Kota stumbled out of the hallway, the echo of Theo and Grayson's footsteps fading behind the closed basement door. His heart still hammered from whatever the hell had just happened in that violet-lit cult room—Beckett's blank stare, the bite mark still throbbing on his neck, the cold lick, the cryptic hand signs. He pressed his palm against the fresh mark again, wincing at the heat radiating from it. The apartment felt too quiet now, the opulent normalcy of the upstairs almost mocking after the basement's strangeness.
He glanced toward the living room clock on the mantel—a sleek, minimalist piece with thin gold hands. 3:00 p.m. exactly.
School had ended five minutes ago.
His stomach dropped.
Khalil would be expecting him home soon—probably already wondering why the bus hadn't dropped him off yet. Kota had no phone (still no personal one, thanks to Dad's rules), no way to text an excuse. If he didn't walk through the door in the next thirty to forty minutes, questions would start. Serious ones. The kind that ended with lectures about responsibility, staying grounded, not turning soft in this new world.
He bolted toward the kitchen.
Theo was there, wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time, face pale and eyes wide with leftover panic from the basement chase. Grayson lounged against the island, arms crossed, still pouting from earlier rejection.
"Theo," Kota said, voice sharp. "We gotta go. Now."
Theo's head snapped up. "What? But—Beckett—"
"Doesn't matter. It's three. School's out. My dad thinks I'm on the bus. If I'm not home soon, he's gonna lose it."
Theo's face drained of color. "Oh god. Right. The car. Yes. Car. Now."
He dropped the cloth and hurried toward the side door that led to the garages, fumbling with his keys. Grayson raised an eyebrow but didn't move.
"You sure you don't want me to come along?" Grayson called after them. "I could ride shotgun. Keep things... interesting."
Theo shot him a glare. "Stay here. And don't tell Dad anything."
Grayson raised both hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Go play house with your boyfriend."
Kota ignored the jab and followed Theo out.
The garage was as ridiculous as the rest of the house—twelve bays, climate-controlled, lit with soft white LEDs that made every car look like it was on a showroom floor. Theo beelined for the white McLaren Artura GT, the same one that had picked Kota up that morning. The doors unlocked with a soft chirp as Theo approached.
"Get in," Theo said, voice tight with nerves. "We'll make it. I promise."
Kota slid into the passenger seat—the heated leather cradling him again like it remembered his shape. Theo dropped into the driver's seat, started the engine with a low, throaty purr, and backed out smoothly. The garage door rose silently behind them.
The drive started frantic.
Theo floored it down the mile-long private driveway, tires humming against perfect blacktop. Trees blurred past in green streaks. Once they hit the main road, he wove through light afternoon traffic with surgical precision—sharp lane changes, aggressive but controlled acceleration. The McLaren ate distance like it was starving. Kota gripped the door handle, watching the digital dash clock tick forward: 3:04, 3:07, 3:11.
The scenery shifted from gated estates to upscale suburbs, then to the familiar working-class sprawl closer to Kota's neighborhood. Strip malls, chain-link fences, pickup trucks in driveways. The contrast felt jarring after the Hawthorne mansion—like stepping from a movie set back into real life.
Theo kept glancing at him, knuckles white on the wheel.
"You're quiet," he said at a red light. "Are you... okay? After everything?"
Kota rubbed the bite mark again. "I don't even know what 'okay' means right now. Your brother just... licked me and bit me and called me his toy. In a cult basement. While rearranging crystals like a maniac."
Theo winced. "Beckett's... always been different. He doesn't really process people the way we do. He fixates. And when he fixates..." He trailed off, swallowing. "I'm sorry. I should've warned you."
Kota stared out the window at passing fast-food signs. "Yeah. A heads-up would've been nice."
Silence stretched until the next light.
Theo's voice came softer. "I didn't want today to end like this. I wanted... more time. Just us."
Kota glanced at him. Theo's profile was tense, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the road and Kota's face. There was real worry there—worry mixed with something deeper, more vulnerable.
"We'll figure it out," Kota muttered. "But right now, I just need to get home before my dad starts calling around."
Theo nodded quickly. "Right. Almost there."
They entered Kota's neighborhood—the same cracked sidewalks, chain-link balconies, pickup trucks in every driveway. Theo slowed as they approached the street.
"Here?" he asked, voice hushed.
Kota shook his head. "No. Drop me a block away. If he sees this car pulling up, he'll have a million questions. Questions I can't answer."
Theo's hands tightened on the wheel, but he nodded. He turned onto the parallel street and eased to the curb a block over, engine idling low.
Kota unbuckled. "Thanks. For... everything. And sorry about... you know. Passing out. And the twins. And Beckett."
Theo reached over, fingers brushing Kota's wrist—gentle, hesitant. "Don't apologize. Just... text me later? When you can?"
Kota gave a tired half-smile. "Yeah. I'll figure out a way."
He climbed out, shut the door softly, and started jogging toward the apartment building. The McLaren purred away behind him, disappearing around the corner.
Kota took the stairs two at a time—elevator would be too slow—heart pounding from the run and the lingering adrenaline. He reached their floor, fumbled the key into the lock, and pushed the door open at 3:38 p.m.
Khalil was already in the living room, standing by the window like he'd been watching the street. His arms were crossed, face set in that familiar hard line that meant trouble.
"You're late," Khalil said. No greeting. No welcome home.
Kota closed the door behind him, trying to keep his breathing steady. "Bus was delayed. Traffic."
Khalil's eyes narrowed. "Bus don't run that slow. And you look like you been running. Sweaty. Disheveled." His gaze flicked to Kota's neck—right to the fresh bite mark, red and obvious against dark skin. "And what's that?"
Kota's hand flew up instinctively, covering it. "Nothing. Mosquito bite. Itched."
Khalil stepped closer. "Sit."
The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. Kota opened his mouth to explain—some half-formed lie about extra study group, or a friend giving him a ride—but Khalil cut him off.
"Sit."
No room for argument.
Kota swallowed, walked to the worn couch, and sat.
Khalil stood over him, arms still crossed, eyes boring down like he could see straight through every lie Kota hadn't even told yet. The apartment felt smaller than usual—the chain-link balcony visible through the window, the faint smell of yesterday's rice lingering in the air. Khalil didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.
Kota sat.