Dean Thorne's words were still ringing in Maya's head as she guided her through North Hall, the boys' dorm where Alex Rivera was supposed to belong.
I'm not her. I'm him. I'm Alex Rivera, not Maya Castellanos.
The mantra felt like swallowing glass, but Maya kept repeating it with every step down the carpeted hallway. The corridor smelled faintly of detergent and cheap cologne—the kind teenage boys dumped on themselves thinking it made them irresistible. Voices echoed from behind half-open doors like glimpses into lives she'd never understand: laughter at something on YouTube, controllers clicking through FIFA matches, music blasting from bluetooth speakers. It felt alive, buzzing with energy, like a world she wasn't ready to step into.
These are supposed to be my peers now. My brothers in arms. Except they don't know I'm not actually their brother.
Maya's palms were sweating again. She wiped them on her jeans—Alex's jeans—and tried to walk with longer strides, the way the handbook said boys moved. Confident. Taking up space. Not apologizing for existing.
They stopped at the very end of the corridor, where the noise from other rooms faded to a whisper. Dean Thorne produced a silver key from her jacket pocket and unlocked a door marked with a simple brass plate: RIVERA, A.
"Here we are," she said, pushing the door open.
Inside was a single dorm room that made Maya's breath catch.
Not cramped and shared like she'd imagined boarding school rooms would be. This one was spacious—sunlight streaming through tall windows that looked out over the soccer fields, a solid oak desk positioned perfectly for studying, a bed all to herself with crisp white sheets, and a private bathroom tucked in the corner behind a frosted glass door. It was luxury compared to what she'd expected from teenage prison movies.
And yet, as Maya stepped inside, the silence pressed in around her like water. No roommate to watch her sleep, to catch her talking in her real voice, to notice if she moved wrong or forgot to lower her pitch. No one to wonder why she never left her towel hanging loose or why she took forever in the bathroom.
It should have felt safe. A sanctuary where she could drop the act for a few precious hours each day.
Instead, it felt like a cell. Beautiful, comfortable, but still a place where she'd be locked away from everyone else, always on the outside looking in.
Dean Thorne handed her the key, and the metal felt cold against Maya's palm. "Consider this a privilege. Most students share rooms, but given your... situation... we felt privacy would serve you better. Use it wisely."
Her gaze lingered, sharp and knowing, like she could see right through Alex's carefully constructed facade to the terrified girl underneath. Then she turned on her heel—those same precise clicks echoing down the hallway—and left Maya alone with her new identity.
The door clicked shut with finality.
Maya let out a shaky breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and dropped her black duffel bag on the bed. The sound got swallowed by the thick walls and carpet, emphasizing just how isolated this room really was.
For a moment, she almost let herself sink onto the mattress, bury her face in her hands, and cry for everything she'd lost. For her parents, for Diego with his broken glasses, for Maya Castellanos who would never get to graduate or go to prom or fight with her little brother about the TV remote ever again.
Almost.
But Alex Rivera didn't cry. Not where anyone might hear, and definitely not on his first day at a new school where he had to prove he belonged.
Maya started unpacking instead, each movement methodical and deliberate. Soccer cleats by the door—expensive Adidas ones she'd never worn, broken in just enough to look authentic. Textbooks on the desk, already marked up with notes in Alex's handwriting that some FBI forger had spent hours perfecting. The folder with Alex's entire manufactured life tucked into the desk drawer like it belonged there, like it was normal to carry around documentation of your fake existence.
She was halfway through hanging up shirts in the closet—all in colors she'd never chosen, cut for a body shape she didn't have—when sound broke the silence.
Knock. Knock.
Two sharp raps against the door that made Maya's heart spike into her throat. She froze with a Pacific Elite soccer jersey half on its hanger, every muscle in her body going tense.
Nobody knows I'm here yet. Nobody should be looking for Alex Rivera.
Slowly, fighting the urge to hide in the bathroom until whoever it was went away, Maya crossed the room. The carpet muffled her footsteps, but her pulse hammered so loud she was sure it could be heard through the door.
She turned the handle and opened it just wide enough to see who was there.
Standing in the hallway was a boy definitely taller than her—which wasn't hard since Maya was barely five-foot-six and Alex was supposed to be five-eight. He had the kind of athletic build that came from years of serious training, all lean muscle and easy confidence radiating off him like heat. Dirty-blond hair fell across his forehead in that perfectly messy way that probably took twenty minutes to achieve, and piercing blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her want to step backward.
He looked like the kind of guy who'd never doubted himself a day in his life. The kind who expected doors to open for him, for people to move out of his way, for the world to arrange itself according to his preferences.
The kind of guy Maya had always been invisible to at her old school.
He flashed a grin that managed to be both casual and commanding, the expression of someone who knew exactly how good-looking he was and wasn't afraid to use it.
"Hey," he said, and his voice carried the easy authority of someone used to being listened to. "I'm Ethan Morrison. Team captain."
Maya's throat went completely dry. This was it—her first real test. The soccer captain showing up at her door meant tryouts were probably just the beginning. This guy would be watching her every move, judging whether she was good enough, tough enough, male enough to belong on his team.
Say something. Say anything. But say it like Alex would.
"Alex Rivera," she managed, hoping her voice came out lower than it felt. "Transfer student."
Ethan's grin widened, and Maya couldn't tell if that was good or terrifying.
"Yeah, I heard we were getting some new talent. Mind if I come in? Thought we should talk before tomorrow's practice."
Tomorrow's practice. Oh God.
Maya stepped back, gesturing for him to enter, because refusing would definitely seem suspicious. Ethan walked into her room like he owned it, his presence immediately making the space feel smaller, more charged with an energy Maya didn't know how to handle.
He glanced around, taking in the unpacked bags, the precisely arranged textbooks, the soccer cleats waiting by the door.
"Nice setup," he said, settling into the desk chair like he'd been invited to stay. "Single room, too. That's rare for transfers. You must have some serious connections."
If only you knew.
"Something like that," Maya said carefully.
Ethan's blue eyes studied her face with an intensity that made her skin crawl. Not in a bad way, exactly, but in a way that made her hyperaware of every micro-expression, every tiny detail that might give her away.
"So, Rivera," he said, leaning back in the chair. "What position do you play?"