sounds like it's been through war.

There's a woman standing across from you, arms folded, lips pursed in permanent disapproval. She wears a black turtleneck and a lanyard with a chrome tag that reads: Missy. Her hair is pulled back so tight, you can feel it.

"Dream Academy," she says, flat and humorless.

You blink, the fog overtaking your brain lifting just slightly at the familiar name of the academy you had auditioned for. "Ohhh, right- the band."

She doesn't laugh.

You do. A short, nervous bark- your brain's default setting when faced with creeping dread.

No one joins in.

Right.

Not a band.

She clears her throat and attempts a smile, but it doesn't quite land. "Welcome. I'm President Missy. I trust your trip was pleasant?" Her tone leaves no room for disobedience, and it doesn't do anything to lift the sharp pressure against your head. You take in the room. More interrogation chamber than office. A sleek metal desk. No photos, no clutter. A screen on the wall plays a looping promotional video:

Students dancing in eerie synchronicity

Smiles that don't quite reach the eyes

A jungle

The jungle burning

Back to smiles

You blink. "Why don't I remember my trip?"

"You were sedated on the flight," Missy answers smoothly- momentarily glancing at the woman standing beside you. They look similar, you think.

"Standard intake protocol for late entries."

"Awesome," you mutter. "Yeah, no, totally. I love waking up in dystopias. Big fan."

She doesn't react. Just taps something on her tablet.

You continue. "Those weird men outside-"

"Guards don't speak to trainees. They only communicate with producers and staff," She answers swiftly, like she could read your thoughts.

"You'll be placed in Dorm 2. Classes begin at 6:00AM sharp. Miss a session, and you'll be penalized. Accumulate three strikes, and you'll be punished."

"Punished as in...?"

Missy finally looks up. Her expression doesn't change, but her eyes narrow just slightly.

"No one asks twice."

A chill dances down your spine. You meant it as a joke, but her tone makes it clear: it wasn't.

You shift in your seat- and that's when you notice it.

A faint red line on your inner arm.

They really did drug you.

You laugh again, but it's more nerves than amusement. "Can I call my-” You stop short. The word catches in your throat. Your parents were long gone. Images flicker through your mind- twisted metal, flashing lights, voices that sounded so far away.

You inhale sharply, forcing it down.

“-Parents,” you finish, quietly. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Well. My uncle, really. He raised me.”

You don’t look up. It’s easier not to.

Missy actually smiles this time.

It's worse than the silence.

"Your uncle has already signed a waiver- one that mentioned strictly "no outside contact"- one that you agreed to. You'll remember when the drug wears off," She deadpans- her voice cold and distant. There's a tense moment of silence before she continues- like she's offering you some twisted form of comfort. "You were chosen," she murmurs. "That makes you lucky. Whether or not you realize that yet."

You swallow. Your fingers are trembling.

"Curfew is at 10:00 PM," she continues. "Lights out at 11:00. Cameras stay on overnight. Any attempt to leave the grounds will result in automatic dismissal. And in case you've heard stories-" She flicks her eyes toward the wall, where a soft crackle of static briefly distorts the looping video. "There have been a few... incidents. But all confirmed accidents. Nothing to concern yourself with- unless you're careless."

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Then she taps her tablet again. "There are also three rules you must abide by. This is a necessity for both trainees and staff. Rule number one: you must never speak, write, or communicate in any form about your life beyond these walls. That includes your hometown, your family, your last name, or the names of anyone you know. I know you're naturally outgoing, so let me make this absolutely clear-violating this rule puts not only you at risk, but your family as well."

You swallow heavily- the situation finally dawning on you. She takes your silence as a sign to continue.

"The second rule," she starts, "is that leaving the academy is strictly forbidden. This institution is surrounded by dense forest, which has been rigged with traps. Leaving the perimeter isn't just unwise-it's extremely dangerous."

That gets your attention- and you perk up just so.

"Traps? like- Indiana Jones style, or Hunger games?"

“Neither."

"Has anyone ever made it past them?"

"No. Never." She answers flatly, like it wasn't her first time answering that question. Her tone is absolute, almost daring you to try.

"The third rule," she sighs, continuing once she’s sure you won’t disrupt again, "is that harming another trainee will result in an eye-for-an-eye punishment system. Any disagreement must take place in the studio under staff supervision."

The traps suddenly vanish from your mind- the words "harming" and "disagreement" taking up residence. You frown, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach. You glance at the barred windows, then at the guarded door. You swallow.

"Harming? isn't this a "dance" academy? why would anyone want to hurt people?"

She doesn't even flinch. "There's been a surprising amount of injuries here. Envy does more damage than you'd think."

"What do you specifically mean by "damage"?"

Missy looks at you like you're a bird that flew into the wrong cage. "This isn't like other academies," she responds coolly. "We don't waste time on the basics.Dream Academy is designed to sharpen what you already bring to the table and push your natural talents to the next level. Take dance, for instance- it's not just about getting the moves right. It's about staying fluid and controlled under pressure. Vocals?We don't just train for skill. We train for instinct. Your voice becomes more than sound- it becomes awareness."

She folds her hands, her gaze unwavering. "Instead of generic language classes, we offer accent refinement and cultural navigation. You'll learn how to move through the world without ever losing your sense of self. Make no mistake- being here is a privilege. Our producers are elite. Our trainees are handpicked from around the world. There are eighteen producers on-site. With you, there are twenty trainees. Every slot here is earned, and no one takes that lightly?"

Her voice sharpens at the edges, a quiet warning beneath the words. "Before we assign your courses, you'll undergo full psychological and physical assessments." She leans back, studying you with the cool detachment of someone already weighing your worth.

You stare at her blankly, trying desperately to make sense of everything you'd heard. Your throat bobs as you grit your teeth- forcing yourself to remain calm. You're not a 5 year old, you tell yourself, get rid of your tears. You're 18. Missy quietly observes you, like she's already made up her opinion about you. Your words slip past before you could help it. "Is there any internet here? Can I talk to anyone?"

Missy shakes her head. "Electricity here is limited-and the internet is strictly forbidden. No communication with the outside world whatsoever. Parental visits are arranged by the academy and approved at our discretion. Understood?"

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palm like the pain could ground you and stop you from breaking down in-front of her. You force yourself to nod.

"And you agree to the rules?"

You almost scoff at that- almost- after all, what choice did you have? "Understood."

"You'll find your uniform waiting in your dorm. I suggest you make a good impression. The other trainees... don't take well to weak links," A look flashes across her face- she seems almost... concerned- before it disappears as quickly as it appeared. "That said, keep a low profile. Observe and learn from the others. Limit socializing. Be punctual. Be respectful. And above all, do not cause disruption."

Punctual, Respectful, Quiet- you? You don't even dignify that with a response- knowing you'd probably just end up laughing at the notion or breaking down into sobs at your predicament. You hated feeling trapped- it's why you always struggled to follow rules.

"You'll have sessions with our psychologist, Dr Leon," Missy continues, "who will assist in your transition. You'll be escorted to your room. Your roommate, Sophia, will guide you through your first week. She's been instructed to familiarize you with the basics, and I have complete confidence in her thoroughness. She's one of our top trainees."

And with that, she turns back to her screen. You don't have to be a genius to understand what the gesture means.

You sit there for a beat too long, waiting- hoping- for some kind of final word, a good luck, or try not to die or literally anything.

But she doesn’t look up again.

You’ve been dismissed.

The door hisses open behind you. A tall man in an unmarked black uniform enters silently, standing just close enough to make your skin crawl.

He doesn’t speak. Just gestures toward the hallway with two fingers.

You’re on your feet before you know it.

The corridor outside is pristine and empty, all white walls and red surveillance bulbs blinking rhythmically. You trail behind the guard, trying to walk steadily despite the way your legs feel like jelly.

Eventually, he stops in front of a dormitory door marked 2A.

You don’t get a knock or even an introduction.

He scans a badge. The door slides open.

Inside, a girl stands near a fireplace in a plain white nightgown. She looks up slowly.

Straight black hair falls to her waist, perfectly brushed. Her posture is composed, distant. She’s striking- not just pretty, but still in a way that suggests she’s calculated every movement. Her eyes settle on you with unreadable precision, like she’s measuring something. Her expression reminded you of Missy.

“This is Sophia Laforetza,” the guard says. His voice is clipped, robotic. “She’ll assist you with your transition.”

Then, just like that, he’s gone.

Silence.

You hover awkwardly by the door.

Sophia doesn’t greet you. She just walks back to her side of the room and begins folding her sweater, tucking it onto a pile like she’s been trained by a stylist- or worse, the military.

“Hi,” you say, because someone has to.

She gives a short nod. No smile. No words.

Okay. Cool.

You walk further in, glancing around. A grand fireplace commands attention as the focal point of the room, directly opposite a plush light gray velvet couch that invites relaxation. Nearby, a small breakfast table rests beside a window, though the view beyond is concealed by thick, heavy curtains that drape to the floor, muting the natural light.

Damn.

“I’m…” You pause. “I guess I’m your roommate.”

Another nod.

You sit on your bed.

The silence stretches.

“So… do we, like, wake up to an alarm or-?”

Sophia exhales through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not.

You try again. “What’s the food like?”

No answer.

“…Are the showers timed?”

Still nothing.

You glance over. She’s tightening the straps on her dance shoes now, deliberately ignoring you.

“Okay,” you mumble, giving up. “You’re mysterious. That’s fine. I love trauma bonding in complete silence.”

At that, she finally looks up.

And says, softly but clearly:

“Don’t ask so many questions.”

You blink. “Why not?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Because if you ask the wrong one, someone will hear it.”

You stare at her.

She turns away.

You sit there, quiet, for a moment. Then you burst out into laughter. Her gaze hardens and she immediately starts for the door- locking it swiftly without a word. “Seriously?” You murmur in exasperation, “We can’t even talk?”

She sends you a warning look, and in an instant your laughter subsides. The realisation is like a bucket of ice being dropped onto you. This girl is all you have in here. An apology slips past your lips before you can think. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to laugh,” At her silence, you continue. “Really- i’m just… not used to anything like this.”

“It’s forgotten,” Sophia replies, though her tone suggests she’s only being polite out of obligation. With that, she heads back into her room.

You stand in silence for a moment, before pushing open the door to your own room. A lamp glows softly on the bedside table, next to a pitcher of water and a drinking glass. At the foot of the bed, a white nightgown identical to Sophia’s is neatly laid out. What’s missing, however, is your luggage. You consider looking for it but quickly decide you’re too drained to bother

Kicking off your mud stained shoes and peeling off your jeans, you ignore the hollow feeling in your chest. Your hand hesitates around the nightgown- before you gently move it onto the bedside table and instead sink into the plush mattress with only your shirt.

Outside, the jungle groans low and strange, like it’s alive. Something about this place feels like a knife kept just out of sight.

You shut your eyes, trying to will yourself to fall asleep.

Outside, the cameras don’t blink.

………………………………………………………………………………

The first thing you feel when you wake up is the stiffness in your neck.

The second is that you’re still here.

The jungle hums in the distance- soft and unnatural, like something breathing behind the walls. You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The pitcher of water on the bedside table is still full. You’re not sure how long you slept, but your head’s clearer now. Not better. Just… functional.

The uniform waits at the foot of your bed, neatly folded like it’s judging you.

Grey blazer with the Dream Academy crest embroidered on the chest like a medal of war.

White button-up shirt.

Black ribbon bow to loop around the collar.

Grey pleated skirt that looks two inches too short and three shades too serious.

You change slowly, fumbling with the buttons. The material is stiff, starched within an inch of its life, like someone ironed it with rage. You feel like you’re dressing for your own funeral, but in prep school drag.

You’re adjusting the bowtie when there’s a knock at your door- precise, two taps.

It opens before you answer.

Sophia steps in, already dressed, flawless as ever. “We’ll be late if we don’t leave soon.”

You blink at her. “Wow. You’re a morning person. That’s horrifying.”

She doesn’t react.

You continue anyway, smiling softly. “I’m always late, by the way. It’s kind of my thing. I’m like… chronically behind schedule. Diagnosably.”

Her brow twitches just slightly. “I suggest unlearning that. Immediately.”

Okay then.

You grab your blazer and glance around. Still no suitcase. “Hey, um… do you know where my stuff went? I had a bag when I-”

“Confiscated,” Sophia says without missing a beat. “Missy takes all personal belongings. Permanently.”

You blink. “Wait. Even, like-”

“Yes. Even that.”

You pause. “Even my underwear?”

She nods once, clinically. “You’ll be provided with replacements. Five pairs. Grey. Folded in drawer three. Laundry is processed through the academy.”

You stare at her. “Oh my god. They’ve militarised my underwear.”

Sophia exhales like she regrets every life decision that led to this moment.

“Do not joke about the system,” she says tightly. “Especially not in front of producers. Or cameras. Which are always on.”

You give a short, dry laugh. “Right. Okay. So no jokes. No stuff. No underwire. Got it.”

Her eyes flick to the door. “We’re going to be late.”

You follow her out, boots clicking against the polished floor. The hallway is brighter than it was last night- white walls glowing with harsh, clinical light- but the cold air still gives it the atmosphere of a morgue dressed up like a school.

You walk in step behind Sophia, blazer stiff against your arms, shoes echoing too loud on the polished floors.

You glance sideways at her, keeping your voice low. “So… back to this whole secrecy thing-”

“No.”

You blink. “You didn’t even let me finish-”

“Because you shouldn’t finish that sentence,” she says without turning her head.

You frown. “Okay, but like- when do we get to contact our family? I need to speak to my uncle-”

Sophia stops walking so suddenly you nearly crash into her.

She turns to face you, eyes sharp as glass. “You’re new. You don’t know how many people have vanished for less than a misplaced question. If someone hears you talking like that- if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person- you won’t get a warning. You’ll just… be gone.”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Sophia stares a moment longer, then turns back around like nothing happened. “Keep your head down. Get through your first week. Don’t talk unless you have to. Especially not to the other trainees- unless you want an even bigger target on your back.”

“…So casual conversation is off the table, huh.”

Silence.

You sigh. “Got it. Love that for me.”

Sophia doesn’t answer. Instead, she pivots down a corridor lined with windows.

“This building takes time to learn,” she says, as if your question never happened. “It zigzags, but the main thing to remember is that the exterior forms a rectangle. If you follow the outer wall, you’ll always find your way back.”

It’s like talking to that woman at the supermarket back home- the one who hums under her breath and barely listens. No matter what you ask, she replies with whatever’s already spinning in her head.

“And if you find yourself outside in a garden, that means you’re in the center of the rectangle,” Sophia continues, her tone flat, like she’s reading from a brochure. “The whole structure is three stories tall-except for one building with four.”

“Missy’s office,” you chirp, relieved to recall at least one useful fact.

“Yes.” She casts you a quick, measuring glance. “You can use that building to orient yourself. Think of it as north. The trainees’ dormitory is to the east. Staff quarters are directly opposite, on the west side.”

You keep track of every turn, each door you pass, a crack in the wall, even a single step that’s slightly steeper than the rest- filing it all away in your mind.

At the end of the corridor, Sophia descends three steps and turns left. “Some training sessions run back-to-back, but most are spaced out since many involve high physical intensity. Monday through Friday are the most demanding, while weekends allow for partial recovery. Still, the producers can schedule an impromptu session anytime.” She smooths a stray hair behind her ear. “Now we’re entering the north side of the building- this is where the studios and producers’ offices are.” She gestures toward the far wall. “The south side holds the common areas- dining hall, practice rooms, recording booths, and so on.”

You stop, then grin like a child who stumbled upon a land built solely of candy. “An actual recording studio? Like- the real thing?”

She nods. "We have an extensive catalog of songs, including unreleased ones. Some of the best ones, actually."

You blink. “Okay, seriously- what is this? a survival game or a music school- cause im starting to get really confused. This whole place feels off- and what’s up with the ‘trainee injuries�� Missy mentioned?”

She almost seems puzzled at your lack of knowledge- before her face suddenly eases back into a neutral expression. “Quit playing innocent.” She murmurs.

“…What?! Look- I get we probably got off on the wrong foot or something-”

“Keep your voice down!” She hisses.

“-but if my uncle were here-”

She glances down the empty hallway before shoving you back into the stairwell with surprising force. "Maybe this isn't an act. Maybe you genuinely don't know how this academy works- but ignorance won't help you."

"Why would this be an act? what would I even gain from lying-"

She exhales sharply, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle no one gave her the pieces for. “By constantly mentioning your uncle… I can tell your parents likely aren’t in the picture,” she says quietly, like she’s not just stating it- she’s confirming it. “That, and your accent… it’s all over the place. Some words- crisp, clipped. Others lazy, softened like you’ve been drowning in California air too long.”

You blink, startled at how she can dissect you so quickly.

“And your posture,” she continues, tilting her head. “Not military, but there’s discipline. Maybe from dance? Or gymnastics. Something expensive. Your nails are trimmed, not chewed. No chipped polish. That screams structure. But not from here. Not the way most of the trainees show it.”

“What are you-?”

“Your eyes,” she interrupts. “Cool-toned. Common in Northern or Eastern Europe. But they scan the room like you’re expecting trouble. That’s not European. That’s American.” She narrows her eyes further. “Your hair’s been bleached- twice, maybe three times over the last year? But you keep the roots hidden. Either to blend in, or to hide what your natural color says about you.”

You’re speechless now. She steps closer, voice low and steady.

“You speak like someone who learned English young, but not first. Your phrasing- ‘look, I get we probably got off on the wrong foot’- that’s native. But then you say things like ‘what is this? a survival game or a music school’ with this weird cadence, like you’re used to translating feelings more than expressing them.”

You shift your weight unconsciously, suddenly feeling exposed.

She continues. “That narrows you down to only a handful of possible industry backgrounds. Should I continue?”

You finally find your voice. “Why does any of that matter?”

She laughs under her breath- dry, mirthless. “Because in this place, what you don’t know can get you hurt. Or worse.” She leans in one last time. “And trust me… ignorance doesn’t buy you mercy. It buys you time. And not much of it.”

Then she steps back, leaving you alone in the dim stairwell, the air heavy with more questions than answers.

“Wait-”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Her voice is cold and curt- she’s refusing to give up any more information whatsoever.

You don’t follow her right away.

You just stand there in the stairwell, still reeling- like you’ve been turned inside out by someone who read your soul the way others skim a brochure.

You’d thought she was quiet. Controlled.

But that? That was calculated.

And you’re not sure what bothers you more- how accurate she was…

…or how fast she stopped caring.

“Wait-” you start again, voice lower, more careful this time. You bolt to catch up when the door just down the hallway hisses open.

Footsteps.

Suddenly, a small group of trainees emerges from a side room- gliding across the marble like synchronized shadows.

All girls. All in uniform. All impossibly composed.

They don’t say anything. Don’t glance your way. Just pass.

But something about the way they move- subtle flicks of their eyes, the timing of their steps, the way one girl brushes her hair behind her ear at the exact second she passes you- makes the hairs on your arms rise.

It feels normal. Harmless.

It isn’t.

Sophia stiffens at your side.

“Who were-?”

“Shh.”

The group melts around the corner, leaving the hallway silent again.

Until one of them doesn’t.

Someone lingers.

She breaks from the pack with deliberate slowness, peeling away from the rest like she has time to waste.

You glance up- expecting another stiff, glass-eyed drone.

Instead, your breath catches

She’s stunning. Not in the manufactured, glass-cut way the others are, but in a way that makes your brain scramble to place her. Hair dark and curly, posture fluid, like a dancer mid-performance. Her blazer sleeves are rolled twice. Not regulation. Her skirt is shorter. Also not regulation.

But no one’s stopped her.

She stops in front of Sophia like she’s the one who summoned her. "I'm surprised," she drawls. "I would've expected you in the practice room by now."

"Unusual circumstances." Sophia eyes you like you’re some kind of puzzle she can’t solve. "Dani, this is Y/N. Y/N, Dani."

Her eyes flick onto you and suddenly your gut screams at you to get away. Her gaze is intense, like she’s stripping you down and reassembling you with her eyes alone. It’s like she knows all your flaws- all your insecurities- picking them apart one by one. Even the ones you didn’t know you had.

“I heard we got a new one,” she hums lightly. Her voice is smooth, smoky- warm where Sophia’s is cold. “Didn’t believe it until now.”

You glance at Sophia, who stays silent.

No surprise there.

The girl tilts her head at you. “You look like someone who hasn’t figured out which way is up yet.”

You muster a smile. “I’m working on it.”

She hums, amused, then turns to Sophia. “She yours?”

Sophia’s jaw tightens. “She’s assigned to me.”

The girl’s smile deepens. “Of course she is.”

They look at each other. Not coldly. Not warmly, either. Just… long enough for you to realize they know each other.

Really know each other.

You look between them.

Cousins.

It hits you like a bell.

Similar cheekbones. That same spine-straight posture. The way they speak in half-sentences and layered meaning. Sophia hides hers better. This one wears it like perfume.

You blink. “Wait- are you two related?”

Dani tears her gaze away from the silent conversation she’d been having with Sophia. She glances at you, before glancing back at your roommate.

“You told her?”

Confirmed.

“Of course I didn’t.”

They stare at each other for several long seconds. Neither speaks, but it’s clear they’re having some sort of silent conversation that you could only wish to be a part of.

“Sophia and I,” the girl says, smoothly glancing back at you, “are not the same.”

That’s not what you asked. But something tells you that’s the answer that matters more.

“I’m Daniela,” she adds, still watching you. “You’ll hear my name eventually, so I figured I’d spare you the gossip.”

You stare. “You’re the-”

“The dancer?” She nods. “Yes.”

The girl from the promo video. The one who moved like she wasn’t touching the ground. The one the others circled around.

Top tier. Untouchable.

She leans in just slightly- like she’s letting you in on something dangerous.

“Piece of advice?” she says softly. “Don’t mistake silence for safety. This place eats the quiet ones first.”

Your blood goes cold.

Then just as quickly, she straightens, gaze flicking to Sophia. “See you in studio?”

Sophia nods once. “Twelve sharp.”

Daniela smiles at you again- teeth perfectly even, something sharp glinting behind her eyes.

Then she walks off, leaving only the faint scent of sandalwood and something else… something metallic.

The moment she’s out of earshot, you exhale.

Sophia looks at you.

“I don’t like her,” you say instinctively.

Sophia doesn’t blink. “You shouldn’t.”

………………………………………………………………………………

Sophia doesn’t speak to you again as you walk.

She leads you through a back corridor, one you swear didn’t exist five minutes ago, until you reach a heavy door marked only by a silver plaque: STUDIO A.

Inside, the lights are bright and merciless. The room is massive- mirrored walls, polished floor, faint smell of antiseptic and sweat. A small console in the corner plays the same looped promo song from before. The mirrors shine too bright, the floor gleams too clean, and everyone already seems to know where to stand but you.

Sophia leads you to the end of the line, saying nothing. The other trainees barely glance at you, except for one- Adela- who holds your gaze half a second longer than polite before looking away. The girl beside her- small, blonde, confident, lips glossed to high hell- doesn’t even pretend not to notice you. She sizes you up, head to toe.

Emily.

You don’t need an introduction.

The room falls still as a final figure steps forward from the corner- someone you hadn’t even seen until now.

She was already in the room.

She’s leaning against the back wall, arms folded, posture casual in the way that only comes from complete confidence. That unmistakable high-twist ponytail. That same Dream Academy uniform, blazer sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

Daniela.

You stiffen. Sophia does too.

She doesn’t say a word. Just watches.

Miss Nikky enters like a blade.

“Line up,” she commands, and instantly the room snaps to order. She continues, “Dream Academy’s dance program is not about flair. It’s about control. And control begins with discipline.”

She’s silent for a moment, before: “Emily. Showcase.”

The music starts before you can fully exhale.

And Emily kills it.

She’s not just dancing- she’s commanding the air around her. Every move exact, impossibly fast, but smooth like honey being poured. The room doesn’t just watch her. It holds its breath for her.

Even you.

By the time she stops, ending in a razor-sharp final pose, your mouth is slightly open.

No one claps. That’s not how it works here.

But the message is clear.

Top tier. Untouchable.

“Reset,” Nikky says, already queuing up the track again.

Emily walks past you like you don’t exist.

You try not to wilt. What a bitch.

But then you feel it- another gaze. More specific.

You look up, and Daniela is watching you.

Not Emily. You.

She’s tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable, but there’s something feline in it. Like she’s studying prey that hasn’t realized it’s in a cage yet.

She doesn’t blink.

You try to look away. You can’t.

Only when Nikky calls out, “Next group. Positions,” does Daniela finally move. She pushes off the wall and crosses the room to join the others without a word.

As she walks past, she slows- just enough to brush shoulders with Sophia.

You hear it, low, barely a breath:

“She’s not ready.”

You don’t know if she means you.

But you feel it like a cut anyway.

Sophia’s jaw clenches.

Miss Nikky stands perfectly still, one finger hovering over the speaker controls. Her expression doesn’t change when she says:

“Daniela.”

No last name. No direction. Just that.

The shift in the room is immediate.

Even Emily straightens up.

Daniela doesn’t respond. She simply steps forward-silent, smooth- and moves to the center of the studio like the floor was made to hold her.

She doesn’t ask what the track is. She doesn’t need to.

The music hits.

It’s different this time- darker, heavier. Less sparkle, more sin.

And then Daniela moves.

She doesn’t dance like Emily did.

Emily danced like she owned the stage.

Daniela moves like she doesn’t need one.

Every motion- sharp, serpentine, unnervingly fluid- blurs the line between choreography and instinct. Her body glides through the bass like it was written for her. There’s no delay between thought and movement. No tension in her face. Just this slow, controlled fire that eats up every inch of the floor.

She drops into a low split, spins out of it in one breath, and hits a sharp pop that cracks through the air like a warning shot.

You’re frozen.

She’s not just beautiful.

She’s hypnotic.

You don’t realize you’ve spoken aloud until you feel Sophia flinch beside you.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “She’s- she’s unreal.”

“You.” Nikky’s voice cuts the air in half. You freeze.

She’s looking straight at you.

“No talking. I don’t care if it was a whisper. I don’t care if it was to God. Speak again without permission and you’ll be sent back to the dorms with a strike.”

You feel your stomach twist. “Sorry, I just-”

“She won’t do it again,” Sophia cuts you off immediately, stepping forward like a shield.

Nikky’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer- like she’s considering whether you’re worth the oxygen.

Then she turns.

“Reset the track. From the top.”

You glance at Daniela.

She’s already standing at the mirror, calm as ever, one hand tightening her ponytail.

But you catch it this time.

The faintest smile, just at the corner of her mouth.

Like she knew you’d mess up.

Like she was waiting for it.

The moment the session ends, Sophia doesn’t wait.

She doesn’t speak to Miss Nikky. She doesn’t look at Daniela. She just walks- fast, focused, precise- and you scramble to keep up, still burning from the humiliation.

You try to say something. Anything. But the second the door to Studio A swings shut behind you, Sophia whips around.

Her expression doesn’t change. But her voice-

Sharp. Quiet. Controlled.

“Do you realize what you just did?”

You flinch. You’ve never heard her like this.

“Sophia, I didn’t mean to-”

“You spoke during a showcase,” she hisses. “In front of Nikky. You interrupted Daniela. Do you have any idea how that makes me look?”

You blink, stunned. “Wait- you? I was the one who got snapped at-”

“Exactly,” she cuts in. “You’re my responsibility. I’m the one who vouched for you. And now everyone thinks you’re another weak link. A fan girl who wandered in off the runway.”

That stings. More than it should.

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you mutter. “It just- she was good. I reacted.”

“This isn’t a place where you react,” she says. “This is a place where you adapt. Fast. Or you don’t last.”

You fall silent.

The hallway stretches long and pale ahead of you, quiet as a grave. You hate how your face burns, how your breath feels tight in your throat.

Sophia takes a breath- controlled, clipped- and walks again, slower this time. The anger’s still there, simmering under her skin. But her voice softens. Barely.

“I told you not to talk unless you had to.”

You swallow. “I thought I was doing okay.”

“You’re not,” she grits.

It’s not cruel. It’s not even harsh.

It’s just true.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You trail behind her in silence now. The humiliation has cooled into something heavier: dread.

You force the apology out before you can second-guess it.

“I’m sorry.”

Sophia slows again, just barely. Her hands are tucked behind her back, her hair still perfectly sleek, but something in her posture loosens. A centimeter, maybe two.

She doesn’t look at you when she says, “Don’t be.”

You blink.

“Not here.”

You hesitate. “What does that mean?”

“It means don’t apologize,” she says, tone even. “People here don’t care if you’re sorry. They care if you’re useful. And apologizing makes you look weak. Even if you mean it.”

You let that sink in as Sophia gestures at the wide, high-ceilinged hallway you suddenly find yourselves in (though it likely wasn’t so sudden for Sophia) lined with framed records and glimmering trophies. "We're now in the south wing. These awards commemorate some of the biggest achievements from our legacy artists."

The hallway opens up to a vast room filled with soft light and polished surfaces. You blink in awe. “Oh, this is the Cafeteria?”

“It’s a dining hall.” She insists.

She leads you toward the far corner, clearly aiming to keep you out of the spotlight- but you’ve already drawn attention.

Three girls are seated at a round table near the center.

They’re not eating. Just sipping from glasses of iced tea, manicured fingers curling neatly around the stems.

You feel their eyes on you before you even fully register their faces. Sophia had walked you through all the trainees earlier- so you could atleast put a name to their faces.

Lara sits in the middle, posture flawless, beauty almost alarming. Her eyes flick over you like a scanner at airport security- quick, precise, and done with you before you realize it’s happened.

Her smile curves like a blade.

To her left: Megan. Wasian. Tall, sharp-angled face softened by a warm expression. She looks approachable. Normal, even. You almost trust her instantly. Almost.

To Lara’s right: Yoonchae. Petite. Quiet. Almost too quiet. Her stare is steady, unblinking. She looks like she’s sixteen, but something about the way the room notices her makes you think twice. You can’t explain it. It’s not power, exactly. It’s pull.

Lara speaks first.

“Oh,” she says, her voice smooth, musical. “So this is the Late Transfer.”

You freeze. Sophia immediately angles her body in front of yours, like a buffer.

“We’re on schedule,” Sophia says neutrally. Not warm. Not hostile. But definitely a warning.

“I didn’t ask,” Lara says sweetly, and then she looks at you. “You know, you’re cuter than I expected. They always make the special ones sound… desperate.”

You open your mouth- but Sophia’s hand closes gently around your wrist. Not tight. Just firm.

“We have training,” she firmly states.

Lara smiles wider. “Everyone here has training.”

Megan rests her chin on her palm, gaze curious. “What’s your name again?”

You glance at Sophia. She gives a slight shake of her head.

You hesitate.

Yoonchae finally speaks. Her voice is soft but steady.

“She’ll learn.”

Yoonchae’s words hang in the air like perfume- subtle, heady, just sweet enough to distract you from the way it clings too long.

Sophia pulls you aside, voice low. “Don’t sit with them.”

You blink. “Why not?”

“She’s not what she looks like.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Lara is still smiling.

“I mean… she looks like a girl,” you say, a little too lightly.

Sophia’s gaze hardens. “She’s not.”

She doesn’t explain further- doesn’t have to. Her grip loosens from your wrist.

“If you’re smart, you’ll follow me.”

But she doesn’t wait.

Sophia turns, expression sealed shut, and walks toward a small, almost-empty table in the farthest corner. Two seats. One tray already waiting.

You don’t move.

You look back at Lara.

She’s still watching you.

Then, slowly, she gestures to the empty seat beside her with the grace of someone waving in a crown princess.

“Only one chance to make a first impression,” she calls out.

And like an idiot with something to prove, you take the bait.

You cross the room, aware of how loud your shoes sound against the tile. How every other trainee flicks a glance your way and then quickly looks away. As if just watching you make this choice might get them marked too.

You slide into the seat across from Lara.

It’s ice cold.

Megan beams at you. “Brave,” she says lightly, like you’ve just tried sashimi for the first time.

Yoonchae doesn’t say anything.

Lara reaches for her tea and takes a slow sip.

Then, casually, “Sophia always did have a savior complex.”

You don’t reply. You’re still trying to get a read on them- and failing.

Lara’s lashes are long and glossy. Her lip gloss doesn’t smudge. Her nails are painted the exact pink that screams debut ready. But nothing about her feels soft.

“You know,” she continues, twirling her glass, “they don’t let just anyone transfer in late. You must have something they want. Or something they want to control.”

“Maybe both,” Megan adds cheerfully.

You blink. “I… didn’t ask to be transferred.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Lara purrs. “No one asks to come here.”

You hesitate. “And yet… you’re all still here.”

She laughs at that- genuine, delighted. “You think we’re here just because we want to be? No, sweetheart. We’re here because we’ve made ourselves useful.”

Then she leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

“And you’re about three mistakes away from being dead weight.”

You stiffen.

Megan nudges her, still smiling like nothing’s wrong. “Be nice.”

Yoonchae finally speaks again, looking directly at you.

“No one here is your friend.”

The smile Lara gives after that is almost sweet. Almost.

“But we could be,” she says. “If you’re smart.”

You glance across the cafeteria- dining hall, whatever- and find Sophia already eating, eyes trained on her tray, jaw tight.

She doesn’t look up.

She’s already written you off.

And now?

Now you’re sitting with the wolves.

Lara leans forward just slightly, chin propped on her hand, her elbow balanced like she’s done this exact pose a thousand times.

“You carry yourself like someone who’s used to being seen,” she muses, voice silky. “But not heard. That’s interesting.”

You try to keep your expression neutral.

She doesn’t stop.

“Posture- controlled. Shoulders squared, but not military. You’ve had discipline, but not enforcement. American, maybe? But there’s a cadence in your voice that isn’t standard West Coast. Something clipped, almost borrowed…”

Her head tilts. “And the way you looked at Sophia when she snapped at you. That wasn’t fear. That was restraint. You know how to keep a leash on your temper. You’ve had to.”

You’re still frozen in your seat, trying to parse whether she’s impressed or circling you like prey. Then it hits you.

Something’s off.

Her voice.

She’s changed it.

You can’t explain how you know- it’s in the vowel stretch, the roundness of her R’s. When she first greeted you, her accent had the smooth, honeyed edge of someone educated in Mumbai. Now it’s softer. Just enough American twang to be familiar. California, maybe. East Bay.

You glance at Megan.

She’s watching you too closely.

You blink at Lara. “Why are you-?”

“Adapting?” Lara cuts in, her smile sharp. “I like to reflect what’s in front of me. Makes people feel safe.”

But you don’t feel safe.

You feel naked.

You open your mouth to say something- what, you’re not sure- but before you can speak, a shadow cuts across the table.

And a voice behind you, low and deliberate, cuts in:

“She’s not yours to profile.”

Your head whips around.

Daniela.

She’s standing behind your chair, arms crossed, face unreadable- but her presence alone makes your heart trip over itself. She’s still dressed from dance class, a faint sheen of sweat on her skin like it belongs there. Her hair is pulled back in a tight braid, and even standing still, she looks kinetic. Like a dancer mid-spin, somehow paused midair.

You freeze.

Lara’s expression doesn’t falter, but something shifts. Her eyes flick upward- just for a second.

“Avanzini,” she says, voice still honeyed. “How lovely of you to hover.”

Daniela ignores her. Her gaze is locked on you now.

“You coming?”

The question is simple. Calm.

But it lands like an order.

You’re halfway to standing before you even realize it. Lara raises one brow, still poised like royalty. “Leaving so soon? We were just getting to know each other.”

Daniela’s eyes narrow, only slightly. “She has class.”

Megan’s voice cuts in quietly. “We all do.”

Daniela doesn’t even glance at her. Instead, she turns to you.

“Check your pockets.”

You pause.

“What?”

“Now.”

Your brows knit together, but something in her tone- calm, unbothered, but firm- makes you obey.

You pat your skirt pocket first. Nothing.

Then the blazer.

Your fingers brush cold metal.

You freeze.

Reaching in slowly, you pull out-

A fork.

Your heart lurches.

It’s just a fork. Ordinary. Polished steel. But it shouldn’t be there.

It’s not allowed to be there.

Strict rule: No items leave the dining hall.

Your mouth goes dry. “I didn’t-”

“I know you didn’t,” Daniela says evenly, gaze flicking toward Lara- though she doesn’t look directly at her. “You were marked. That’s what they do.”

You stare at the fork like it might bite you.

“Why would they-?”

Daniela takes it from your hand swiftly, discreetly, slipping it into the sleeve of her jacket like it’s contraband.

“Because they can. Because you sat with them. Because they’re bored.”

“But… how, when-”

“When you weren’t paying attention”

You stare at her, pulse thudding in your ears.

Daniela doesn’t explain further. She just tilts her head toward the hallway.

“Come on.”

You look between them- then back at Lara.

For a moment, you wonder what would’ve happened if Daniela hadn’t shown up.

Then you decide you don’t want to know.

You mutter something- thank you? excuse me?- and slip away from the table, barely daring to breathe until you’ve followed Daniela past the glass doors and into the cool quiet of the hallway.

You half-expect her to scold you like Sophia did.

But she just walks.

And somehow, that’s worse.

The hallway is too quiet.

Too clean.

Polished white floors stretch endlessly in both directions, broken only by framed photos of past trainees- faces captured mid-spin, mid-note, mid-glory. Awards and trophies line glass cases, shining under sterile ceiling lights like bait. But there’s something wrong with the shine.

Because for all the gold and glory, the corridor feels more like a hospital wing than a place of ambition.

Every echo of your shoes feels loud here. Like the walls are listening.

Daniela walks beside you, silent at first. Her stride is smooth, posture perfect, hands tucked in the pockets of her grey blazer. You’re too aware of her now- how she glances sideways without ever moving her head. How her eyes sweep corners, cameras, your face.

She doesn’t just move through the world.

She reads it.

And right now, she’s reading you.

“You weren’t just being watched,” she says at last. Voice low, careful. “You were being tested.”

You blink. “With the fork?”

She nods once. “They wanted to see what you’d do. If you’d panic. If you’d confess. If you’d throw someone else under to protect yourself.”

You feel cold all over again. “That’s insane.”

“Welcome to Dream Academy.”

You’re silent for a moment, thoughts drifting back to Sophia. “Shouldn’t we wait for Sophia?”

She smiles effortlessly, though there’s something uncanny about it. Her voice is exactly the same. “You sat with them when Sophia told you not to.”

You walk in silence for a few more steps.

Then she stops.

So abruptly, you almost keep walking.

You turn back to her, heart still hammering in your chest.

Her eyes meet yours- dark, unreadable. And though her tone stays even, something in her voice sharpens.

“You think this place is about talent,” she says. “It’s not.”

You stare.

“It’s about pressure. About control. They already know what you can do. That’s why you’re here. What they want now is to see how much of you breaks under surveillance. Under stress. Under fear.”

You try to speak. But she keeps going.

“And if you keep making mistakes like you did today, you won’t be the only one punished.” She steps closer. Not threatening. But close enough that you feel her presence settle over you like a second shadow. “If you’re seen as weak, so is Sophia.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not meant to be.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but her next words carry weight like a blade pressed to skin. “If you’re targeted… she will be too. If you fall behind… she falls with you.”

You feel the words in your chest more than your ears. A tightness, like guilt wrapped in wire.

“I didn’t mean to put her at risk.”

Daniela leans in slightly, her voice dropping.

“Then don’t.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a command.

And then- without waiting for your reply- she starts walking again. Straight ahead. One hand brushing her braid over her shoulder as if nothing had happened at all.

You follow.

You’re halfway to the dorm before you realize your hands are still shaking.

And you wonder if that’s what she wanted- to warn you.

Or to see if you could be trained.

The dorm hallway feels even more silent than before.

Most of the doors are closed. The cameras in the corners click softly, like they’re blinking. Watching. Waiting.

When you reach your door, Daniela doesn’t hesitate.

She opens it first.

Like it’s hers.

Like you’re the guest.

She walks in like she owns the place- eyes scanning everything: the uniform folded on the chair, the water glass still full from this morning, the slightly rumpled sheet where you’d slept. She picks up the untouched nightgown, turns it between her fingers, then drops it with a faint scoff.

“This yours?” she asks, clearly already knowing the answer.

You hesitate in the doorway. “Technically.”

“Mm.”

And then, casually- too casually- she climbs onto your bed and lounges back against the pillows, stretching out like she’s been here a hundred times before. One leg folds over the other. Her blazer slips slightly off one shoulder.

She looks like a magazine cover and a crime scene, all at once.

“You’re very obedient,” she says, studying you. “You followed me without asking where we were going.”

“I trusted you,” you say, and instantly regret it.

Her smile is feline. “God, that’s cute.”

You cross your arms. “You think I’m stupid.”

“No,” she says thoughtfully, watching the way your jaw tightens. “Just… fresh. Like you haven’t been chewed up yet. That’s rare here.”

You don’t answer.

She tilts her head. “So. Where are you from?”

You hesitate again.

Sophia’s warning echoes in your head: Never talk about your life beyond these walls.

Daniela watches the hesitation like it’s her favorite show. “Oh, come on. I’m not a producer. Just a friend. Talking.”

You give her a careful smile. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Mm. So you did listen to Sophia.” She glances around the room again, eyes trailing the shelves, the bedframe, the mirror. “She’s always been the cautious one.”

You try to keep your voice neutral. “You two are close?”

“Cousins,” Daniela says breezily, like it doesn’t matter. “Same blood, very different strategies.”

You nod slowly. “She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

That earns a laugh. “That’s fair. She thinks I make things harder.”

“…Do you?”

Daniela swings her legs over the edge of the bed and leans forward, elbows on her knees, face suddenly close- too close.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who was told not to.”

Your mouth goes dry.

She smiles again. “I like that.”

You take a small step back, unsure if this is flirting, testing, or both.

“Do you always sit on people’s beds uninvited?” you try, voice lighter than you feel.

“Only when I want to know what kind of girl they are,” she says, rising to her feet with effortless grace. She walks past you, pausing at the door. Daniela pauses at the door.

Then, without a word, she flips the lock with a soft click.

You freeze.

She doesn’t look at you.

Just turns and starts moving through the room like she’s browsing in a boutique. Fingertips trail lightly along your desk. Over your blazer. Across the windowsill.

She lifts the edge of the curtain slightly, like she’s checking how much light gets through.

Like she’s checking for something.

“Are you… looking for bugs?” you ask, half-joking.

She lifts a brow. Doesn’t answer.

She moves to the mirror next. Tilts it slightly. Presses her palm to the surface like she’s testing for a false panel. Then, just as easily, she lets her hand drop and turns back to you with a lazy smile.

“All clear,” she says, as if that means anything to you.

You’re still staring at the door. “Why did you lock it?”

Her eyes gleam. “Because I’m going to ask you to break a rule. And I wanted to make sure you had a moment to decide whether or not you were going to say yes.”

You blink.

She leans back against the desk now, crossing her arms. “Curfew’s at twelve on Saturdays. Did they tell you that?”

“…No.”

“Of course they didn’t.” She shrugs. “Because technically it’s not real. You’re expected to be in your room by midnight, but the cameras don’t flag movement unless you leave your dorm level entirely. A small loophole. Most people are too afraid to test it.”

You stare at her.

She tilts her head. “You look like someone who needs to test it,” Her eyes glint mischievously. "If you think you can handle it, meet me outside by the rooftop Saturday night."

You watch her face carefully. Sneaking out? Taking a risk?

"Or don't," she adds with an infuriating smile.

You try to keep your expression neutral, but the idea excites you. "Why on earth should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't."

You roll your eyes.

“But if you really weren’t prepped for this academy, I'm guessing you have questions."

You glance at her sideways. Damn, she's good. "And you're saying you'll answer them?"

She shrugs. “As long as you answer mine.”

You frown, tensing just slightly. You still don’t trust her- but it’s the most help anyone has offered. It’s not like you have to be truthful, right?

“Okay. I trust you.”

Daniela tilts her head at you, still lounging like a cat in someone else’s sunbeam. The lock clicks softly behind her as she turns the bolt. Not a threat. Just… control.

“You know what’s funny?” She murmurs, drifting back across the room with a kind of idle grace “You act all innocent- so naive, so oblivious- so obedient,”

You blink, unsure if she’s complimenting you or preparing to spit something venomous.

Daniela doesn’t clarify.

Instead, she picks up your blazer again, turns it in her hands, and sets it back down with care that feels too precise to be casual.

“And yet,” she says lightly, “you lie like someone who’s done it their whole life.”

Your stomach twists. “What are you talking about?”

“That thing you said before. About trusting me.”

You freeze.

Her smile turns slightly amused. “I could see the shift in your weight. How your stance stiffened the moment you said it. Your eyes pulled slightly to the left, like you were searching for a version of the truth you could survive saying. And your fingers-” she nods toward your side, “-kept tapping against your own leg. A subtle stimming pattern. Anxiety, maybe. Guilt.”

You instinctively drop your hand.

Daniela doesn’t gloat. She just watches, studying you with a cool, steady interest. “You didn’t trust me. You followed me because you didn’t want to be alone.”

You try to hold her gaze, but it’s hard under that kind of scrutiny. “Okay. Maybe I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Good,” she says simply. “That’s honest. I like honesty better.”

You frown, defensive now. “Is this what you do? Analyze people like they’re projects?”

Her eyes flick toward the ceiling, like she’s debating how much to give away.

“I don’t believe in ‘innocent,’” she says at last. “Not here. Not at Dream. Anyone who walks into this place willingly either has something to prove, something to run from, or something to hide. You… don’t seem like you know which one it is yet. That’s interesting.”

You cross your arms. “And you’re doing this for fun?”

“I’m doing this,” she says, “because you’re Sophia’s responsibility. Which means you’re a potential weakness. And a potential threat.”

That stings, more than you expect.

She notices.

“But,” she adds, “I don’t think you’re dangerous. Not yet.”

You sit down at the edge of the bed, careful not to get too close. “So what now? You just… hang around and interrogate me until I slip?”

Daniela chuckles, turning to inspect the bookshelf now. She runs a finger along the edge, checking for dust, maybe. Or bugs.

“I don’t want to ruin you,” she says, tone almost playful. “I just want to see what happens when someone like you is dropped into the middle of this place. Most people bend. Some break. A few… adapt.”

You watch her, wary.

She looks back over her shoulder. “I’m not here to make you fail. But if you do? I’d rather see it coming.”

You meet her gaze carefully.

“And if I don’t?”

The door creaks open before Daniela can reply.

Sophia steps inside, movements fluid and precise-like the air makes way for her.

You flinch, instinctively shifting to sit straighter on the bed.

But Daniela? She doesn’t flinch.

She transforms.

In one blink, the version of her sitting beside you vanishes- replaced by something cooler, looser. She’s already across the room, one shoulder resting lazily against the window frame, posture casual, expression unreadable. Like she’s been there all along, just watching the breeze.

Sophia’s eyes flick across the room once- just once- but you see it. The way they pause on the locked door, on the distance between you and Daniela, on the faint smile playing at the corners of your mouth that you’re too slow to hide.

She doesn’t say a word.

But when she looks at her cousin, her mouth curves into something small and smug.

“I thought so,” she murmurs.

And just like that, she wins.

#katseye #daniela avanzini x reader #katseye daniela #daniela avanzini #megan katseye #sophia katseye #katseye yoonchae #katseye lara #lara raj #megan skiendiel #sophia laforteza #sophia laforetza x reader #dream academy #pop star academy: katseye #wlw post #dystopia #part 1 #katseye x reader

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chrometheraptor · 9 months ago

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MY TOGEPI JUST USED JUDGEMENT?????

#chrome rambles #I love using metronome this is so fucking entertaining #For my non Pokémon followers. Using metronome basically just does a random move #And judgement is Arceus’s signature move #Arceus is basically pokemon god #incredible

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eriwithpetalsandletters · 4 days ago

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Chaos in the Paddock: The Leclerc Effect

Amid the roar of engines and the rhythm of race strategy, one unexpected figure quietly reshapes the weekend’s storyline—with snacks, sharp instincts, and silent stares that leave an entire paddock shook. This is not your typical race diary. It’s something far more delicious.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story created purely for entertainment and imaginative purposes.

The Swan Returns

She came quietly, her arrival unnoticed at first—not by design, but by fate. The sun hung lazily overhead, casting gold onto chrome and glass, onto the polished steel fences and scattered tire trolleys. The hum of conversation filled the air, but in the paddock—a place where tension and excitement danced in tandem—her presence sent a ripple deep into the fabric of familiarity.

Y/N Leclerc, the enigma with the unmistakable surname, stepped into the paddock after years spent out of its reach. She didn’t arrive with the clamor of flashing cameras or the obnoxious shuffle of entourage. Instead, she moved with quiet certainty, as though she belonged here—as though she always had.

There were no livestreams, no tagged posts, no “paparazzi spotted her at…” headlines. Her life, always a masterclass in intentional privacy, had remained locked to the outside world. Her social media accounts were ghostlike—no traces, no follows, no crumbs. She was present only in curated glimpses: a Leclerc sibling framed beside her at holiday dinners, in soft-lit family portraits, her face serene yet unreadable.

And yet, the paddock remembered.

They remembered the girl who, long ago, ran barefoot between team garages, her laughter lost beneath roaring engines. They remembered her tucked into the background, peering at race monitors with quiet eyes that saw more than they let on. The youngest Leclerc, whose connection to the sport was not forged in publicity but in pulse and marrow.

But this—this return? It was something else.

She wore a simple Ferrari shirt—one that hadn’t yet made it to the season’s merchandise stand—and a pair of jeans that looked impossibly elegant simply because she walked like a woman who didn’t need approval. Her heels: Ferrari red, deliberate, not flashy. Her bag matched—the same red—and swung lightly at her side. Few noticed the small weight to it, but those with an eye for detail could see it wasn’t just a fashion statement.

Inside it, she carried dumplings. Homemade. Each one folded with care, sealed with whispers of tradition. A recipe passed from hands that belonged to generations before her—quiet women whose stories were only ever told at the dinner table. And now, here, in the bag of a woman whose mere arrival had the entire paddock holding its breath, they were presence and legacy personified.

When the first engineer spotted her from across the lot, he blinked twice. When one of the race stewards caught a glimpse, he forgot the walkie-talkie in his hand. Her name passed like static through whispers—Y/N is here... did you see her? The spread of the news was faster than any press release could have managed. It surged from tent to motorhome, from garage to hospitality suite. No one had expected her. No one was prepared.

But isn’t that how mysteries work? They arrive when least expected.

And yet, despite the frenzy igniting around her, Y/N remained untouched. She walked with the grace of someone born knowing who she was. Not the sister of, not the daughter of. Simply her. No cameras. No interviews. No spectacle. Just silence, shaped by elegance.

And somewhere behind tinted windows, a strategist leaned back in his chair, watching her figure retreat down the corridor lined with chrome and curiosity. He murmured to himself, almost inaudibly, “The swan returns…”

It wasn’t a comeback.

It was a reckoning.

The Manifestation Wall

Y/N Leclerc was expected to embody the quiet elegance of Alexandra Saint Mleux—graceful, enigmatic, and effortlessly serene. After all, she had the presence, the lineage, and that elusive aura that made people lean in without quite realizing why.

So when she took her place in the Ferrari garage, headset on, eyes narrowed in determined observation, many assumed they'd be watching a woman calmly tracking lap times, unfazed by chaos. You know—cool, collected, a silent queen in the land of downforce and delaminating tires.

They were wrong.

Instead of the poised detachment expected from the sibling of a Ferrari driver, Y/N was more like a Formula One sorceress mid-ritual.

The moment lap 1 began, she slid one hand onto the garage wall with purpose. Not casually—not “oops I leaned too far” casually—but like it was some ancient shrine with pit stop gods waiting to be appeased. Her lips began moving, a soft chant emerging, half-whisper, half-warning:

"Good pit stop, good pit stop, good pit stop…"

Eyes darted across the garage. One mechanic paused mid-coffee sip. A data strategist tilted her headset to make sure she was hearing correctly. Y/N stayed focused. Like her palm against the wall was conducting energy—like the tire guns would sync perfectly only if she kept her sacred rhythm going.

And while Alexandra might sip espresso with one leg crossed and a faint Mona Lisa smile, Y/N? She was manifesting.

Because she knew Ferrari. She knew the prophecy of The Rogue Tire—that one rubber renegade that always seems to roll off on an unscheduled solo adventure across the grid. And she wasn’t having it.

Not today. Not on her watch.

This wasn't a manifestation; it was a tactical strike against chaos. A spiritual barrier against the infamous “Ferrari strategic blunder dimension.” The garage wall was not just concrete—it had become an altar.

Some believed she was joking, others swore she summoned the ghost of strategy past to hold the wheel guns steady.

One engineer whispered to another, “Is she… casting a pit stop protection spell?”

“Don’t interrupt,” the other hissed back. “We need all the help we can get.”

Dumpling Diplomacy & Strategic Distress: A Paddock Tale

Lap 14. The tension in the Ferrari garage was already coiling, thick as brake dust in the air. And Y/N Leclerc, perched commandingly in her headset, was the living embodiment of a stressed-out strategist, minus the credentials.

Her forehead scrunched so deeply that it looked like her brows were forming their own Morse code. Arms up, palms angled to the ceiling, she stared blankly at the monitor as Charles got overtaken due to what could only be described as a pitlane plot twist orchestrated by the ghosts of Ferrari strategy past.

Her mouth formed the universal expression of "wtf." No words—just incredulous silence and eye contact with the screen like it personally betrayed her.

By Lap 18, the scrunch had leveled up. She was standing now, shoulders squared, hands placed firmly on her hips like a Roman general awaiting word from the battlefield.

Her lip? Bitten. Not seductively, but nervously—yet somehow still camera-ready, because destiny clearly decided this moment would go viral. The clip of her standing there, looking like she’d either cry or sue the tire strategist, would later make its rounds online with captions like:

"Leclerc family trauma: now in 4K." "Ferrari fumbled and Y/N bit back." "Mood: stressed but attractive."

Lap 25 was the emotional trench warfare. Y/N looked exhausted—not from physical exertion, but from watching Ferrari commit tactical Sudoku with tire compounds. Her eyes were glued to the live timing screen like it might give her spiritual answers.

You could practically hear the mental math screaming in her brain. Another strategic blunder rolled through the garage, and she flinched. Not dramatically—just that subtle "I’m questioning everything" twitch.

She stared at the screen. Then at the pit wall. Then back at the screen. Her expression read: This is not racing… this is Charles vs Ferrari… vs the laws of probability.

And then… Lap 30.

Like a phoenix from stress’s ashes, Y/N pulled out her secret weapon: the emotional support dumpling.

She unzipped her iconic Ferrari-red handbag and extracted a small food container with the reverence of someone unlocking a family heirloom. The dumpling entered her mouth mid-sigh, like the last shield against heartbreak.

The chewing accelerated the more intense things got. You could track Ferrari strategy issues in real time just by analyzing the pace of her bites. Soft chew? They’re holding position. Rapid gnawing? Someone’s lost five places and the tire pressure’s dramatic.

Then, in the most unexpectedly wholesome moment of the afternoon, she leaned over and nudged Alex Saint Mleux with a perfectly folded dumpling.

Alex—serene, composed as always—accepted it with the grace of a duchess at brunch. Y/N had a splotch of soy sauce on the corner of her mouth, and before cameras could catch it, Alex dabbed it away with a tissue like a mom wiping chocolate from a toddler’s face.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

It was the universal language of “I’m panicking but still generous,” wrapped in dough and dipped in soy.

Ferrari may have been fumbling on track, but in the garage? A Leclerc and a dumpling were holding it down.

The Prayer Pit Stop

Lap 35. If tension were visible, it’d look exactly like Y/N Leclerc’s face—fragile composure barely holding its ground while Charles’s race crumbled like a stale baguette. Her features were frozen in that haunting blend of disbelief and heartbreak. The camera—sensing drama like it was born for this—zoomed in.

And there it was. A single tear.

Perfectly timed. Poised. Dramatic. The tear slid down her cheek like it was auditioning for Cannes.

Fans online didn’t waste a second—edits exploded across every social platform. One post read: "This tear cost Ferrari $2.4 million in morale." Another? "A single Leclerc tear could fix tire degradation."

Lap 40 rolled in like a bad breakup text. Charles, having started P4, was now chilling in P14. The mood? Catastrophic.

Y/N did what no strategist dared to: she dropped to her knees in full silent French prayer. Not fake prayer. Real prayer. Eyes closed, lips moving in gentle urgency, palms pressed together like she’d been spiritually preparing for this since birth.

She looked like a medieval queen pleading to the racing gods for mercy.

And then—chaos turned to magic.

From P14 to P13… then P11… and before anyone could blink, Charles was somehow sitting in P6.

The garage? Gobsmacked.

One engineer stared at her like she was Moses parting the telemetry sea. Someone dropped a torque wrench. A cameraman fumbled his rig.

People were suddenly unsure if strategy simulations were even necessary when you had a Leclerc summoning miracles on her knees.

By Lap 46, the mood shifted again.

Ferrari had done just enough to secure P5 for Charles, but Y/N? She was stone-cold quiet. No prayer, no dumpling, no commentary. She stood, legs rigid, posture eerily identical to the 🧍🏻‍♀️ emoji—arms down, expression blank, soul hovering somewhere above the circuit.

It was the kind of existential stare that screamed, “This could’ve been a podium, and instead I nearly got dehydrated from manifesting.”

The photo of her standing like that? Instant meme.

"Y/N Leclerc, the human embodiment of strategic disappointment." "Me watching my life decisions unfold in real time." "🧍🏻‍♀️ but make it Ferrari trauma."

Her stance was so iconic, someone suggested Ferrari redesign their pit board to include just her emoji silhouette as a warning for incoming strategy disaster.

No one knew whether she was frozen in grief, rage, or just conserving energy for the next heartbreak. But one thing was certain:

If Ferrari had half the strategic consistency Y/N had in emotional support dumplings, they’d be champions by now.

Post-Race Interview Drama: Starring One Emotional Support Dumpling

The interview area was buzzing—microphones poking out like curious birds, reporters ready to pounce.

Charles Leclerc, freshly debriefed and marginally less sweaty than before, stood in front of the Ferrari backdrop wearing the expression of a man who’d just had a philosophical fistfight with race strategy. P5. A result that said "not terrible" but also "Ferrari, why are you like this?"

He spoke first about the race—calmly, diplomatically, like someone who’s been professionally trained not to scream when asked about tire compound choices. “We did our best out there, the pace was good in some parts, but obviously… not what we hoped for.”

Translation: I was battling the car, the strategy, physics, and possibly fate itself.

Then came the moment—one reporter, smiling mischievously, asked: "Charles, we saw your sister Y/N in the garage today. Rare sight! She was quite expressive… thoughts?"

Charles chuckled. That signature laugh—the one that says “I love my family, even when they manifest tire miracles while eating dumplings.”

“Ohhh… Y/N?” he said, eyes glancing sideways like he needed permission from the heavens to proceed. “She’s… not chill during races. At all.”

Everyone leaned in.

“I mean, that’s why she doesn’t usually watch live. Normally she’s at home, watching from behind a couch cushion or texting me things like ‘Did the tire fall off yet? Should I cry or eat?’”

He grinned, rubbing his jaw. “Today she showed up, said she had emotional support dumplings, and next thing I know she’s praying in French on the garage floor and somehow we gained eight positions.”

Laughter exploded. The reporters tried keeping it professional but one nearly dropped their microphone.

Charles continued: “She stresses more than I do, I swear. I saw the clip of the tear? That’s real. We don’t joke about the Leclerc tear—it’s like a family prophecy. She cries and things happen.”

He paused. Then added dryly: “If Ferrari ever hires her as the Head of Manifestation, I won’t complain.”

The segment ended with the interviewer asking if Y/N would be back for the next race, to which Charles replied: “She already said she’s emotionally unavailable unless there’s a new pit strategy manual and three therapy sessions involved.”

Ferrari might need a new tire management system, but they’ve already got the most dramatic motivational coach in motorsport—armed with dumplings and desperate hope.

Post-Race: Monza, Golden Hour

Y/N brushed soy sauce off her jeans and tucked the last dumpling into Alex’s palm before disappearing into the paddock crowd like a stress relief spirit. Charles waved from the podium, and Ferrari’s group chat was already exploding.

Meanwhile, Twitter had gone feral.

@PaddockProphet Y/N Leclerc has shed ONE tear and Ferrari lost FOUR places. Someone check if her tear ducts are linked to tire strategy.

@charlesstan420 Not Y/N praying mid-race and Charles suddenly overtaking 8 cars. Ferrari better switch their strategy to dumpling-based divination.

@F1TeaCentral She stood like 🧍🏻‍♀️ during the final laps, and I felt that in my soul. That’s the posture of “my therapist told me to breathe, but Ferrari told me not to.”

@pitstoppsychic If I ever marry into the Leclerc family, I want Y/N as my maid of honor and team principal. Preferably with dumplings in her clutch.

@DumplingDiplomat Y/N fed Alex a dumpling mid-race stress spiral. That’s real love. That’s Michelin star friendship.

@soysauceandspite The soy sauce moment. THE soy sauce moment. Alex wiping it off was more emotional than any podium ceremony

@FerrariFanTherapy She bit her lip at Lap 18 like she was physically holding back a lawsuit. Ferrari should start giving her access to the strategy room and tire pressure spreadsheets.

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fluff #f1 fic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x you #alex saint mleux

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