The old train yard on the east side of town wasn't on any tourist map. Hell, even the locals barely remembered it existed. Rusted tracks twisted into the earth like skeletons of a forgotten time, and broken railcars sat like hunched animals waiting for a command that would never come.
Damon, Jasmine, and Marcus collapsed behind a rotting boxcar, their breath clouding the frozen air.
Jasmine kicked at a crushed beer can by her foot. "Well, that's it. Our lives are over. Colleges are gonna love that headline: 'Criminals in Training.'"
Damon leaned his head against the peeling metal, laughing bitterly. "I think 'Urban Legends in the Making' sounds better."
Marcus was already digging into his hoodie pocket, pulling out two Snickers bars and a half-crushed bag of Skittles. "If I'm going to be wanted by the FBI, I refuse to be hungry."
Damon eyed the candies. "Sharing is caring, you maniac."
Marcus grunted, tossing a Snickers at him. Jasmine shook her head, smiling in spite of herself, then fell serious.
"What's on that flash drive?" she asked.
Damon pulled it out slowly, feeling its weight, like it was loaded with dynamite instead of data. "Insurance, Marcus said."
Marcus shrugged, chewing loudly. "Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear hoodies two sizes too big."
Damon shoved the drive into his pocket again. Fear gnawed at him, but curiosity burned brighter. He had to know.
They had to know.
"Marcus," he said, his voice low, "you can crack it?"
Marcus's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "In my sleep."
The sky above them turned a deep, velvety blue as night finally claimed the town. Somewhere, far off, a siren wailed. The world was still spinning — but something under its skin had shifted, something deep and dangerous.
Jasmine sat cross-legged, her fingers drumming anxiously on her knees. "Who do you think sent the video?"
They all knew the easy suspects — disgruntled students, staff with grudges, kids who hated the perfect faces ruling the school. But this felt... bigger. Sharper. Planned.
Damon's mind wandered to the Unknown Number.
Congratulations. You're just getting started.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold rattled through him.
Marcus jumped to his feet, brushing dust off his jeans. "My place. We crack the drive there."
Damon and Jasmine followed without a word, their sneakers crunching over gravel and broken glass.
They crossed empty streets, moving like shadows. Midnight High loomed behind them, still blazing with emergency lights. Their entire world was burning — and they were the match and the gasoline.
Marcus's house was a tiny, crooked place squeezed between two abandoned lots. The porch light flickered weakly. Inside, it smelled like instant noodles and burnt wires.
Marcus's room was a madhouse of wires, monitors, keyboards, and towers stacked like Lego blocks. A poster of Einstein giving the middle finger hung proudly above his bed.
He plugged the flash drive into a Frankenstein computer setup that looked one wrong wire away from exploding.
Lines of code flew across the screen. Marcus's fingers danced like he was born for this.
Damon and Jasmine stood behind him, barely breathing.
The drive decrypted.
Files opened.
Hundreds of them.
Pictures. Videos. Emails.
All from inside Midnight High.
Principal Simms, pocketing donation money.
Coach Reynolds, gambling with school funds.
The PTA president, blackmailing parents for votes.
Brielle Montgomery — the queen herself — bribing teachers for better grades.
It was a slaughterhouse. Every sacred cow at Midnight High laid open and bleeding.
"Holy... mother... of Skittles," Marcus whispered.
Jasmine covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide, horrified. "This isn't just about a kiss... This is a complete takedown."
Damon's heart pounded. Someone had planned this. Not a prank. A revolution.
He clicked on a video file labeled RED HANDS.
It played grainy footage of Simms slipping an envelope to a man in a trench coat behind the school gym. The date stamp flickered: two weeks ago.
Money exchanged hands.
The screen glitched.
And for half a second — just a heartbeat — Damon thought he saw himself reflected in the window behind them.
Not the Damon standing there now.
Another Damon.
Watching.
Waiting.
He shook his head. Lack of sleep, adrenaline, fear — his mind was messing with him.
He closed the file.
Marcus whistled low. "This is a goddamn goldmine."
Jasmine was pacing now, her boots thudding across the carpet. "We have to do something. We can't just sit on this."
Damon rubbed his face hard. "What are you suggesting? We become vigilantes? Midnight's version of Robin Hood?"
Marcus grinned. "I always wanted to be a chaos goblin."
Jasmine spun on them both. Her voice cracked with something Damon hadn't heard in a long time — hope.
"If we're already screwed... why not burn it all down?"
Silence.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Burn it all down.
Expose everything.
Every lie.
Every secret.
Every betrayal.
They could tear down the golden facades, the fake smiles, the rotten system. They could build something better — or at least drag everyone down into the mud with them.
Damon's blood surged. His fists clenched.
He thought of Brielle's perfect face cracking like glass. Simms' bloated body scrambling in terror. The influencers, the bullies, the corrupt — all of them facing what they deserved.
"We'd need a plan," he said hoarsely.
Marcus cracked his knuckles. "Step one: stay invisible. Step two: control the leaks. Step three: enjoy the fireworks."
Jasmine's eyes glowed. For the first time since he'd known her, Damon thought she looked dangerous. And beautiful.
A storm wrapped in denim and eyeliner.
"But we do it on our terms," she said. "No innocent people get hurt. No cheap revenge. We're smarter than that."
Damon nodded slowly. His chest hurt with the weight of the decision — but also with the thrill of it.
It felt like being alive for the first time in years.
Marcus pulled up a new program on his computer.
A blank screen.
One line of text.
Enter Group Name:
He turned to Damon and Jasmine, grinning wickedly. "What should we call ourselves?"
Damon thought of the video title: RED HANDS.
He thought of the cracked faces at school.
Of the lies.
Of the dirty blood running under everything.
He smiled, slow and sharp.
"The Glitch."
Marcus typed it in.
The screen glowed.
WELCOME, GLITCH.
The game was on.
---
At the same moment, across town, in a house too large and cold for comfort, Brielle Montgomery sat on the edge of her designer bed, phone clutched in trembling hands.
Another anonymous message blinked on her screen.
They know everything.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror — the flawless mask she wore every day — and felt something deep and primal shriek inside her.
The walls were closing in.
And for the first time in her charmed, perfect life, Brielle Montgomery was scared.
Really, truly scared.
---
Back at Marcus's house, Damon scrolled through the files again, searching for something deeper, something worse.
He froze.
A folder labeled PROJECT AURORA.
Password protected.
Hard-locked.
Not school corruption.
Not scandals.
Something else.
Something bigger.
Marcus whistled when he saw it. "That... that's not normal school admin stuff. That's, like... government encrypted."
Damon's heart slammed against his ribs.
Jasmine leaned over, her hair brushing his arm. "We have to open it."
Marcus hesitated. "You don't open a file like that without expecting consequences."
Jasmine crossed her arms. "Since when did we care about consequences?"
Marcus laughed under his breath, dark and low. "You've been hanging out with Damon too long."
Damon leaned back in the chair, staring at the blinking folder.
PROJECT AURORA.
He didn't know what was inside.
He didn't know who else was watching.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Once they opened it, there would be no going back.
---