Mordred’s Pov:
The tires scread against the asphalt as I gunned the bike out of the hospital parking lot, the engine’s roar drowning out the echo of Kianna’s voice in my head.
"Stop acting like my guardian." " Stop ssing with my friendships." These two words made feel like shit.
She even called security on and made him haul out like so thug. And what even hurt the most, is her cold and defiant eyes as she hugged that snake Lysander.
After everything—after I’d begged her not to go, after I’d risked my neck a dozen tis to keep her safe—she’d chosen him. Defended him and pushed away.
Fury boiled in my veins, hot and thick, making my grip on the handlebars white-knuckled.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, November wind whipping through my jacket like icy knives.
Ho? Screw that. The empty house would just amplify the rage, the walls closing in with mories of her—wet from the shower, laughing in my bed and her body arching under mine.
No. That’s not what I need now, I need noise and distraction. Sothing to numb the betrayal gnawing at my chest.
I veered off the main drag, tires kicking up gravel as I headed for Jax’s place. He was one of my old crew from campus days, before the deals and before the shadows swallowed my life whole.
Always throwing these half-assed house parties on weekends, or whenever the hell he felt like it.
Tonight? Perfect timing. I could hear the bass thumping from two blocks away,lights spilling out the windows like the house was on fire from the inside.
I parked the bike crooked on the lawn, killed the engine, and stord up the steps.
The door swung open before I could knock, It was Jax, red-eyed and grinning like an idiot with a beer in each hand.
"Mordred! Man, you look like shit. Get in here—shots are flowing!" He squealed.
I snatched one of the beers without a word and shoved past him into the chaos. The living room was packed: bodies grinding to so shitty EDM track, red Solo cups littering every surface and the air was thick with smoke and sweat.
Laughter exploded from a group playing beer pong in the corner and a couple making out against the wall like the world was ending.
I waded through it all, beelining for the kitchen where the hard stuff waited. Jax trailed , slapping my back. "What’s eating you, bro? Girl trouble? That Kianna chick everyone’s whispering about?"
"Shut up," I growled, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the counter and pouring a generous slug into a cup.
The burn hit my throat like fire, but it didn’t touch the storm inside. I downed another, leaning against the fridge as the room spun a little.
Then Kianna’s face flashed—tears on her cheeks as she hugged Lysander, her voice sharp when she told to leave. She’s mad at herself for not trusting him?Bullshit. I’d warned her, Lysander was rotten and Trent’s lies at the station proved it.
And now a sniper? Convenient as hell that he "took the bullet" for her. The hero acts to win her over. I poured a third shot, the whiskey settling heavy in my gut.
Half-drunk already? Close enough. The edges of my vision softened, but the anger didn’t.
It festered, twisting into sothing darker. How long had I been playing protector? Since the mansion incident, pulling her out of that firestorm, patching her up and letting her in.
And for what? To get security called on like I was the threat?
"Mordred, you good?" So girl I vaguely recognized from Jax’s circle sidled up, her hand on my arm.
She’s Blonde, wearing a short skirt with her eyes glassy from whatever she was on. "You look like you need to dance it off." She added, trying to drag into the chaos.
But I shrugged her off. "Not tonight." She pouted and vanished into the crowd.
I wandered to the back porch, the cool night air a slap after the stuffy house. A few smokers huddled around a fire pit, passing a joint.
I dropped into a chair, bottle in as I stared at the flas. What now Mordred? Are you going to drink yourself to sleep because of a girl? I thought to myself. But Kianna wasn’t just a girl. She’s the one I love with my whole goddamn heart.
And she’d chosen to believe him over . The more I think of it, the more I want to grab that smallish bastard by the neck and choke him to death for playing gas with . It felt like a knife twist.
The whiskey blurred ti. An hour? Two? The party ramped up inside with music pounding through the walls. I was halfway through the bottle now, the world tilting on its axis when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Jax or one of the guys—but I ignored it.
Let it ring, let everything burn.Then suddenly, a shadow fell over . I looked up, squinting through the haze. It was so random guy I don’t recognize. He’s tall and had his hood up with his face half-hidden in the firelight’s flicker.
He leaned in close, but sothing was off about his posture. Then he whispered, breath hot against my ear:
"How does it feel, to lose sothing you love to soone else? This is just the beginning."
The words hit like a gut punch. I surged up, grabbing for his collar, but the whiskey slowed —my hand swiped air.
He slipped back into the shadows, vanishing through the side gate before I could stagger after him.
I was weak, too damn weak from the booze and the rage. I cursed, slamming my fist into the porch railing. Splinters bit my knuckles, but the pain was nothing compared to the echo in my head.
Lose sothing I love? Kianna. He ant Kianna. But who exactly is this guy? Anonymous? Or one of his puppets?
I stumbled back inside, the party felt like a swirling ss. Faces blurred—laughing, shouting and pressing in. I needed to go ho and sleep this off.
"Hey, big guy, you okay?" A voice cut through the din, It was soft and feminine.
I turned with my vision doubling. A brunette girl with freckles, wearing a cropped top and jeans—steadied with a hand on my arm.
"You look like you’re about to face-plant. Need help getting ho?" She asked, almost like a complaint more than a question.
I mumbled sothing—maybe a no, maybe a yeah. She laughed, light and easy, looping her arm through mine. "Co on, I’ve got a car. Can’t let you ride that bike like this."
The drive was foggy. Streetlights streaking past, her chatting about the party and so band she liked. I leaned my head against the window, the whisperer’s words gnawing at .
This is just the beginning. Beginning of what? Losing her for good? There’s no way.
When we reached ho, She helped up the steps to my door, key fumbling in the lock.
Inside, the house spun. The last thing I saw was her taking out her phone to do sothing I couldn’t catch on. Texting soone? Or maybe making a call.
I collapsed on the couch—or was it the bed? Darkness swallowed whole and finally ended my terrible day with a tired sleep.
The next morning, the sunlight stabbed through the blinds like knives, straight into my skull.
I groaned, rolling over as the sheets tangled around my legs like they were trying to hold captive. My mouth tasted like ash and regret, a bitter mix of stale whiskey and bad decisions.
I tried stretching, that’s when it hit . My head began aching terribly. It was pounding a relentless rhythm behind my eyes—boom, boom, boom—too much liquor, not enough sense, and definitely not enough water to chase it down.
What the hell had happened last night? Fragnts floated in, jagged and incomplete, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting a man I barely recognized.
I sat up slowly, the room spinning in protest, a carousel of nausea that made grip the edge of the mattress to steady myself.
Clothes were scattered across the floor like casualties of war—my jeans in a heap by the door whilst my shirt was balled up near the foot of the bed.
And then I saw it: a woman’s high heel, black with a strappy design, lying on its side near the nightstand. Next to it, a tube of pink lipstick, cap off, as if it’d been tossed there in haste.
Panic iced my veins, freezing in place. Who the fuck was she? Where was she now? Had I...?
Oh no, I think so. Then almost like a flash, mories of last night flickered to life, dim and hazy through the fog of hangover.
The party at Jax’s place, the smokers, the couples I saw making out, holding a bottle of whiskey as I drown myself in alcohol then the important part—The whisperer.
The one who asked how it felt to lose soone you love to another person. But why can’t I rember this person’s face? Maybe I didn’t see it, or even if I did I was too drunk to catch on.
Then finally the girl who brought ho. I recalled blacking out right after hitting the bed or the couch. But anything else after? I couldn’t recall.
If that was the case, then why is her stuff all over this place like that ? Then before I could question myself any further my phone buzzed on the pillow beside , the screen cracked like a spiderweb from whenever I’d dropped it.
Dozens of notifications lit up the display—texts from Jax and the guys, tags from people I barely knew and alerts from that goddamn Anonymous forum.
My stomach dropped like a stone into a well. With trembling fingers, I unlocked it and thumbed through the chaos.
Then the top post hit like a freight train. It says, "Mordred’s Wild Night: Cheating on Kianna Already? Heartbreak or Habit?"
Posted by Anonymous, of course—the faceless coward who’d been tornting us for weeks. I scrolled down, heart pounding harder than my headache.
Photos loaded one by one, each one a nail in the coffin. First, at the party, red cup in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused, a sloppy grin on my face as I leaned against the wall. The brunette girl was there, arm linked through mine with her head on my shoulder like we were old lovers.
Another shot: us outside, her helping inside her car with her arms wrapped tight around my waist. The angle was perfect—intimate and damning.
Then the worst ones: the bedroom. My bedroom, her in my bed with sheets pulled low to expose just enough skin to suggest everything and she was smirking at the cara with a knowing look.
Then another was , passed out beside her with my shirt off and one arm draped across the pillow, making it look like we’d spent the night tangled up in each other.
"Fuck!" I hurled the phone across the room; it smacked against the wall with a crack and clattered to the floor.
No. Hell no. I didn’t—we didn’t. I’d blacked out, sure, the whiskey hitting like a hamr after the emotional gut-wrench of the hospital.
But I knew nothing happened.My body would’ve rembered, even if my mind was fuzzy. She must’ve staged it all—propped up, snapped the pics while I was dead to the world and then slipped out like a ghost.
But who was she? A random party girl with a grudge? Or worse—a plant, sent by Anonymous to twist the knife deeper?
The comnts flooded in below the post, hundreds already, each one a fresh stab. I picked up the phone again, screen now with a new fracture, and scrolled through the vitriol.
It’s top ones says,
"Wow, Mordred’s trash. Dumps Kianna for a random after seeing her with Lysander? Pathetic. Guy can’t handle a little competition."
" Habit, def. Guy’s a player through and through. Kianna deserves better than this sleaze."
" Heartbreak? More like revenge. I heard he stord out of the hospital—jealous AF over her hugging Lysander after the shooting. Lol, karma bites hard."
I clenched my fists, how dare they. Judging over sothing I didn’t even do. All of this because of that bastard, Lysander. The more I scrolled through, the more my heart began bumping faster.
Criticism piled on, tags pinging my na like digital bullets in a firing squad. My rep on campus—already shady from the rumors of my family’s "connections" and my own run-ins with trouble was shredded beyond repair.
People who’d never t were now dissecting my life,judging and condemning . But the worst part? Kianna, she’d see this. After the fight at the hospital, after she’d pushed away and chosen to believe Lysander’s innocent act,yeah—she might believe it.
The thought twisted like a blade in my chest, sharper than any hangover. We’d crossed lines, shared monts that felt real and vulnerable. And now this lie could erase it all.
I staggered to the bathroom, the floor cold under my bare feet, and splashed water on my face from the sink.
The mirror showed a wreck staring back—bloodshot eyes rimd with dark circles, stubble rough like sandpaper, a bruise blooming on my forearm from... the ride ho? Or falling into bed? No ti for self-pity.
I gripped the counter, knuckles white, breathing deep to steady the rage building like a storm.
Anonymous did this. No doubt, he set up the girl at the party, tid the whisper to rattle , then orchestrated the photos and the upload.
They even tied it to the hospital—how the hell did they know about the hug? About storming out? Spies everywhere? Soone at the party watching? Or Lysander himself, feeding info to cover his tracks.
The sniper shot yesterday was too convenient, grazing his arm while "saving" her.Trent’s involvent at the station scread coordination. And now this ?
Whoever this anonymous is, either a genius or so sort of a psycho who’s obsessed with ruining my life. But why?
Rage surged, white-hot and consuming. I slamd a fist into the sink counter, pain exploding up my arm, grounding in the mont.
"You’re dead," I snarled at my reflection, voice low and lethal. "When I find you, Anonymous—whatever dark hole you’re hiding in—I’ll be the one to end it. Slowly, and piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but regrets."
I grabbed my phone from the floor, ignoring the endless buzz of new notifications, and dialed Jax. He picked up on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Mordred? Man, it’s early. What..."
"The party last night," I cut in, pacing the room now, boots forgotten as I wore a path in the carpet. "Who was the brunette? The one who ’helped’ ho? What’s her na? Or anything—think."
Jax yawned, the sound grating on my nerves. "Brunette? Dude, there were like five brunettes here. I recall you leaving with so chick, yeah—she said she knew you or sothing. Didn’t catch her na. It looked like she was from off-campus, maybe. Why? She stole your wallet or what?"
"Nothing. Forget it." I hung up, frustration boiling over. No leads there, Jax was reliable in a fight, but details weren’t his strong suit.
I needed better intel. Dad’s contacts? Hell no—he’d already gotten wind of the arrest from the lawyer, and the last thing I needed was a lecture on "family reputation" or how I was letting emotions cloud my judgnt.
His eyes were everywhere, informants on payroll in every corner of the city, but calling him in would an admitting weakness. No, I’ll try my own network first.
I texted my hacker buddy, fingers flying over the cracked screen: Can you try tracing the IP on the latest Anonymous post. The one with my pics. Deep dive—origins, any linked accounts or patterns. I owe you big."
He replied almost imdiately: "On it. Give a few hours. This guy’s slippery, he has proxies everywhere last ti I checked."
Good enough. Then, the whisperer. Faceless in my mory, but the words were too personal, too pointed. Knew about Kianna, about the "loss" to Lysander.
Had to be soone close to the circle. Lysander himself? Too obvious—he was playing the wounded hero now. Trent? That buzz-cut asshole fits the profile. He’s sneaky and connected through his "loaded dad."
Or Maddox, the entitled lacrosse prick, stirring shit for fun, getting back at Kianna for rejecting him. He’d bullied her at the lockers yesterday, reveling in the rumors. Wouldn’t put it past him to escalate.
I dressed quick—jeans that slled faintly of smoke, a black hoodie to blend into the shadows and boots laced tight for whatever ca next.
The house felt empty, echoes of Kianna’s presence mocking : a forgotten hair tie on the dresser, the faint scent of her shampoo in the air. I shoved it down, focusing on the hunt.
In the garage, my bike glead under the fluorescent light, mocking my hangover with its sleek unyielding fra. I swung a leg over the leather seat and reached for the helt.
Just then my phone dinged again, this ti it was a private ssage from an unknown number with no profile pic.
It says:"Enjoy the spotlight, Mordred. She’s next."
Obviously anonymous. He’s now
taunting directly huh. My grip tightened on the handlebars making my knuckles ache.
She’s next? The threat hung heavy, fueling the fire. I revived the engine, the roar echoing off the walls like a battle cry with its tires screeching as I peeled out into the street.
Ga on. I’d hunt them down—trace every digital footprint, shake down every contact and expose every dirty secret.
And when I had them cornered, begging for rcy... rcy wouldn’t be in my vocabulary. Not after this shit.
But first—Kianna. I had to warn her about this setup, explain the photos were fake, that I hadn’t betrayed her.
If she’d even listen after last night, after I’d grabbed her wrist too hard and let the jealousy spill over.
The city blurred past in a rush of concrete and neon, wind cutting through my hoodie like accusations from every direction. This wasn’t just a ga anymore. It was a war. And I intended to win, no matter the cost.
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