Chapter 3
JULIAN POLE
"Was it scary?" Luka asked, eyes sparkling like I'd just told him I'd met a ghost.
I told them about Professor Jace calling me off in class, and by the time I finished, Luka's grin was so wide it should've been illegal.
"I'm not kidding," I said. "His eyes are like—" I waved my hands in the air, trying to explain. "Like… knives. But… polite knives."
Rico raised an eyebrow. "Knives aren't polite, Julian."
"These ones are," I insisted. "They just… look at you like they know every bad thing you've ever done and also your blood type."
Luka leaned forward, smirking. "So… you have a crush."
"I do not!" My face went hot. "He's my professor."
"Uh-huh. Hot professor with polite knives for eyes," Luka teased, looking like he'd just found his new favorite thing to annoy me with.
I buried my face in my hands. "Can we not—"
"No, we can," Luka interrupted, grinning like a fox. "And speaking of hot, you're coming to a party with us Friday."
"No."
"Yes," Luka said instantly.
Rico looked up from his phone. "What party?"
"Liam's birthday. Big house, loud music, free drinks—"
"I don't drink," I reminded him.
"Then free snacks."
Rico frowned at Luka. "Who's Liam again?"
"You met him once," Luka said. "He's the guy who—"
"—spilled Red Bull on my shoes last semester," Rico finished, narrowing his eyes. "Pass."
"Oh, come on," Luka groaned. "We'll go for an hour. Julian needs to socialize."
"I socialize," I muttered.
"With us," Luka shot back. "That doesn't count."
Rico sighed, thinking it over like Luka had just asked him to rob a bank. "Fine. But if anything gets weird, we're leaving."
"Deal," Luka said, then looked at me. "You're going. No excuses."
That evening, we found ourselves in the kitchen before dinner. Not because we were hungry—well, Luka's always hungry—but because my dad was making cookies.
Luka walked in, took one straight off the tray, and bit into it like he lived here.
"Don't eat before dinner," Dad said without looking up.
"They're cookies," Luka mumbled through a mouthful.
Rico gave him a disapproving look, then grabbed one too. I glared at both of them.
We had dinner together since Mom was still at the hospital. Luka kept telling ridiculous stories, making my dad laugh even though he tried not to show it. Rico mostly played referee, catching Luka before he spilled his drink—twice.
After dinner, my friends stayed over. We sprawled across my room with a movie playing, but Luka kept pausing it to talk about boys.
"So, the guy from your photography class—what's his deal?" Luka asked.
"He's… fine," I said.
"Fine is boring," Luka declared. "We need someone exciting. Mysterious. Hot."
"Like your professor," Rico muttered.
I groaned. "You're both terrible."
Luka ignored me. "Friday, we're dressing you up. You're finding a man."
"I'm not—"
"You are," Luka said, like the conversation was over.
The week passed by in a blur.
Between classes, note-taking, and Luka's constant pestering about "Friday," I barely had time to breathe. Every time I saw him in the hall, he'd give me a wink and a very unsubtle 'remember the party' face. Rico mostly rolled his eyes at the whole thing, but I could tell he was curious.
On Thursday afternoon, we were standing in the hallway between classes. Luka was going on about how this party was "a once-in-a-lifetime networking opportunity, socially and romantically," while Rico was questioning the romantically part.
"I'm just saying," Luka said, leaning against a locker like he was in a teen drama. "You never know who you might meet. Tall, dark, mysterious—"
"I already know my father," I cut in.
Rico choked back a laugh. "That's not what he means, Jules."
We eventually split ways, Luka and Rico heading off to their classes, me to mine. I turned a corner too fast, eyes on my phone, and crashed—face first—into someone. My books went flying.
"Sorry—" I started, bending to pick them up.
A familiar, deep voice interrupted me. "Mr. Pole."
I froze. Professor Marino stood over me, one eyebrow arched, looking like he'd just stepped out of some mafia movie but dressed in a three-piece suit.
"You seem to have time for parties," he said smoothly, "but not for the tutor I suggested?"
My brain stalled. "I—uh—it's not—Luka said—" I swallowed. "It's for… studying? Social skills? Group work?"
His expression didn't change. "Right. Make sure you remember which is more important."
I nodded furiously, muttered something that might have been "yes, sir," and escaped down the hall before my knees gave out.
By Friday night, they were at my house early. Luka tore through my closet like it was a clearance sale.
"This is all beige!" Luka groaned.
"I like beige," I said.
"You like boring," he corrected, tossing clothes onto the bed. He pulled out a black button-up. "This. With those jeans. Rico, find him shoes that don't look like he's about to chaperone a middle school dance."
Rico sighed but helped.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the mirror, staring at someone who looked like me if I'd accidentally wandered into a music video.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
"This is perfect," Luka said, grinning. "Let's go."
The car ride was loud—mostly Luka playing DJ and screaming along to the music while Rico threatened to throw his phone out the window. I sat in the back, wondering how soon I could convince them to leave once we got there.
The party house was already packed. Music thumped so hard I could feel it in my teeth. Luka and Rico vanished almost immediately—Luka to the dance floor, Rico to "make sure Luka doesn't end up in the ER."
I ended up in the kitchen, where a guy in a backwards cap leaned against the counter.
"Drink?" he asked, holding out a red cup.
"No, thanks," I said.
"Come on, just one."
"I don't—"
"It's not even strong," he said with a smile that probably worked on other people.
I shook my head, but after saying no about five times, I finally took the cup just to make him stop asking.
It tasted weird, but I sipped anyway, trying not to make a face.
It didn't take long for things to get fuzzy. My head felt heavier, the room tilting just slightly. The music was louder now, or maybe I was just dizzy.
Somewhere in the house, someone screamed. Then—gunshots.
The panic hit instantly. People shoved past me, knocking over chairs, spilling drinks, shouting over the music. My knees buckled. My chest tightened.
What the hell is going on? I can't move.I think I'm having a heart attack,I can't breathe, I can't see clearly and my head is spinning.
Through the chaos, I saw a tall figure in a dark coat cutting through the crowd, fast, deliberate.
Was that—?
My vision blurred. My body felt too heavy to keep upright. The noise faded into a dull echo as I fell back.
The last thing I saw was those eyes—sharp, familiar—before everything went dark.