MATT'S FINGERS TREMBLED as he fumbled with the lock on his bedroom window. The dead of night clung to him like a second skin, the silence only broken by the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

He knew it was only a matter of time before the cops circled back. They had already been to the house once. He'd seen the flashing red and blue lights a few streets over, looking for him. If he didn't move now, they'd be right on him.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, finally jamming the window open. The cool night air rushed in, biting at his skin.

Matt took one last glance at his room—clothes scattered everywhere, the smell of stale cigarettes clinging to the walls—and swung himself out the window, dropping into the alley behind the house.

His boots hit the pavement with a muffled thud, and he pulled his hoodie tighter around him. The streets were empty, for now.

He had to stay invisible. Fading into the background was something he'd mastered over the years, but tonight? Tonight, he wasn't sure he'd be so lucky.

Running away wasn't new to him, but this time it felt different—more permanent, more dangerous. It wasn't just a late-night call to avoid a pissed-off parent or some dealer looking to settle a score.

No, this was bigger.

He'd almost been arrested. His stomach twisted at the thought. It wasn't supposed to get this far, not this fast. But that was the problem with this life. It had a way of spiraling out of control the moment you thought you had a handle on it.

The Crimson, they called him. The nickname had started as a joke, something the other guys threw at him when they first saw him—back when he'd shown up to one of those shitty parties in a deep red jacket, acting like he wasn't some kid trying to prove himself.

But then the name stuck, partly because he didn't care enough to correct anyone, and partly because it fit. Crimson wasn't just about the color anymore.

It was about the reputation he'd built—the kid you didn't mess with, the one who'd seen too much and didn't care anymore.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he glanced at the screen, the harsh light cutting through the darkness.

Where the hell are you, Matt?

It was Chris. Of course it was. This guy was also nothing but bad news, but because he was Matt's brother, Matt kept letting him into his life. Probably because, in a way, Chris was the only one who actually saw him, who didn't just see the mess of a kid with a broken family and a record of mistakes.

Chris saw someone useful. And that was enough to keep him coming back, even when he knew better.

Matt didn't respond. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and kept moving, his mind racing. The cops weren't far, and neither was the inevitable fallout when his parents realized he'd vanished in the middle of the night.

Not that they'd care much. He could already hear his mom's voice, tired and disappointed, the way she always sounded when she talked about him.

His dad wouldn't even bother saying anything—he'd just sit there, stone-faced, probably wondering where they went wrong, if Matt had ever been anything more than a lost cause.

"Doesn't matter," Matt muttered to himself, quickening his pace. He just had to get through the night. After that, he'd figure something out. Maybe he'd disappear for a while—lay low until the heat died down, or until Chris came up with something to smooth it over.

But deep down, Matt knew he was running out of places to hide. He couldn't keep slipping through the cracks forever. The world had a way of catching up with people like him.

The morning air bit at Matt's skin as he sped down the backstreets on his feet, the city still waking up under the pale light of dawn. His heart pounded in his chest, not from the exertion but from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

He could still hear the sirens, their echo chasing him even though he was miles away now. The night had gone south fast.

Matt's knuckles were white around the straps of the backpack that contained things. His mind replaying the close call from just a few hours ago. They were supposed to be careful—make the drop, take the cash, and get out. It was routine, or at least it was supposed to be.

But something had gone wrong. The cops showed up sooner than anyone expected. It wasn't just a bust. It felt like someone had tipped them off, and Matt knew better than to stick around to find out who.

He should've been arrested. He knew that. When the flashing blue lights had filled the alley, his first instinct had been to run.

And run he did.

Back to his house. But the Cops were there too. They already knew him.

The others were either too slow or too stupid to follow him. He'd heard them yelling, some of them cursing his name as he disappeared down the side streets, but he didn't stop. Not for them. Not for anyone.

Now, hours later, his heart was still racing, but it wasn't from fear anymore. It was the raw, burning energy of survival. Of knowing you'd narrowly escaped something bigger than yourself.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he turned down a familiar street, the looming structure of the high school coming into view.

A few cars dotted the lot already, the early risers and overachievers who thought getting to school before the bell meant something. He pulled up on the side of the school, where no one would bother him.

Matt let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, leaning against the rough brick wall. He fished a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lighting it with shaking hands.

The first drag calmed his nerves, the smoke filling his lungs like an old friend. He stood there, alone, savoring the quiet before the day officially began.

He knew he should feel bad about last night. About what could've happened if things had gone just a little differently.

But that was the thing—he didn't. It wasn't the first time he'd come close to getting caught, and it wouldn't be the last. It was part of the life he lived, the one he hadn't really chosen but had stumbled into, like so many other bad decisions.

His thoughts drifted back to the Crimsons. The gang he ran with wasn't exactly feared in the city, but they had a reputation.

People knew to stay clear of them, or at least they did if they wanted to avoid trouble. The Crimsons had a way of pulling people in, making promises that sounded too good to be true—money, freedom, power—and then tightening their grip until you couldn't leave, even if you wanted to.

Matt wasn't stupid. He knew what people said about him, about the gang. That he was trouble. That he was going nowhere fast.

He'd heard the whispers in the hallways, the looks from teachers who had already written him off. He didn't care. That's what he told himself, anyway.

He took another drag from his cigarette, his mind flashing back to yesterday. You. You weren't like the others.

You didn't look at him with fear or disdain, though maybe you should've. There was something about the way you stood there, your eyes hard but not cold.

You didn't back down, even when he'd tried to intimidate you. He could've pushed harder, could've really made you feel small, but for some reason, he didn't. He wasn't sure why.

Matt flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot as he pushed off the wall. He didn't need to be thinking about you.

You had a stupid project to finish, that was all. You weren't his problem. He had enough of those already.

He heard the chatter of students filling the courtyard, the day officially beginning. Slipping into the crowd, Matt blended in like a shadow, unnoticed unless he wanted to be.

It was a skill he'd perfected over the years—fading into the background until he needed to make himself known.

Classes were a blur, as usual. Matt didn't bother paying attention to most of them. The teachers had stopped calling on him months ago.

What was the point? He wasn't going to be the model student they hoped for. Besides, half of them didn't expect him to last the year, and neither did he.

But there was always that gnawing voice in the back of his head, the one that reminded him he wasn't completely untouchable.

The Crimsons wouldn't always protect him. They weren't his family, and the second he became more trouble than he was worth, they'd drop him. That's how it worked.

Luckily not in school.

And if last night had been a glimpse of what could happen? It wasn't far-fetched to think that one day, maybe sooner rather than later, he wouldn't be able to run fast enough.

The day dragged on until finally, the last bell rang. Matt had promised he'd show up for the project today, and while part of him wanted to blow it off and disappear, he found himself walking toward the library anyway.

It wasn't that he cared about the project, not really. But there was something about you that intrigued him. You weren't scared of him, or at least, you didn't show it. And that made you different.

When he stepped into the library, it took a moment to spot you. You were sitting at a table near the back, your head bent over a stack of books, your fingers holding the pencil, writing something into your notebook.

You looked completely focused, completely in your element. You were dressed in a soft, oversized cream-colored sweater that hung loosely over your frame, the sleeves bunched up slightly as your fingers moved across the keyboard.

The sweater, while casual, had an elegance to it, a quiet kind of luxury that suited you. You paired it with dark, fitted jeans that looked effortless, the kind of clothes that said you belonged to a different world—one that didn't have to worry about running from the cops or dealing with people like Matt.

Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands falling around your face as you concentrated, and there was a quiet calm in the way you sat, shoulders relaxed despite the mountain of books spread out in front of you.

You didn't look like someone who let things get under your skin. It was like the way you dressed reflected that—put-together, but not trying too hard.

Even in something as simple as jeans and a sweater, you looked like you fit perfectly into the world of the Embers.

Matt hesitated for a second, a strange feeling tugging at him, like maybe he didn't belong here.

Like this wasn't his world.

But then he shook it off. He didn't need to belong. He was just here to get this over with.

"Hey," he said, his voice low as he dropped into the chair across from you.

You looked up, startled for a moment before your expression settled into something neutral. "You're actually here," you said, not hiding your surprise.

Matt leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Told you I'd show up. Didn't say I'd be happy about it."

You rolled your eyes, clearly not in the mood for his usual sarcasm. "Can we just get this done? I've already outlined what we need to cover. If you do your part, this won't take long."

He glanced at the stack of papers you pushed toward him, scanning the neatly organized notes. You were thorough, he had to give you that. Not like him. He'd barely opened a textbook since the semester started.

"So what's my part?" he asked, his tone more indifferent than it should've been. He didn't want you thinking he actually cared.

You flipped through the papers, showing him the sections already divided. "You're covering the political factors. How revolutions start because of government failures, corruption, that kind of thing."

Matt smirked, leaning forward a little. "Sounds like a bedtime story."

You gave him a look, one that said you didn't find him funny but weren't going to argue. "Just read the notes and write something. We've got to present this together, so try not to make it sound like a joke."

He nodded, taking the papers from you and shoving them into his bag. But as you both sat there in silence, the reality started sinking in. He didn't have a laptop.

He hadn't even realized it until now. It wasn't like the Crimsons covered tech expenses, and his old computer? Long gone.

For a second, he considered lying, telling you he'd do his part and just copying down notes by hand, but something stopped him.

Maybe it was the way you were looking at him—like you expected him to actually pull his weight. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending.

"I, uh..." Matt hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He hated admitting anything, especially something like this. "I don't have a laptop."

You blinked, as if processing what he just said, and for a moment, Matt braced himself for the inevitable pity or judgment. But it didn't come.

Instead, you looked down at the table, clearly thinking, and when you spoke again, there was something different in your voice—like you were weighing the consequences of what you were about to say. "You can... come over to my place. I have an extra one. We can just work there."

Matt stared at you, not sure if he'd heard right. "Your place?"

You nodded, but your eyes flicked toward the library entrance, like you were checking to see if anyone was watching. "Yeah, but no one can see you come in. Not—" You hesitated, biting your lip. "Not with how things are."

He knew what you meant. You were an Ember. The last thing you needed was people seeing Matt Sturniolo, Crimson troublemaker, showing up at your house.

Matt swallowed, his mind racing. This wasn't part of the plan. But you didn't seem like you were offering out of pity. There was something else behind it—like maybe you didn't care as much about the rules as you let on.

"Alright," Matt finally said, trying to play it cool, even though the whole thing felt surreal.

Matt fidgeted with his bag, clearly wrestling with his words. "You know," he started awkwardly, "if someone were to ask about a favor, they'd say it's as big as... well, their hand. But if they were to talk about... I mean, the help they received—"

He stumbled over his words, trying to articulate what he meant. "It's like, uh, they'd need more than a hand... maybe their whole heart..."

You looked at him, clearly confused, trying to piece together his cryptic attempt at gratitude.

Seeing your puzzled expression, Matt sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I'm just trying to say thanks. I appreciate you letting me use your laptop."

You paused for a moment, then a soft smile spread across your face. "It's okay," you said gently, making his awkward attempt at thanks feel less like a tangled mess and more like a genuine gesture.