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"Get your hand off the door, Ellis. You aren't going anywhere."
Wren didn't even look up from her tablet, but her voice had that sharp, corporate edge that made my skin crawl. I was already halfway through the door, bag slung over my shoulder, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Watch me," I snapped, twisting the handle. It didn't budge. I yanked harder, then realized the lock hadn't just clicked—it had electronically sealed. I spun around, glaring at the golden girl sitting on the pristine white sofa.
"What the hell is this?" I demanded. "Open the door. Now."
Wren finally looked at me. Her eyes weren't the sparkling, hero-grade beacons the public saw on billboards. They were tired, cold, and completely unimpressed. She tapped a button on her screen, and a holographic contract flickered into the air between us. My name was highlighted in a violent, pulsing red.
"Section 4, Paragraph B," Wren said, her voice flat. "'The Asset agrees to a mandatory cohabitation period for the duration of the synchronization phase.' You signed it, Ellis. Or rather, you let Cade trick you into signing it so you wouldn't end up in a debt-collection pit."
"I didn't know 'cohabitation' meant being locked in a high-rise cage with a girl who looks like she was grown in a lab to sell perfume!"
Wren stood up. She didn't move fast, but she moved with a precision that felt like a threat. She stepped into my space, her presence filling the gap between us until I could smell the faint, annoying scent of vanilla and ozone. She was shorter than me, but she felt like she owned the air I was breathing.
"You're not a guest here," Wren whispered, her gaze dropping to my trembling hands. "You're a liability. A broken, glitching liability that the agency is paying me a fortune to keep on a leash. Do you have any idea how much your debt is?"
I stepped back, hitting the door with a dull thud. "I can pay it. Just give me time."
"With what?" Wren let out a short, sharp laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "You can't even touch a doorknob without risking a blackout. You're broke, you're dangerous, and you're currently my problem. So, here's how this works: you stay in your room, you follow the script, and you don't touch anything that costs more than ten dollars."
"Screw you," I spat. "I'm not your pet."
"Then stop acting like a stray," she countered. She stepped even closer, her shoulder brushing mine. I could feel the heat radiating off her—that shimmering, golden energy that made my own dark power recoil. It felt like a physical push, a warning. "If you try to bolt again, Cade won't just call the debt collectors. He'll call the containment unit. Do you want to go back to the white room, Ellis? Because I can make that happen with one text."
I froze. The memory of the sterile, humming silence of the containment cell flashed through my mind. The cold metal. The way the lights never turned off. I swallowed hard, my throat feeling like it was full of glass.
"I hate you," I whispered.
"Get in line," Wren replied. She stepped back, the oppressive tension easing just a fraction. "Now, put your bag down. We have a synchronization test in twenty minutes, and if your levels are still spiking, the agency is going to start talking about 'permanent stabilization.'"
"Permanent stabilization?" I frowned. "What the fuck does that even mean?"
Wren didn't answer. She just turned her back on me and walked toward the kitchen, her movements fluid and perfect. "It means they'll stop the glitching. By removing the source."
I felt a chill run down my spine. I followed her, my boots clumping loudly on the polished floor, a sharp contrast to her silent grace. "The source? You mean my power?"
"I mean whatever is making you a danger to my brand," she said, pouring a glass of water. She took a sip, looking at me over the rim of the glass. "Look, Ellis. I don't like you. I don't want you here. But we're linked now. If you crash, I feel it. If you die... well, the paperwork for a partner's death is a nightmare. So do me a favor: don't die in my place. It would be incredibly inconvenient for my schedule."
I stared at her, stunned. She wasn't even pretending to care about the ethics of it. To her, my life was just a scheduling conflict. The anger flared up again, hot and jagged. I stepped forward and slammed my hand onto the marble countertop next to her glass.
"Is that all I am to you? A line on a calendar?"
For the first time, Wren's composure cracked. She flinched, her eyes darting to my hand. The dark, flickering energy of my power sparked against the marble, leaving a tiny, blackened crack in the stone. She didn't pull away, but I saw her pulse jump in her neck. She looked at the crack, then back at me, her expression shifting from annoyance to something sharper. Something like curiosity.
"You're desperate," she said softly. "That's why you're shaking. You're terrified that the only thing that makes you special is also the thing that's killing you."
"Shut up," I hissed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're a mess," she countered, her voice dropping an octave. She leaned in, her face inches from mine. I could see the gold flecks in her iris, the sheer intensity of her focus. "And I know that if you don't learn to control that void, you're going to take me down with you. Is that the plan? Mutual destruction?"
I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. The air between us was thick, charged with a weird, magnetic tension. It wasn't just hate. It was something heavier. I wanted to push her away, but I also wanted to know if that golden light of hers could actually burn through the dark in my chest.
"Maybe," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Maybe I'll just drag you into the dirt with me."
Wren's lips curved into a tiny, dangerous smile. "I'd like to see you try."
Before I could respond, the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the apartment. We both jumped, snapping apart instantly. I scrambled back toward the wall, and Wren smoothed her hair, her face instantly reverting to the mask of the perfect hero.
Cade Rowan walked in, looking like he'd just stepped out of a corporate boardroom—sharp suit, expensive watch, and a smile that never reached his eyes. He wasn't alone. Two men in tactical gear followed him, carrying a heavy black case and a tripod.
"Hope you two are getting along," Cade said, his voice dripping with fake cheer. He didn't look at me; he looked at the room, his eyes scanning the corners. "The agency decided that 'passive observation' wasn't enough. They want a full data set of your domestic interactions."
I looked at the men. They were already unfolding the tripod, mounting a sleek, high-definition camera that looked more like a surveillance drone than a film crew.
"What is this?" I demanded, stepping forward. "You said this was a safe house!"
"It's a set, Ellis," Cade replied, finally looking at me. His smile widened, and it was the most terrifying thing I'd seen all day. "The public wants to see the 'enemies-to-lovers' arc. They want the tension. They want the friction. And since you two aren't providing enough of it on camera..."
He gestured to the ceiling. I looked up and saw them. Tiny, recessed lenses embedded in the crown molding. Every wall. Every corner. Even the bathroom vent had a glint of glass.
"The whole place is wired," Cade said, clicking a remote. A wall of monitors slid down from the ceiling, displaying six different angles of the room we were standing in. One of them was a close-up of the blackened crack I'd left on the counter.
"You can't do this," I breathed, feeling the walls closing in. "This is kidnapping. This is—"
"This is your contract," Cade interrupted. "Now, be good girls. The first livestream starts in ten minutes, and the producers want a scene where you're fighting over the last piece of toast. Try to make it look organic."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door, glancing back at Wren.
"Oh, and Wren?" Cade's voice turned cold. "If she breaks anything else in the kitchen, it's coming out of your bonus."
The door slammed shut, locking with that same electronic hiss. I looked at Wren. She was staring at the monitors, her face pale, her jaw tight. She didn't look at me, but her hand was clenched so hard the fabric of her leggings was starting to smoke.
"I'm going to kill him," she whispered.
"Get in line," I said, but my voice was shaking. I looked at the camera staring at us, and for the first time, I realized that the cage wasn't just the apartment. It was the whole world watching us bleed.