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Silas is ahead of me, striding through the school corridor like we’re storming a goddamn hostage situation. One hand up to his mouth, the other pointed at nothing in particular, his voice low and serious as he speaks into the imaginary walkie talkie pressed to his lips.

“Copy that, Eagle One. Target is in sight. Operation Bad Bitch is greenlit.”

I don’t even try to stop him.

I just shove my hands in my coat pockets and follow at a pace that saysI’ve done this before and I’ll probably survive it again. Which, statistically speaking, is true. Silas’s plans usually only end with minor concussions and once—once—a temporary tail. We don’t talk about the tail.

“You’re not even on a team,” I say lazily, because I know he wants me to saysomething, and I’m trying to preempt whatever cringe nonsense is loading behind his teeth.

Silas stops, spins, walks backward while keeping the imaginary radio pressed to his mouth like he's in aMission: Impossiblereboot no one asked for. “Negative, BigMeatEnergy, you’re my man in the chair. Eyes on me. Stay frosty.”

“I’m never frosty. I’m lukewarm at best.”

“Lukewarm is the new lethal.”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

He grins like the unholy menace he is, and keeps walking, this time with exaggerated tiptoe steps like we’re not in a building that’s been abandoned for months and echoing with every goddamn breath.

And yet... I don’t stop him.

Because his chaos fills the space in a way nothing else does. It distracts from how quiet Caspian’s gotten. How haunted Luna’s eyes are when she thinks no one’s watching. From the heaviness in Riven’s jaw when he’s trying not to snap at shadows.

Silas makes noise. Noise means we’re still here.

I round the corner and catch sight of Luna just ahead, her back to me, standing beside Ambrose, who's doing his best brooding gargoyle impression. She turns slightly, and that single glance—half a second, no more—hits me like static.

Every. Damn. Time.

I clear my throat and look away before she can catch me looking too long. Again.

And Silas? He’s now mid-crouch, still holding the fake walkie, making helicopter noises with his mouth.

This is my life.

This. Right here.

I sigh and mutter under my breath, “We’re all gonna die.”

From up ahead, Silas shouts, “Correction!We’re gonna diesexy.”

And Luna laughs—this low, genuine sound that wrecks the breath right out of me.

So yeah. I follow.

Silas hurls himself into the hallway like he’s been launched from a catapult, landing with a skid and throwing one arm out to block our path like he’s the final line of defense in a war we never signed up for. His other hand lifts in slow motion, fingerscocked, thumb raised.Fingerguns. His eyes narrow at me like we’re locked in some sacred, ancient standoff.

I stare at him. Flat. Unmoved. Every inch of me screaming,I will not give you the satisfaction.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. The standoff stretches, his arm still outstretched like he’s a damn security laser, waiting for me to trip the beam. My mouth parts to tell him he looks like a hallucination no one asked for, when—

Luna barrels in from behind, drops to the floor in a rolling somersault that’s somehow even more dramatic than his. She pops up beside him with matching fingerguns aimed directly at me, her grin unrepentant, chaotic, unhinged in the way that makes my ribcage tighten and my soul short-circuit.

My brain stops.

Not because she did it. No. Becauseshe committed. Lunaalwayscommits. There’s no halfway with her, not even when she’s mimicking Silas’s dumbass moves like she’s auditioning for a supernatural Bond film where the lead wears smudged eyeliner and starts wars with her smile.

Luna raises her eyebrows and flicks her wrists, mock-blasting me with her imaginary guns. “Pew pew, bitch.”