Jared still held Alana's hand tightly. Beside him, Ardiel trailed closely, like a scared pup glued to his protector's side.
Eyes followed them the moment they crossed the threshold into the warehouse—hungry eyes, sharp with judgment. The first-year delinquents, thick as wolves, watched Ardiel like he was prey lost in the wrong forest. But none of them made a move. Not with Jared 'Flash' Gray walking beside him. And especially not with Alana Morningstar in his grasp.
The presence of Royal Hound High's first-year queen was enough to turn heads. And Jared's reputation was enough to keep those heads from getting too bold.
The three of them stepped into the warehouse.
It was a place heavy with history and dust—an old junk storage facility packed with abandoned desks, broken computer screens, rusting metal shelves, cracked tiles, loose wiring, and the ghosts of years gone by. It felt like it held more secrets than the school itself.
From the entrance, the second floor was clearly visible—a platform made of steel and wood, sagging under the weight of years of trash. But today, it was a stage.
Six figures stood atop it.
The leaders of the Wolves—the feared rulers of Classes A to D. All present, save one.
Elijah "Snake" Williams stood with one boot on a splintered table like a general surveying a battlefield. His cold gaze swept over the warehouse with sharp calculation. Beside him, tall and stone-faced, was Sammy 'Ice' Drinkbottom, his right hand.
Next stood Luke 'Inferno' Garcia, wiry and tense, looking like a boxer halfway between a smoke and a fight. Clinging to him was his infamous girlfriend, Sherry 'Lady' Evans, sharp-eyed and tattooed, her presence like a blade dressed in perfume. She scanned the warehouse with quiet menace, daring anyone to meet her gaze.
To the far right stood Jamiron 'Bubbles' James, bald, brown-skinned, and built like a human wrecking ball. His black shirt clung to his muscles, making him look like a linebacker among wolves. He was Jared's right-hand man—ride or die.
And on the left wall, lounging on a drum stool behind the drum set, was Alexander 'Pasta' Papilon. Long dark braided hair, light brown skin, scruffy beard, and half-lidded eyes—he looked stoned, but no one in their right mind underestimated him. Dressed in a riot of rainbow colors, faded jeans, and battered white sneakers yellowed with age, he looks like a man who's stumbled out of a reggae concert rather than a high school deputy. Deputy of Class 1-D, second only to Arlo.
But the one who should've commanded the center of that balcony... was missing.
Arlo 'Lunatic Iron Fist' Davis.
Leader of the Wolves.
Unhinged and untouchable.
Nowhere in sight.
Jared froze at the base of the stairs, debating. Should he bring Alana and Ardiel up there? The balcony wasn't meant for outsiders—especially not her.
But—
"Yo, Jared! You're late!" Jamiron's booming voice echoed off the warehouse walls. His scowl deepened. "Get your ass up here already! Everyone's waiting for ya!"
Jared scanned the room. He saw the uncertainty in Alana's eyes, the way she squeezed his hand tighter. Ardiel pressed closer to his side, visibly shaking.
He took a breath. "Here we go," he muttered.
Then he tugged Alana's hand and gestured for Ardiel to follow.
They walked through the crowd of Wolves—dozens of first-year delinquents. The air felt thicker with every step. All around them, whispers broke out.
Why's Alana with Jared?
Is that the Morningstar girl?
What's that nerd doing here?
That fat kid again? Why is he back?
Yo, why Flash bringing them up there?
But none of them dared act.
The second floor of the warehouse was a little more spacious than the first. Still cluttered with junk, but the kind of junk that had character. Three large, worn sofas lay in the middle—fabric torn and worn thin, but the cushions still looked soft enough to sink into. Around them were old wooden school chairs, the kind teachers used to yell from, and a few folding metal ones, rusted stiff at the hinges.
Rusty cabinets leaned against cracked walls, their doors barely hanging on. Cupboards with missing legs were propped up by bricks. Dust-covered paintings hung crooked or sat forgotten in corners. A tall, lopsided standing lamp stood like a tired sentinel. Two vintage bicycles with flat tires rested near the back, and a bulky tube TV—ancient but still standing proud on a scuffed-up cupboard table—looked like it might still work if you gave it a slap.
A punching bag hung from the ceiling, bruised from years of use, and a row of barbells sat on the floor like they were waiting for someone to prove something. In front of the TV, a square table was littered with cigarette packs, overflowing ashtrays, and half-empty beer bottles—some fresh, some that had been sitting around for days.
The walls were alive with graffiti. Layers of names, quotes, curses, and messages—scrawled by ghosts of students who once called this place their second home. Seniors. Dropouts. Alumni. Rebels. Maybe legends of some long-forgotten crew that once ruled this place. You could feel the history bleeding out of the paint.
On the center wall, two electric guitars and a bass guitar hang like trophies. On the front left wall, a well-used drum kit sat in neatly arranged, waiting for the next session. All of it still in decent shape. Still loved.
In the far-right corner stood a tall cabinet stacked with empty liquor bottles—top-shelf stuff, cheap city beer, imports no one sells anymore unless you knew where to look. Beside it was an old jukebox that still lit up when you tapped it just right, playing dusty tunes with worn-out charm.
Then there was the door in the back left. A sheet of zinc nailed above it read: "Only Wolves Are Allowed to Use This Toilet." Another sign at the bottom screamed in bold, messy letters: "Don't you dare to fuck (any) holes here, you fucker!" It didn't take a genius to figure out someone had broken that rule. Probably more than once.
And then, the centerpiece—the crown jewel of the second floor: a black bobber motorcycle. V-twin engine. Twin cam. No lights. No signals. Stripped down, lean and raw. The tires were flat, but the bike itself was spotless. Maintained. Respected. A collector's dream sitting in the middle of chaos.
Despite the grime, the ash, and the rust, the place didn't feel dead. It was alive—carefully arranged in its own twisted order. Open-corridor design meant the iron railings, now rusted at the joints, gave a full view of the floor below. This was their basecamp. Their fortress. Their turf.
This was where the juniors of Class 1-A to 1-D claimed their slice of legacy. A sanctuary. A second home.
Every inch of the warehouse held a story. Fights and flings. Study groups and band sessions. Laughter. Screaming. Crying. Hugging. Bullying. Sex. Scandals. People breaking down. Secrets shared in whispers. Friendship made and lost. Kisses stolen in the dark. Dreams shouted into the void. Betrayals yelled in rage. People who met here. People who left here. Some never came back. People meeting for the first time, and others parting for the last. This warehouse had seen it all—and remembered everything.
When Jared stepped onto the second floor, the first thing he saw was, Jamiron.
Their eyes locked—and without a word, they hit their signature high five, palms slapping loud in the still air.
Just like always. Like nothing had changed.
"Took your sweet time," Jamiron grunted. "Everyone's been waiting. Even him." He pointed with his chin.
On one of the torn-up sofas in the middle of the second-floor room, snoring soundly with an unlit cigarette still between his lips... was Arlo Davis. Sleeping like a child in the middle of a room. His face looked peaceful... which was never a good sign.
Elijah stepped forward, giving Jared a light thump on the chest. "You kept us waiting," he said, before eyeing the two people at Jared's side. His gaze narrowed.
"So that's why—you brought these two?"
He looked over Alana first. Then Ardiel. Disdain dripped from his smirk.
"This fat nerd I get—Arlo's been looking for him. But her?" He sneered. "Alana Morningstar? What's the queen of first-years doing in our trash heap? This ain't your stage, sweetheart."
Alana didn't speak. Her head lowered, her body pressing closer to Jared, clutching his hand like it was the only thing anchoring her.
"She's with me, Eli," Jared said, calm but firm. "Don't ask."
Elijah's eyes widened. "You two—dating? No fucking way." He turned toward her. "You're not dating him, are you, Lana?"
Before Alana could respond, another voice cut in—sharp as a blade.
"You haven't shown your face at school for weeks, Morningstar." It was Sherry 'Lady' Evans, her voice loud and biting. "Where the hell were you? Hmm? Word on the street is... the sophomores got you. Rough. You disappeared after that party. Don't tell me those rumors were true."
A wave of murmurs crashed across the room.
Alana's lips parted, but no words came. Her head bowed even lower. The weight of that sentence—the accusation—sank into the room like oil into cloth.
And still, up in the corner, Arlo kept snoring.
The air on the second floor went still.
Sherry's words—cruel, razor-sharp—cut through the warehouse like a gunshot.
Even Luke "Inferno" Garcia, who was known for being cool and trying to not reacting to anything, blinked. He looked at his girlfriend, stunned.
"Wait… seriously, babe?" he said, flicking a flame to a fresh cigarette. With a careless toss, he sent the empty pack clattering down the stairwell behind him. "No way. You sure you wanna ask her that? That's just gossip..."
Sherry shot him a look sharp enough to cut. "Oh, you wanna know the truth behind gossip?" she snapped, jerking her chin toward Alana. "Then go to the damn source."
She made a subtle hand gesture—half dare, half invitation—urging Luke forward.
Luke hesitated, then turned to Alana. His face tightened with disbelief and something bordering on guilt.
"Alana..." he began, his voice low, uncertain. "Look, I'm not trying to be an ass, but... word on the street is..." He coughed, awkward. "People are saying you got... you know... gangbanged. By the sophomores." He swallowed hard. "Is that true?"
He wasn't mocking. Just… disbelief.
Everyone on the second floor froze. Their reactions varied, but the expression was universal: shock.
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd like cracks in glass. Elijah and Sammy exchanged wary glances. Jamiron's jaw tightened, his eyes darting between Jared and Alana. Even Ardiel's face, usually unreadable, showed a flicker of something—shock, maybe. Or confusion.
And Jared?
Jared's free hand clenched into a fist. Hard. His face betrayed the hope that he'd misheard—but no, he hadn't. That was exactly what was said.
He looked at Alana—head bowed, shoulders tight, eyes clenched shut like she was holding back a dam of tears. Her fingers tightened around his hand until her knuckles turned white.
Then came the noise.
A sharp sound—like a door slamming or a locker shutting—snapped her back.
And the memory hit her.
Like lightning in the dark.
A nightmare—alive behind her eyes:
"You fucking bitch! If you don't spread your legs, I'll ruin your face!"
"Damn… your beauty without clothes is dangerous. Hahaha!"
"Look at your thighs, gurls! So, fucking bright like my future! Hahaha!"
"Are you a virgin?" Fingers. Pain. Laughter. "Oh. Not anymore!"
"Look what we found, fellas… a set of perfect holes."
"She's Hound... one of the beauties..."
The room. Dim. Blurred. Their faces—six of them. But unclear. She could never see them. Just voices. Laughter. The smell. Cold hands. Her own tears. That was all that remained.
Her whole body tensed.
She tried to cry, but she couldn't.
But then—gently, a hand touched her back, welcoming her back to reality.
All calm, like a fish pond.
"Hey, queen," a calm, lazy voice drawled. "Just relax, aight? Ain't nobody here gonna hurt you. Not while I'm awake."
A hand stretched in front of her, offering a half-smoked cigarette that he had just lit.
"I know you don't smoke," the voice continued. "But hey—sometimes the prayers don't work, right? Sometimes pain needs a little fire to leave."
She looked up.
Arlo.
'The Lunatic Iron Fist' was awake. His long brown hair was messy as hell, his scarred neck visible under a collar stretched out from sleep. He wore a green cardigan over a yellow-stained white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal inked arms—faded tattoos with no clear meaning. His ripped jeans were two threads from falling apart. He smelled like smoke, sweat, and something wild—but somehow, his presence quieted everything.
He wasn't what most people expected of a gang boss. He didn't look dangerous.
But everyone knew he was.
Alana stared at the cigarette, then at his hand.
And then—
"Don't take it because you feel bad," Jared said, gently letting go of her hand. "Don't take it to be polite. Not for me. Not for him. If you don't want to—don't."
Her eyes turned to Jared.
Then to Arlo.
Then, with a small nod, she took the cigarette.
She brought it to her lips, inhaled—
And immediately choked.
One cough. Two. Three. Her chest rattled.
Arlo burst out laughing.
"HA! Damn, Morningstar! You really did it!" he chuckled, ruffling her hair like an annoying big brother. "You get extra credit just for trying! That one's yours. Keep it. Hell, ask Luke for more, he's loaded, right?"
Alana's expression turned adorably flustered after Arlo messed up her hair—like a startled kitten caught off guard by a barking dog.
Luke raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "Yeah. Yeah. Me again, huh? Fuck you, Arlo..."
Arlo leaned in and lowered his voice just enough for only her and Jared to hear.
"We'll talk later, yeah? You're not alone here. This place?" He looked around the room. "This is your home now too. So, breathe easy."
Arlo turned to his deputy—Alexander "Pasta" Papilon—the chilled-out, heavy-lidded legend of Class 1-D.
"Yo, Alex," Arlo smirked, "shall we kick this shit off?"
Alexander stood on the drum stool; his eyes half-shut from the blunt he'd been nursing. His long, messy braids swung slightly as he lifted his head, red eyes barely focused.
"Finish it for me, bro," Alex grumbled, handing Arlo his blunt. His voice was soft, lazy, trailing off like smoke in syrup.
Arlo chuckled, said nothing. He stepped forward, taking the blunt from Alex's fingers.
Then Alex moved. Casually. Effortlessly. He walked toward the corridor railing with all the urgency of a man walking to the fridge at midnight. But when he stopped at the edge—and opened his mouth—the room snapped still.
"LISTEN UP, YOU FUCKIN' FUCKS!" Alex roared.
It was like a bomb had gone off.
No one expected that. Not from him. Not the stoner king of Class D.
But his voice? Commanding. Thunderous. Full of heat and venom.
Even the most hardened delinquents below froze mid-breath.
"SINCE ALL THE WOLF HEADS ARE IN THE HOUSE," Alex continued, "THIS MEETING IS NOW IN SESSION! AND ANYONE WHO STARTS CHATTIN' SHIT OR MAKIN' NOISE…" He leaned over the railing; eyes half-lidded but deadly. "I SWEAR TO JAH—I'LL COME DOWN THERE AND FIGHT ALL Y'ALL MY DAMN SELF! YOU FEEL ME, BASTARDS?!"
Silence.
Not a whisper.
Then came a second voice—louder. Sharper. More dangerous.
Arlo.
He stepped up beside Alex, balancing casually on the balcony railing like it was a sidewalk curb. His grin wide. The blunt smoldering between his fingers.
"YOU SEE THIS GIRL RIGHT HERE?" he shouted, jabbing his thumb toward Alana behind him. "YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS... ALANA FUCKING MORNINGSTAR!"
His voice carried. No mic. No effort.
Just power.
"She's a norm, yeah. Or she was," he said, grinning. But now? She's one of us. From this moment forward—she's a fucking queen OF OURS!"
He pointed straight down at the crowd like a war god choosing his soldier.
"ANYONE touches her, insults her, or even breathes the wrong way when she walks by—" He dragged his fingers slowly across his throat, eyes dead serious. "—you're done. You're not a Wolf. You're mine to destroy."
A silence followed that could've shattered glass.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Tension became reverence.
Every delinquent down below, on instinct, straightened up. Their eyes lowered—not in shame, but in respect.
And then—
"HELL YEAH, BOSS!!"
The Wolves roared their approval in one, feral voice. It wasn't rehearsed. It wasn't polite.
It wasn't forced.
It wasn't fake.
It was loyalty.
Alana's breath caught in her throat. Her ribs felt tight, hot, like her lungs weren't used to working again. It wasn't just shock. It was relief.
What is this feeling? she thought. Why does it feel like… safety?
She looked up at Arlo—messy hair, tattered cardigan, the scar across his neck like a brand of chaos.
And for the third time since that night...
She smiled.
It was small.
But it was real.
Her past hadn't been erased.
The bad memories of that night seemed to fade a little. Just a little. For her, is a win.
But something inside her had changed.
This warehouse?
This junkyard?
This den of wolves?
It was hers now too.
Arlo winked at her with his grin and sparked Alex's dead blunt with a flick of flame.
Then, stepping down from the railing, he roared:
"THE MEETING OFFICIALLY STARTS!"
The Wolves below erupted.
Fists raised. Shouts of approval. Laughter. Cheers. Echoes of boots slamming the warehouse floor like war drums.
So did Jared "Flash" Gray.
So did Elijah "Snake" Williams.
Sammy "Ice" Drinkbottom.
Luke "Inferno" Garcia.
Sherry "Lady" Evans.
Jamiron "Bubbles" James.
Even Ardiel Flores clenched his fists and stood a little taller. He was still awkward. Still scared. But now—he had a place in this room.
And Alana? Still coughing, still raw from her first drag, but there she was—smoking slow. Her spine a little straighter. Her hand no longer clinging. Her chin lifted, even if just by an inch.
The war between the sophomores and the seniors was coming.
But the spark behind the whole storm wasn't the sophomores.
Not the seniors.
Not the juniors.
But her...
She was the source of the storm...
The Queen.
Morningstar.