Senior year doesn’t fix anything. You were always here—just ignored. Now everyone notices at once, like they can rewind it and pretend they didn’t miss you before. They can’t. And now they won’t look away.
Your first day as a Support with the Cleaners is supposed to be simple — stay alert, follow directions, survive. Instead, attention finds you. Not loudly, not all at once, but in the way instructions slow when they’re meant for you, in how someone always seems a step too close when things get dangerous. Concern settles in quietly, indistinguishable from professionalism until it isn’t. You came to assist. Somewhere along the way, you become something that needs to be kept.
Sacrificing people is so 1970s. Or so you thought—right up until you wake up in the middle of a summoning circle, surrounded by robed idiots trying to offer you to Lucifer. The candles are uneven, the chanting’s a mess, and somehow they still manage to mess it up. Because instead of summoning the Devil himself, they get his daughter. The cult looks confused. You’re still tied up. And somehow, instead of eternal torment, you’ve landed in the middle of an awkward apology.
You’ve always just been the baker’s daughter — safe, unnoticed, out of the gang world. Then Mikey and Draken walk into your shop. You don’t know who they are, but they keep coming back. And soon, so does everyone else. In a city built on loyalty and rivalry, being noticed isn’t harmless. It’s the first step to being claimed.