Page 35

The bus rumbled down the darkened highway, its passengers lulled into a tired stupor after the absolute disaster of the food fight.

My head pressed against the window, eyes half-lidded as streetlights flickered past. The day had already been exhausting enough.

I ran a hand through my hair and scowled when something crumbled between my fingers.

Dried bread? Great. The food fight had officially followed me into the night.

We’re stopping for the night,” Mr. Dax announced over the engine’s low hum, making no effort to hide the defeat in his voice—or the sting of a personal vendetta gone cold. “Grab your stuff, don’t wander off, and for the love of all that’s decent, no more incidents.

The bus groaned to a stop. I stretched my legs and stepped out, only to see Ethan standing stiffly by the entrance, his brows drawn together.

“You good?” I asked, suspicious of his sudden stillness.

Ethan blinked, his eyes scanning the area before he shook his head. “Yeah, it’s just—” His gaze darted around. “I recognize this place.”

I traced his gaze to the road—a cold stretch that never seemed to end—and a town that looked too alive for such a dead place.

He didn't add anything to it. He just watched the area for a second too long and sighed.

A quiet, weary kind of sigh—the kind that carried years, not seconds.

His eyes lingered like they were trying to remember something the rest of him had already forgotten. Maybe a smell, a voice, a version of himself that used to stand there.

Then, without a word, he turned away. Like whatever answer he was hoping for had chosen silence instead.

Today's motel slumped on the side of the road like it had given up on life years ago. The neon sign buzzed and flickered, casting sickly red light on the cracked pavement. “VACANCY” stuttered between full illumination and a half-dead version that read “VAN Y.” The glass door leading to the lobby was smeared with something I didn’t want to think about.

“This is the best we can afford,” Ethan finally muttered, masking whatever had unsettled him under his usual lazy grin. “Perfect for a bunch of high schoolers surviving on fumes.”

I rolled my eyes and trailed after the group inside, the chatter around me fading into white noise.

The lobby smelled faintly of old carpet and air freshener that had resigned from its job ages ago. A bored-looking receptionist handed out a bunch of mismatched keys like they were candy.

My room and Ethan’s landed in my palm.

We trudged down a dim hallway lit by flickering bulbs, the walls lined with faded wallpaper that had probably been stylish in the '90s. I stepped into our room first, barely glancing around before tossing my bag on the bed closest to the window.

Without a word, I stormed toward the bathroom, the need to put a locked door between us suddenly urgent.

The shower water barely trickled, the pressure was miserable, but I was too exhausted to care.

The heat soothed my aching muscles as I scrubbed the remnants of the day off my skin.

A soggy bread crumb swirled down the drain.

Fantastic. By the time I stepped out, towel around my neck, Ethan was already sitting at the small motel desk, typing furiously on his laptop.

The dim glow from the screen cast sharp shadows across his face, his expression oddly focused.

“What are you doing?” I asked, drying my hair.

Ethan didn’t look up. “Fixing the Dragon Park edits.”

I stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.

The edits were fast—too fast. His fingers flew across the keyboard with an almost inhuman precision, movements crisp and deliberate.

The footage became sharper, the transitions seamless, and the narrations (Joy and me) synced with eerie perfection.

It wasn’t just a fix—it was a transformation.

Within the hour, the whole thing had changed. The park’s footage now looked cinematic, the once-messy pacing now flowing effortlessly. A strange tug settled in my chest as I watched the clips fall into place like they’d always belonged that way.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I muttered, still processing everything.

Ethan leaned back, stretching his arms. “Yeah, well. Maybe I wanted to.”

He clicked a few buttons, then shot me a side glance. “I sent it to Mrs. Catherine.”

My stomach dropped. “Through my email?”

“Obviously.” Ethan grinned. “Your name’s already attached to the project. Figured it’d be easier. Plus, she hates me.”

I groaned. “You could’ve asked.”

“And you would’ve said no.”

I opened my mouth to argue but then closed it. He wasn’t exactly wrong. I would have preferred Mr. Dax’s email instead.

Ethan closed the laptop and stretched again, utterly unbothered. “Now, we wait.”

I was already half-asleep when I heard the familiar rustling. Normally, this would be the part where Ethan flung open the window and disappeared into the night, leaving me with no choice but to follow and make sure he didn’t do anything reckless enough to get us all expelled.

But tonight, it was different.

“Ghost boy,” Ethan’s voice was unusually soft.

I groaned and turned, barely cracking an eye open. Ethan stood near the window, one hand shoved into his hoodie pocket, the other resting on the sill.

“Will you sneak out with me?” He wasn’t smirking or taunting, wasn’t throwing out some reckless challenge.

He was asking.

I sat up slowly, rubbing at my eyes. The neon motel sign pulsed behind him, staining the side of his face red. His usual confidence still lingered, but something else simmered beneath it—something tense, something unreadable.

“You’re actually giving me a choice?”

Ethan shrugged. “Figured I’d try something new.”

I stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “What do you want?”

“I want to show you something.”

That caught me off guard. Ethan never ‘showed’ me anything. He just dragged me into his nonsense.

He turned back toward the window, his shoulders stiff under his hoodie. The glow outside flickered against his expression, making it unreadable. For once, he wasn’t all bravado.

I sighed, throwing the blanket off. “Fine. But if we get caught, you’re explaining it to Mr. Dax.”

Ethan smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Deal.”

Without another word, he climbed out the window, and I—against my better judgment—followed.