Clare stops humming somewhere between the third floor and the sixth. Now we stand in perfect silence, inches apart, staring at the elevator doors like they’re stupidly interesting. It’s a clunky industrial thing made out of raw steel and reinforced metal. It reeks of cigarettes and sweat in here, and the tiny fan embedded inside the ceiling is wheezing harder and harder the longer this takes. The buttons are all the same, except the seventh and eighth ones. The eighth is labeled gym/common room, and the seventh only works if you swipe a card in front of a tiny screen after you press it, which Clare did just before the doors hissed shut and what she said to Red burned itself into my skull. Why should I care, anyway? It’s not like Red deserves to be here. Sure, I kill people, but I kill bad people. She got actual people killed that day. Twice! She’s literally the kind of person I rip apart or laser-down and not think too hard about. So…why haven’t I yet? Why haven’t I grabbed her, pinned her down, and crushed her skull, too?

  I keep telling myself it’s because she’s a superhero, too. Not a great one, but still a superhero.

  I fold my arms and tap my finger against my bicep. Whatever. Red needed that reality check, anyway. She talks big, acts tough, but suddenly she gets all emotional as soon as you bring up her family? Whatever. I dig my nails hard into my arm. And now she’s gonna stomp around all day long, angry at the world because she’s a terrible superhero, and then she’s probably gonna snap at someone like Summer just to vent out all that coiled hatred inside of her. Whatever. I push my fingers through my hair, then quietly sigh, blowing coiled strands of blonde out of my face. I look at the floor, then the ceiling, and then the slow blink of one floor number and then the next. The noise from beyond the doors dims the higher up you go. The lowest floors are the loudest. Sex. Music. The clunk and grind of weights and human bodies. The next two floors are a little quieter, but not perfect. By the time the elevator is slowing down for the seventh, Red’s smoky stench is firmly stuck in the back of my throat, stubborn and nasty.

  “Whatever,” I mutter under my breath, then roll my tight shoulders.

  “What was that?” Clare asks me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Why’re we all the way up here? I thought freshmen would be way down below.”

  She waves her hand. “Some freshmen, sure. The normal human ones. The ones with weird, quirky powers who’ve put themselves in debt getting into this school.” She lowers her voice. “The junkies and the burnouts and the last-chance hopefuls live on the first two floors. Word of advice: avoid those floors. They will not look good for your social media campaign right now.” I’m about to ask her what campaign she’s even talking about, but she keeps speaking. “Third and fourth floors are general dorms for everyone else. Perfectly average, not too special. No legacy kids, though. Three or four people in one room. PU tries to diversify, so kids don’t cling to power groups and form weird cliques. But the seventh floor?” She brightens when the doors slide open. “Literal heaven, welcome home.”

  It feels…

  It feels like I’m standing in the long, barren hallways of an asylum.

  I’ve been inside a handful. I’ve thrown my fair share of off-their-rocker supervillains deep inside padded cells for the cameras before. Sterile. Silent. Perfectly white. I almost expect an orderly to wander over and hand me a plastic cup full of liquid drugs to relax my shoulders and mind. There aren’t any windows either. The lights keep it brightly lit, almost surgical and harsh, like they’re trying to make my skin as pale and translucent as possible. My feet press against the soft black carpet. Rooms span the entire hallway, each door locked shut, each one of them custom-made with superhero names, decals, lyrics, stickers—you name it, it’s on there. But they’re all steel. All heavy and soundproof. I can’t hear a single thing behind the white brick walls surrounding me. The longer I walk, the worse the ringing in my ears gets. Clare, purposeful as ever, walks ahead of me until she reaches the very end of the hallway. I stop a few feet away when I hear a door silently groan open, and a girl in the same white blouse and black pants combo as Clare stumbles into the hallway, half-naked, hair frazzled, glasses askew on her nose and panting hard. Sweaty. Bruises on her neck and collarbone. I frown. She blinks and looks at me, then awkwardly smiles, fixes her glasses, buttons her pants and strides toward the elevator as the steel door slams shut behind her.

  One jab of the elevator button, then twice more, each so hard it turns her fingertip white.

  She smells like sex and blood and agony. I can hear swollen joints grinding as she walks. No, limps.

  It’s subtle, and she’s doing a damn good job of hiding it, but not good enough. Not against someone like me, who’s watched enough men and women try to run—run so long and hard until their joints swell and they blow out their knee or twist their ankle, and force themselves to keep doing, dragging their broken bodies into corners to die like the crummy little vermin that they really are. Except she’s got a nasty bruise around her throat, tears in her eyes, ones that balance on her cheeks as she ducks into the elevators, then finally breaks down when the doors shut.

  The elevator carries her away before she can start wailing into her hands.

  I swallow, then look at Clare, “What was that?”

  “Hm?” she says, looking up from her tablet. “What was what?”

  I wave my hand down the corridor. “That chick with the bruise that looked like you, who was that?”

  She shrugs. “Beats me. It’s a pretty big school. You can’t expect me to know everyone.”

  “But—”

  “Listen,” she says quietly. “Thirty-two seniors live on campus. Five of those are on the first two floors. Ten more live on the floors below us. The ones here? They’re the good ones. Not the lucky ones. They’re the smart ones, the strong ones—the ones who are gonna get drafted really, really high. The ones who can wipe out a city block if they wanted to, and can probably also run circles around you if they wanted. So mind your business, Sam, and keep your head low, because there’s gonna be people who aren’t happy that a freshman gets to live on the seventh floor. So, like I said, you’ve got a pretty busy schedule, so let’s get out of this crummy hallway and crack open your new favorite place in school.” That smile doesn’t reach her lips. Her knuckles are white around the bar across the door.

  “Sure,” I say quietly, then glance over my shoulder. The entire hallway is still so, so deathly silent.

  It’s the first time in a while I haven’t been able to hear, well, anything through regular old brick walls. Again, I work my finger into my ear, trying to get rid of the ringing. Maybe I’ve got tinnitus from getting smashed through buildings since I was in middle school. And then I briefly pause before Clare opens the door, catching a glimpse of a camera right above my door. I stare at it, and it stares at me, its glossy black eye adjusting and moving.

  “Security reasons,” Clare says with a shrug.

  “We need security?” I ask her.

  Clare only smiles. “Even Ultra Force HQ has cameras.”

  She shoves open the steel door with her shoulder, and sunlight washes over both of us. I’m briefly blinded, and when my eyes finally adjust, I can only stare into the massive space in front of me, and I am talking huge. It’s way bigger than my place back home. The bed is easily twice the size of my old one, fitted with dark blue sheets and headed by fat golden pillows. I slowly walk inside, whispering, holy shit the longer I stand in the center of the room. A separate bathroom embedded in the wall. A full-length mirror, right beside a massive wardrobe filled with clothes that aren’t even mine, because I wear the same ripped jeans and loose t-shirts almost every single day. A skateboard leans against the wardrope, right beside a pair of skiis. And that’s not even the best part—I’ve got a costume. Another new costume. Hanging beside several jackets, with my golden boots standing next several other new pairs of shoes and…heels? Not like I’m gonna wear ‘em, anyway. I pull the costume out and stretch it. It gives a lot easier than the good stuff we’d been given yesterday, but hey, I’ll take it. And they’ve got my comic books stacked on several large shelves, right beside a TV on the wall, an L-shaped yellow couch in the corner, and there’s a desk with a brand new laptop, still in its box, with…my mom’s logo embossed on it, and a new phone! With mom’s blue and gold accessories. Case. Keychain. Charger. All with her golden symbol marked on them. Hm. I sling my costume over my shoulder and slowly look around, properly this time. Posters of mom. News headlines of mom. Photos of mom with the president and the mayor and the governor and dozens of other superheroes, none with her shaking hands, all of them with her chin high, smile tight, arms firmly behind her back as her golden cape hangs over her shoulders. Her feet are never fully on the ground, either. An inch, that's all it is, but it's enough to keep the bottom of her boots clean and her head above the people proudly standing beside her.

  I put my hands on my hips, and then take my costume off my shoulder and check the label under the collar. Guardian Designs. Right. Of course it is.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Heck, the gold and blue carpet I’m standing on is a large fuzzy symbol of her shield logo.

  Let me guess, I think to myself, then turn on the tv. It’s set to an old cartoon.

  Mom’s old cartoon.

  I turn it back off again, and find myself staring at my own reflection in the large plasma screen.

  “Well?” Clare says, clapping her hands together. “What do you think? Gorgeous, right! The design team spent months putting everything together. The floor?” She stamps her foot on the solid concrete. “The seventh floor is built tough. You can slam into it all you want. Shock-absorbing walls and floors. The windows? Tier-Five glass. Practically unbreakable crystal. And really expensive, so…maybe don’t fly through it too often. The bed? It reads your vitals, measures your sleep cycles, and it’ll tell you the best way to get some rest for the world’s future number one! And don’t even get me started on the mini-fridge. Don’t worry, it’s fully stocked with everything you like. Candy bars, cherry gummy bears, and I’m pretty sure they crammed a couple of energy drinks in there, too. Unfortunately, we don’t let people cook in their rooms anymore. One too many…physical mishaps.” She cups her mouth and says, “Superheroes, trust them to get a little freaky with hot objects, am I right?” She grins and nudges me. “Let me show you the marvel that is your new bathroom. It’s got everything. Sauna mode. Super-heater mode. Ice-recovery. You name it, we’ve got it.”

  “Why’s my mom’s face on…everything?” I ask quietly.

  Clare, already near the bathroom, pauses, waits, and then slowly spins around. “She’s your idol.”

  I spread my arms. “Yeah, but this is my room. Not hers.”

  She walks closer. “But data points show that you respond more kindly to stimuli you’re used to compared to stimuli you’re not. You’re a keep-it-simple-stupid, kinda gal. Plus these are all your posters from home.” I frown, because—fuck—she’s right. How did they even— “We’re just trying to make you feel at home, is all. It’s cozy.”

  “It’s weird,” I say. “Now my mom’s gonna be staring at me every single second of the day.”

  “She’s Guardian,” Clare says. “I think a lot of women would want her staring at them all day.”

  “She’s my mom!”

  “And also the greatest superhero ever,” Clare says. “We call this room the Guardian suite for a reason. It’s all yours, honey. We designed it according to your data. Heck, do you smell that, too? That scent from your fan?”

  I look up at the lazily spinning ceiling fan, then frown and whisper, “Is that—”

  “Yep!” she says. “No idea how they did it, but now your room smells like home. Literally.”

  I look at her. “Clare, this is…”

  “Great?” she asks, smiling wider. “I am so jealous of—”

  “I hate this.”

  She blinks, opens her mouth, shuts it. “Oh,” she says, then looks around. “What… Um…” She shuts her eyes, then shakes her head. “Well, that’s fine. We can always change it up a little the longer you live here. We—”

  “None of this is mine,” I say, spreading my arms. “Jesus Christ, how long have you people been—”

  “It’s data, Sam,” she sighs, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “Data we obviously got fucking wrong.” She rolls her shoulders. “But it’s fine. Totally fine. You’ll just send me a message of everything you want changed, and hopefully we can foot the bill and try to do your bidding.” I tilt my head at that. She smiles. “Sorry. I meant do what you ask. I’ve been up since four in the morning. My head is all fuzzy. Now, little lady, let’s get you fed and showered, because you’ve got a two-hour gym session in forty minutes, an online interview after lunch, and then I’m gonna need to get your hair done and your nails, too, because honey, you really need some help in the fashion department. I’ve also got a tailor ready for around four o’clock so we can figure out what you’re wearing this week.”

  I fold my arms. “What if I don’t wanna do any of that shit and instead just wanna sleep today?”

  “Hangover?” she asks me, then waves her hand at the bathroom. “Painkillers are in the cabinet.”

  “No, Clare,” I say. “I don’t want to do any of that because it sounds so lame.”

  She stares at me, tablet pressed against her chest. For several moments, neither of us moves. I keep my arms folded. Clare keeps her face stony and straight and eerily blank. Clare sighs through her nose, not even blinking, then lowers her arms and sets the tablet on a coffee table with tiny golden saucers with mom’s face on them. She pulls the pencil out of her hair, letting chestnut-brown waves spill down her shoulders. She works her fingers through it, then unbuttons her blouse until her cleavage is out, sweat shining on her chest. Clare walks closer. Her heels are loud against the floor as soon as she steps over the carpet. Closer. And closer. Until I have to back up until my spine is pressing against the door. Now I can smell the light coffee on her breath, smell the gum she’s got in her front pocket and her cherry red lipstick. Cherry. Right. Of course it’s cherry. I swallow. She slams both of her hands either side of my head and looks down at me. I flinch. She stares. A fat, solid lump forms in my throat. Clare leans in, slow at first, taking her time, looking at my nose, then my lips, and then my eyes, and finally faster when she puts her lips to my ear and breathes. A chill crawls down my neck. My heart thumps harder against my ribcage.

  “Sam,” she whispers. I clench my jaw, try not to breathe. Again, that chill slides down my neck. “I worked really, really hard to make this work.” Her lips brush against my ear. I shut my eyes. My fingers press into the steel door, almost denting it. “And I need you to work with me here, alright? I’m in a pinch. If you’re not happy about anything I do, then I’m fucked, and I really can’t afford that now, then I’ll get cut from this program, and then it’ll be someone…less than me poking around you all the time, learning you inside and out. Do you want that, Sam? Do you want someone else getting close to you, learniing you, keeping all your filthy, filthy secrets?” Lips on my neck. Gooseflesh on my arms. I try to move. Her teeth find the soft flesh just under my jaw. I tense as she gently gnaws. I try not to swallow or move as her fingers slide through my hair, down my neck, grabs my hand and wrenches it over my head. Her fingers curl around mine, her other hand wandering down my sweaty spine. She slides a gentle finger through the coils of hair over my ear. “Listen,” she whispers. “I know you might not like it, but I need you to like it.” Her leg presses against mine, and slowly, so does her body. “I’ll make this all work out. Ok?” She kisses my neck. Icy sweat rushes down my spine. I try to move again. And this time, she takes my chin in her fingers and tilts my head toward hers. Lips close. Eyes on me. Blood screaming in my ears. “I just need you to keep trusting me, and this is gonna be the best…very best four years of your life.” I swallow. She smiles. “Partners, Sam?”

  “What’re you—” My chest heaves. My throat dries. I shake my head. “Get off me," I breathe.

  Clare doesn’t move. She’s all I can see, all I can feel pressing me against the cold steel door. “Do you like it when they fight back?” she whispers. “Do you like it when they run? When they scream and beg and cry? I can do that, Sam. Just say the word, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. Just…be gentle. Humans break easily. I’ll do my best.”

  “Clare, I don’t—” I swallow. Lick my lips. Try to gather my racing thoughts. “I need to… I need—”

  “I know everything you need,” she says quietly. “I know everything you could possibly ever want, Sam. I have your needs met. And more, Sam. So much more.” She pulls my face closer, lips barely apart. I feel them brush against mine as she whispers, “Work with me, and let’s be the best. The best to ever do it. So fucking good everyone in this entire fucking university licks the ground you walk on. The faculty. The students. You want that power, Sam, you want people to look at you.” Her chest presses against mine. Her fingernails bend as they sink into my skin. My breaths are short. My body tense and back sweaty. “And they will. They’ll all know your name. They’ll know who you are. Your time is now. Sentry’s era is now. And I can make it happen. We can make it happen. I just need you to work with me. I just need you to listen to me. But if you want…” Closer. So close her nose is against mine. “I’ll do everything you ask me to. I’ll beg. I’ll scream. I’ll run. But only if you promise me we’ll be the best to ever do it.”

  We stand pressed against the steel door. My chest rises and falls, and so do my shoulders. I blink slowly. Clare hasn’t in minutes. She bits her tongue, smiles, pulls my face closer, then turns her head to the side and lightly kisses my neck, my jaw, my cheek— And then she stops, pulls herself off me, and leaves me panting against the door, heart racing, sweat wet on my face as she knots her hair, sticks the pencil back inside of it, and picks up her tablet. I get my balance. Barely. I leave finger-like dents in the steel. Run a hand through my hair, then knuckle my cheek and palm my throat, smearing lipstick across my throat and face. Cherry. I blink. Then look up at Clare again.

  “I’ve gotta run,” she says, then smiles at me. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Eat and shower, OK?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  Fuck. No, wait.

  I grab her wrist when she opens the door. She looks at my fingers, then at my face.

  Silence. Long, sluggish, fat silence.

  I swallow again, then my fingers slip off her wrist.

  Clare smiles at me, then strides into the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind her.

  And I’m left with my back pressing against the door, still panting, still dizzy, still with a heartbeat so loud it rings in my ears—and mom stares at me from across my room, arms folded, smile tight, as she stands behind the little kid who used to wear knee pads and shorts and goggles. I shut my eyes and hang my head, then quietly swear.