"Girls," Phei said, louder this time, cutting through the simp-account admiration like a knife through cheap silk. "I have something really pressing right now. Can we table the fan club discussion for later?"
Delilah sighed, the sound heavy with the kind of exhaustion that came from living in a world where being late could literally end you.
"He's right. We've heard about the summon and we need to hurry." Her eyes darted toward the path they'd come from, paranoid little flicks. "The assembly's over. He can't be late to the Dean's office by more than ten minutes or the consequences..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
They all nodded—the grim, silent agreement of people who understood that in Paradise, deadlines weren't suggestions; they were guillotines with very polite timing.
Sierra crossed her arms, all business now, the playful edge gone, replaced by the cold efficiency of someone who'd grown up negotiating with monsters.
"What do you need to know?"
