A notification suddenly popped up in the class group chat. It was a photo. It was a shot of me bending over to tie my shoelaces in the girls' locker room. My collar hung loose, exposing my chest. The camera angle was deliberate, predatory, and impossible to mistake. The sender was my cousin, Sophie. Her caption was a single word. "Guess." Every phone in the classroom vibrated in unison. Forty-something heads snapped up, their eyes locking onto me. I looked down at my own screen just as Sophie sent a follow-up message beneath the photo. "Oops, my hand slipped~" That little tilde felt like a twisted blade sliding straight into my ribs. I would soon find out that my sweet little cousin had created five separate group chats. There were 187 people in them. She had distributed over five hundred invasive photos of me. She lived in the apartment building directly across from mine. Her balcony faced my bedroom window perfectly. It took me exactly three months to send all of those people straight to a jail cell or a courtroom. That included my childhood best friend, a boy I had known for fifteen years. I did it because my grandpa, a tough-as-nails combat veteran, taught me a golden rule when I was a kid. He told me that taking a hit in life was fine, but you never, ever swallow their garbage in silence. 1 The photo sat there on the screen. I took a bite of my breakfast sandwich, looking down at the display. It was me. Last week, in the gym locker room. The angle was perfectly calculated to show as much skin as possible without showing my face. The caption read. "Guess who this is :)" That little smiley face was dripping with venom. Every phone in the room buzzed. Forty-something teenagers looked at their screens, then slowly looked up at me. It was like a synchronized military drill. Everyone was staring. Before I could even react, the second message popped up. "Riley, I'm so sorry, my hand slipped~" She actually used the tilde. Sophie. I chewed the rest of my bacon and egg sandwich and swallowed. It was from Mrs. Gable's bakery down on Main Street, perfectly toasted on the outside and soft on the inside, the savory grease melting beautifully on my tongue. My mom always said this was my fatal flaw. Even if the sky was falling, I had to finish my food first. I set down my napkin and picked up the unopened bottle of spring water from my desk. "Sophie." She was sitting in the third row. She tilted her head, her eyes curving into sweet little crescents. She looked innocent enough to win an Oscar. "Riley, I swear I didn't mean to..." The entire classroom went dead silent the second the water crashed down over her head. The silence was absolute. It was like an abandoned alleyway in Old Town at two in the morning. You couldn't even hear a pin drop. The water washed away the makeup she had spent half an hour applying, turning her face into a muddy watercolor palette. Black eyeliner streamed down her cheeks, her foundation patched and peeled, and one of her fake eyelashes hung precariously off her eyelid, trembling. Her "sweet peach" persona completely dissolved into the puddle on the floor. "Ahhhhh!" she shrieked, her voice pitching high enough to shatter the classroom windows. "Riley, are you insane?!" "Not insane." I slammed the empty plastic bottle onto the desk. "Just helping you wash your mouth out." "You... you..." "I'm not great with words," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "But I have great aim." A few guys in the back row erupted into laughter. Someone yelled out to Sophie to calm down, another whistled, and a few kids were literally slapping their desks in hysterics. Sophie's eyes went red. Her lips trembled. "I was just playing a joke! If you had a problem, you could have just talked to me! Did you really have to humiliate me in front of the whole class?!" I knew this routine by heart. Provoke, play the victim, and then flip the blame. The desperate influencers hawking cheap detox teas down by the historic botanical gardens had worse acting skills than her. "A joke?" I took a step forward. She instinctively flinched backward. "Sophie, we've known each other for exactly three days since you transferred here, and we've spoken maybe ten sentences. What part of my personality made you think I'm the kind of person who enjoys being the punchline of a joke?" She opened her mouth but nothing came out. I shifted my gaze to the window seat in the front row. Tyler. I had known him for fifteen years. We practically grew up in the dirt behind the Old Town apartments. We tested into Westside High together and ended up in the same homeroom. He was athletic, possessed a sharp jawline, and half the girls in our grade worshipped him as the untouchable varsity star. Whenever anyone picked on me, he was always the first to stand up. Back in freshman year, a guy threw my backpack into the girls' bathroom. Tyler chased him down three blocks, pinned him against the brick wall outside the downtown promenade, and forced him to apologize to my face. But this time, he didn't move. He just sat there, his back to me, his shoulders rigid like a stone statue. I stared at the back of his head for five long seconds. He didn't turn around. Fine. What was that internet quote? Rely on a man, and you'll be miserable for a lifetime. I pulled my gaze away and turned to head back to my desk. That was when Tyler finally stood up. He walked over to me. His lips parted, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Riley." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "She just transferred here. She doesn't know any better. Just... let it go. For my sake." I blinked. And then I laughed. "For your sake?" I looked dead into his eyes. "Tyler, what exactly is your pride worth? Ground beef is five bucks a pound down at the local butcher. Can I trade your pride in for a couple of steaks?" The classroom roared with laughter. Tyler's face cycled through shades of red and white, changing colors faster than a traffic light. I ignored him, bent down, and picked up a printed copy of the photo someone had dropped. I folded it neatly and shoved it into my pocket. Then I looked up and addressed the entire room. "If anyone took a picture or recorded a video of what just happened, do me a favor and send it to me. I want to keep it for my memoirs." Harper, my desk mate since freshman year, was the first to start clapping and laughing. The laughter spread until even the guys in the back row couldn't hold it in. I sat back down and pulled my textbook out of my bag. My palms were slightly damp. Not from the heat. It was the adrenaline. My hands were still shaking from gripping that plastic bottle. I remembered Grandpa's words. He was the one who taught me how to throw a proper punch. His first lesson was simple. "Riley, taking a hit is fine, but you never swallow their garbage." I wiped the sweat from my palms onto my jeans. After school, Sophie cornered me in the hallway. She had changed her clothes and redone her makeup, slipping right back into her sweet little "sunshine" routine. But her eyes were totally different. I had seen that look before. It was the look the feral cats in our neighborhood got right before they pounced on a sparrow. "Riley." She stepped uncomfortably close, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Do you know what happened to the last girl who got a photo of herself sent to a group chat? She cried way harder than you did. She got on her knees and begged me. She begged for three straight days. And do you want to guess what I did? I recorded her begging on her knees and sent it to the entire school." The corners of her mouth twitched upward as she spoke. It wasn't a smile. She was actually getting off on the memory. I clenched my fists. My fingernails bit into my palms, sending sharp spikes of pain through my skin. But I didn't move. She tilted her head, studying me like a fascinating insect pinned to a board. "Aren't you curious who she was?" "No." "She was from Seattle. We went to the same school," Sophie hummed. "I heard she dropped out. They say she's still in intensive therapy." She let out a soft sigh, as if she were lamenting a rainy Tuesday. "Honestly, I didn't want it to go that far. But she insisted on fighting me. When she realized she couldn't win, she cried. When crying didn't work, she snitched to the teachers. Tell me, doesn't someone like that deserve exactly what she gets?" I stared at her. "Sophie, does your mother know you act like a psychopath at school?" She blinked, surprised, and then a genuine laugh bubbled from her throat. "My mom? My mom is the one who taught me. She said, whoever blocks your path, you destroy them." A cold chill crawled up my spine. It wasn't fear. It was the sudden, horrifying realization that she wasn't just naturally cruel. She had been meticulously programmed to be a monster. And that was infinitely more terrifying. She patted my shoulder, playing the role of the loving cousin. "See you tomorrow, Riley." She spun on her heel and pranced away, her twin ponytails bouncing. I stood rooted to the linoleum floor, watching her disappear around the corner. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Harper. "Riley, check the class chat now!" I opened the app. Sophie had sent another photo. It wasn't of me. It was a screenshot of a handwritten diary page from some anonymous girl. A single line was circled in bright red digital ink. "I hate her, but I hate myself even more." The caption read. "Guess whose diary this is :)" That same twisted smiley face. I stared at the glowing screen, my fingers turning ice cold. I closed the chat and immediately texted my cousin, Alex. He was a junior at MIT majoring in computer science. He and his frat brothers were the ones who actually coded our high school's alumni forum years ago. "Alex, I need you to run a deep background check on someone for me." "Who?" "Sophie. Aunt Brenda's daughter." He sent a string of question marks. "Aunt Brenda's kid? Isn't she your cousin?" "Yeah." "What did she do?" "She set up a group chat specifically to distribute creepshots of me." He went totally silent for a few seconds. When he replied, it was a voice memo. His usual playful tone was completely gone. "Send me everything you have. IP addresses, group IDs, screenshots. I'm on it." I forwarded him every single screenshot I had saved from the morning. I stood in the empty hallway, looking out the window. The October sky over the city was burning a brilliant, bruised orange. A commuter train rattled by in the distance, the metallic clatter carrying on the wind. The night market down on Main Street would be setting up right about now. The smell of roasted garlic and grilled skewers was probably drifting down the block. I suddenly really wanted a hot, fresh slice of pizza. The kind right out of the oven, where the cheese burns the roof of your mouth. My phone buzzed again. It wasn't Alex. It was Harper. "Riley, I did some digging. That group chat has 187 people in it. Tyler is one of them." I stared at that sentence for ten solid seconds. Then I typed. "Send me the screenshot." She sent the member list. Member number 34. Tyler. His profile picture was a shot of him playing basketball. I recognized it. I was the one who took it during the championship game last year, right after he hit a three-pointer and flashed a peace sign at my camera. I stared at that tiny circle for a very long time. Outside, the sky faded to black. Another commuter train rolled by, the metallic clatter fading into the dark. I shoved my phone into my pocket and walked out to the bike racks. As I rode down Elm Street, the autumn leaves crunched dryly beneath my tires, sounding like shattered glass. I thought of another thing Grandpa used to say. "Riley, the scariest thing in this world isn't your enemy. It's the person you thought would never, ever hurt you." I didn't understand it back then. I understood it now. When I got home, Mom was buzzing around the kitchen. The rich smell of beef stew filled the apartment. She took one look at me and paused. "Why are you so pale?" "It's nothing." "Nothing? You look like a ghost." I didn't answer. I kicked off my sneakers, walked into the kitchen, and stood right behind her. She was chopping onions, not even turning her head. "Hungry?" "Yeah." "Give it a minute. It's almost done." "Mom." "Yeah?" "If someone was bullying me, what would you do?" She put the chef's knife down and turned to face me. The exhaust fan hummed overhead. The stew bubbled violently in the pot. "Your Grandpa always said, taking a hit is fine, but you never swallow their garbage." She looked me dead in the eye. "Did you swallow their garbage?" I blinked, and then a slow smile crept onto my face. "No." "Good." She turned back to the cutting board and aggressively chopped an onion. "Now eat." That night, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep. My phone screen lit up the dark room. A text from Alex. "Got the IP trace. The admin's location is in the Old Town grid. Same neighborhood as you." I sat up. "Sophie lives near me?" "More than near." He paused before sending the next text. "She lives in the building directly across from yours. Her balcony has a direct line of sight to your bedroom window." I slowly turned my head toward the glass. The building across the street. Sixth floor. The light was on. There was a silhouette standing completely still behind the sheer curtains. I stared at that shadow for a long time. She didn't move. I didn't move. Then, my phone vibrated in my palm. Class group chat. Sophie. "Good night, Riley~ See you tomorrow :)" The tilde. Always that damn tilde. I placed my phone face down on the mattress and closed my eyes. Grandpa, you taught me that when something is unforgivable, you fight back. Tomorrow, I'm going to show you a war. 2 When I parked my bike at the school gates the next morning, the atmosphere felt toxic. It wasn't the usual quiet chatter. It was the suffocating silence of a bomb waiting to go off. Harper was waiting for me by the entrance. The second she saw me, she practically tackled me, shoving her phone into my face. "Riley! You need to look at the school forum right now!" The pinned post at the top of the feed read: Riley's Secret Menu at the Family Diner. I scrolled down. The post was a meticulously crafted fiction, claiming my family's diner offered "special favors" after hours, and that I was the "star attraction." It even included a photo of me working the cash register, heavily edited with a sleazy, neon-pink filter to make it look like a cheap escort ad. The comment section was an absolute dumpster fire. "No wonder she always wears tight shirts." "That side of Old Town is sketchy anyway, I'm not surprised." "She looks exactly like the kind of trash who'd do that for money." I scrolled through the comments one by one. My knuckles turned white from gripping the phone. Harper's eyes were red with fury. "How can they say this?! It's entirely fabricated!" I didn't say a word. Because I noticed a very specific detail. The original photo of me at the cash register was from a post I made on Instagram last week. It was locked to close friends only. That meant whoever posted it was on my friends list. I clicked on the original poster's profile. It was a burner account, zero history. But thanks to the trick Alex taught me last night, I pulled the IP metadata. It matched the Old Town broadband network. Sophie's house. "It's fine," I said, handing the phone back to Harper. "Let's go to class." "Fine?! They're calling you a literal prostitute, and you say it's fine?!" "If anyone is going to be in trouble over this, it's them." I pushed my bike toward the racks. "I didn't invent the lies, so why should I panic?" Harper froze, then jogged to catch up with me. "What are you going to do?" "Go to first period. What else?" I didn't hear a single word the teacher said all morning. I wasn't panicking. I was just trying to solve a puzzle in my head. Why was Sophie doing this? Why did she harbor this deep, psychotic hatred for me? Was it just because our grandfather left a slightly larger chunk of the inheritance to my dad? I dug through my childhood memories. Sophie used to come to our apartment when we were little. She wore her hair in cute little buns and chased me around calling me her big sister. My mom used to peel shrimp for her at dinner, and she would eat until her face was covered in grease, smiling so hard her eyes vanished. She didn't look like a psychopath back then. When did the switch flip? Probably the year Grandpa died. At the funeral, Aunt Brenda shattered a glass on the floor in front of the entire family. She pointed a shaking finger at my dad and screamed, "Dad was a biased old fool! Why do you get the lion's share? Is my daughter not his grandchild too?!" Sophie had stood behind her mother, her head bowed, totally silent. I had tried to hold her hand that day. She violently yanked it away. She never called me her big sister again. During lunch, Brooke walked over to my table. She was in the grade below me, the head of the student council's disciplinary committee, and notorious for taking zero prisoners. Rumor had it a senior tried to cut the lunch line last semester, and she literally picked up his tray and walked away with it, telling him to learn how a queue worked. "Riley." She dropped into the plastic chair across from me. "Did you see that trash on the forum?" "I saw it." "Do you know who posted it?" "Sophie." She blinked, surprised. "Are you absolutely sure?" "I'm sure." Brooke pulled her phone from her pocket and pulled up a massive file of screenshots. "My cousin sent me these. She lives in Seattle. She was best friends with Sophie's last victim." I took the phone. The screenshots showed a locked cloud drive titled The Collection. Inside were dozens of folders filled with invasive photos of different girls, screenshots of desperate text messages, and photos of stolen diary pages. "Sophie ruined three girls in Seattle," Brooke said, dropping her voice. "The first one transferred out of state. The second developed severe depression and dropped out entirely. The third is the one who wrote the diary. She's still a complete wreck." I scrolled through the terrifying digital trophy room, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. "She keeps this cloud drive to catalog her victims. She scrolls through it late at night, like someone looking at a family photo album," Brooke said grimly. "My cousin said Sophie isn't right in the head. She's a sadist. She physically gets off on destroying people." I handed the phone back. "Why are you helping me?" Brooke looked me dead in the eye. "Because my cousin told me the girl who dropped out is still in intensive therapy. She wakes up screaming from nightmares about Sophie's face. I refuse to sit back and watch you become another casualty." I let the silence hang for a moment. "I won't be a casualty." "I know," she said, standing up. "But when you need an army, you call me." She took three steps, then turned back around. "Oh, by the way. That forum post dragging your name? I already had my cousin forward the screenshots to the Seattle alumni groups. People over there are going to find out exactly what Sophie has been up to very shortly." I stared at her in shock. "When did you do that?" "First period." She walked away without looking back. "Stop trying to carry the world on your shoulders when people are trying to break your spine." By first period after lunch, a new post had erupted on the school forum. Sophie, Do You Have the Guts to Tell Us What You Did in Seattle? Brooke didn't post it. I did. I organized all the screenshots Brooke gave me and laid them out like a prosecutor presenting evidence to a jury. The Collection drive, her expulsion records from Seattle, the testimonies of the three victims. I kept the sensitive details redacted, but the message was devastatingly clear. The comment section immediately violently turned against her. "Holy shit, she's a serial stalker?" "No wonder she transferred. She was chased out of town." "What the hell is 'The Collection'? That is actual serial killer behavior." "I thought she was a sweet girl, turns out she's a poisoned apple." But there were still a few cowards defending her. "Riley is probably no angel either. Why would Sophie only target her?" "Do you have proof for any of this? Spreading rumors is a crime, you know." "Takes two to tango. Riley definitely provoked her." Harper was so furious she was ready to wage war in the comments, but I grabbed her wrist. "Ignore them." "But they're—" "They don't matter." I stared at the screen. "Only one person matters right now." Sophie. Half an hour after the post went live, she texted me. "Riley, are you investigating me?" Followed by a smiley face. "I'm so scared~ But honestly, what you found is just the tip of the iceberg. I have so many more pieces in my Collection. Do you want to see them?" I took a screenshot of the threat. Then I typed my reply. "The master password to your cloud drive. It's the anniversary of your dad's fatal car crash, isn't it?" She didn't reply. I had bet everything on that guess, and I won. I didn't actually know her password, but I knew her father had died in a horrific wreck when she was twelve. It was the deepest, most agonizing wound in her life. It was the one thing she refused to let anyone touch. I touched it. I pressed my thumb right into the wound. She panicked. That was all I needed. After the final bell, I marched straight to Mr. Brown's office. He was the school counselor and head of discipline. A forty-something, balding man with a beer belly that looked like he was six months pregnant. His greatest talent in life was sweeping problems under the rug. If kids got into a fistfight, he blamed both of them. If a girl got harassed, he told her to "dress more modestly." I blocked the doorway to his office. "Mr. Brown, I need to file a formal report." He paused mid-sip of his coffee, looking annoyed. "About what?" I shoved my phone in his face, displaying the forum posts and the group chats. "Sophie is spreading malicious sexual rumors about me, distributing unauthorized intimate photos, and operating a cyber-harassment ring involving over a hundred and eighty students." He set his mug down, frowning heavily. "Students have little disagreements all the time. I'll pull Sophie in for a chat tomorrow." "A chat?" "Riley, do not blow this out of proportion. It looks bad for the school's reputation." I stared at his shiny, balding forehead. It reminded me of a quote I read online: You can never wake a man who is only pretending to be asleep. "Mr. Brown," I said, projecting my voice so every single teacher in the faculty lounge could hear me clearly. "I am going to the police station right now. And when the detectives come to this school to investigate a massive digital sex crime, I will tell them that you explicitly instructed me 'not to blow it out of proportion'." All the blood drained from his face. A young female teacher sitting at the next desk nervously whispered, "Mr. Brown, this actually sounds incredibly serious..." He shot her a lethal glare, then turned back to me, forcing a plastic, terrified smile. "Riley, you misunderstood me. What I meant was—" "I understood you perfectly." I spun around and walked out the door. "And the cops will, too." As I marched down the hallway, I could hear him stammering behind me, "Wait—get back here!" I didn't stop walking. I left the campus, got on my bike, and rode straight to the local precinct. It was a ten-minute ride. I parked my bike outside and stared at the heavy glass doors for three seconds. The golden badge on the wall gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Grandpa always said, If you're in real trouble, you find the uniform. The badge hits harder than any fist. Inside the lobby, a young female officer looked up from the front desk, blinking in surprise. "You're here by yourself?" "Yes." "What do you need to report?" I slid my phone across the counter. "A student took non-consensual intimate photos of me, built a distribution network of over a hundred and eighty people to share them, and has engaged in severe cyberstalking. She also tracked me to my home address and sent me photos of my mother through my window." The officer picked up the phone, swiped through a few screenshots, and her entire demeanor shifted. "Wait right here." She disappeared into the back offices. Five minutes later, a man walked out. He looked to be in his forties, with a square, hardened jawline. He was wearing plainclothes, but he carried himself with the heavy, exhausted authority of a veteran detective. "Riley?" "That's me." "Come with me." I followed him into a cramped interrogation room. He offered me a chair and handed me a paper cup of water. "I'm Higgins. You can call me Officer Higgins." "Nice to meet you." He sat across the metal table, studying me. "You came down here alone?" "Yes." "Do your parents know you're doing this?" "Yes. My mom told me to come." He nodded slowly. "Walk me through it. From the beginning." I laid out the entire timeline. Sophie being my cousin, the bitter family inheritance drama, the three broken girls in Seattle, the twisted Collection drive, the locker room photos in the class chat, the escort rumors on the school forum, and finally, the creepy surveillance photos of my mom in our kitchen. I talked for nearly an hour. Officer Higgins didn't interrupt once. He just sat there, occasionally scribbling notes on a legal pad. When I finally finished, the room was quiet. He looked up. "Do you have the digital proof for all of this?" "I do." I unlocked my phone and walked him through the digital graveyard. The IP traces, the server logs, Sophie's threatening texts, the forum archives, the Seattle chat logs. He looked at every single image meticulously. When he was done, he leaned back. "You've got a very smart brother," he noted. I smiled faintly. "He's an MIT computer science major." Higgins nodded approvingly. "You mentioned she had three group chats?" "More than three." I remembered the data Alex had pulled the night before. "She set up five different encrypted groups across different grade levels. The total member count..." I took a breath. "Is over five hundred people." Higgins' pen stopped moving. He slowly looked up at me. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly heavy. "Over five hundred?" "Yes." He put the pen down, leaned back in his squeaky chair, and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then he stood up. "I'm taking this case." I was stunned. "Just... like that? You're taking it?" He raised an eyebrow. "What, did you want me to give you the bureaucratic runaround?" "No, no." I waved my hands quickly. "I just... I didn't expect it to be this fast." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Kid, do you have any idea what you just dropped on my desk?" "What?" "Cyberstalking, criminal harassment, and the mass distribution of non-consensual intimate imagery involving minors." He ticked the charges off on his fingers. "With a syndicate of over five hundred participants. This is a severe, high-level privacy violation and digital sex crime." He looked me dead in the eye. "With a case like this, we should be thanking you for walking through those doors." Stepping out of the precinct, the late afternoon sun practically blinded me. I stood on the concrete steps, taking a deep breath. The air smelled like exhaust fumes and freedom. My phone buzzed. A text from Harper. "How did it go?" "He took the case." She replied instantly. "HOLY SHIT! Seriously?!" "Seriously." She spammed my phone with a dozen firework emojis. Then she sent another text. "Oh, by the way! The video of you verbally destroying Mr. Brown in the faculty lounge got leaked to the forum! The whole school has seen it. The comments are treating you like a god!" I opened the school forum. The pinned post had changed. Riley Destroys Mr. Brown: 'The Cops Will Hear You Tell Me to Keep Quiet!' The shaky cell phone video showed me standing in the doorway, while Mr. Brown sat at his desk looking as pale as a ghost. The comment section had done a complete 180. "This girl is an absolute savage!" "Brown finally got checked! So satisfying to watch." "I stand with Riley. What Sophie did is legitimately evil." "Where are all the losers who were defending Sophie yesterday? Real quiet now, huh?" I watched the video loop once, then shoved the phone back into my pocket. I unlocked my bike and pedaled toward home. Riding down Elm Street, the autumn wind sent yellow leaves skittering across the pavement. A street vendor was selling hot pretzels on the corner, the smell of warm dough and melted butter filling the street. I pulled over and bought one. I sat on a wooden park bench, tearing off chunks of the steaming pretzel. It was warm. It was perfect. Grandpa was right. Life is like a hot pretzel. It might look twisted and salty on the outside, but if you bite down hard enough, it's warm and soft on the inside. My phone buzzed. A text from Alex. "I found something else. Sophie didn't just build five groups. She built a VIP group. Strictly for the most invasive, explicit material." "How many people?" "Twenty. Handpicked by her. People she trusted to keep their mouths shut." I chewed a piece of dough slowly. "Tyler is the admin of the VIP group," Alex's text read. I stopped chewing. "What did he post?" "Seven messages. The last three were private DMs sent directly to Sophie." Alex's digital tone felt heavy. "It was the raw, uncropped photos of you changing in the locker room." I stared at the empty street in front of me. The commuter train rattled by in the distance. The sunlight reflected off the steel tracks, blindingly bright. A memory flashed in my mind. Tyler, seven years old, grabbing my hand to pull me across this exact street. He had looked back at me and said, Riley, don't be scared. I've got you. His hand had felt so warm back then. Now, there was nothing left but cold, rotten betrayal. "Riley?" Alex called my phone directly, his voice tight. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." I tossed the rest of the pretzel into a nearby trash can. "Alex, I need you to do one more thing for me." "Name it." "Export every single chat log from that VIP group. Don't miss a single keystroke." "Done." I hung up, got back on my bike, and rode the rest of the way home. The wind whipping past my ears was freezing. But inside my chest, there was a fire burning hot enough to melt steel.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "440996", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel