The night did not end with a rescue; it ended with the cold, mechanical click of handcuffs.
The flashing lights of the Toronto Police Service turned the snowy street into a rhythmic blur of red and blue. To Elara, the world felt like it was spinning off its axis. One moment, Jace had been a silent guardian in her kitchen; the next, he was being shoved against the side of a cruiser, his cheek pressed into the cold metal, his hands wrenched behind his back.
"Jace!" Elara's voice was a ragged sob that the wind swallowed whole.
She tried to bolt toward him, her boots slipping on the icy pavement. She didn't care about the cold or the neighbors peering through their blinds. She only cared about the boy who was being treated like a criminal for the crime of saving her.
But a heavy, calloused hand clamped around her upper arm, jerking her backward with enough force to make her teeth rattle.
"Stay away from him!" her father roared.
He looked pathetic—his shirt torn, a dark bruise already blooming on his jaw where Jace had struck him—but his grip was as iron-clad as ever. He dragged her toward the entrance of their apartment building, his breath smelling of copper and stale whiskey.
"No! He didn't do anything! You started it!" Elara screamed, thrashing against his hold. She looked over her shoulder, desperate to catch Jace's eye. "Jace!"
Across the street, Jace Holloway didn't struggle. He stood tall even as the officers forced his head down to get him into the backseat. For a fleeting second, his dark eyes found hers through the chaos. There was no regret in them. No apology. Only a silent, burning command: Stay safe.
"He's a monster, Elara!" her father hissed, dragging her through the lobby doors. "You see that? That's what happens to people like him. He's dangerous. He's a delinquent. I'm your father, and I am telling you—you are never to be associated with trash like that again. Do you hear me?"
He threw her into their apartment and slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "He's exactly where he belongs. Behind bars."
Elara sank to the floor, her forehead resting against the cold wood of the door, listening to the sirens fade into the distance. She had never felt more alone in a room shared with her own blood.
The 14th Division precinct smelled of floor wax, burnt coffee, and despair.
Jace sat on the edge of a thin, vinyl-covered bench that hummed with the vibration of the building's ancient heater. The walls were a sickly shade of beige, scuffed by the shoes of a thousand people who had sat exactly where he was sitting.
He leaned his head back against the concrete. His knuckles throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and his split lip had finally stopped bleeding, leaving a metallic tang in his mouth.
He knew the routine. He'd been in the back of a squad car once before, three years ago, when the screaming in his own house had gotten too loud. Back then, he had hoped his mother would show up. He had imagined her rushing through the precinct doors, breathless and worried, demanding his release.
She hadn't come then. She wouldn't come now.
Monica Holloway was likely in London, or maybe Tokyo, or perhaps Singapore. Her life was a series of high-stakes board meetings and five-star hotels—a life she had built to ensure she never had to look at the son who reminded her of the man she'd left behind. She didn't call. She sent wire transfers. Money was her way of saying don't bother me.
The sergeant had told him his bail hearing wouldn't be until the morning, but given his "history" and the severity of the assault on a "distinguished" hockey player earlier that day, the judge would likely keep him for a week of observation and processing.
A week.
Jace closed his eyes. He could handle a week. A week of silence was better than a week of going to school.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. They weren't the heavy, rhythmic thuds of a police officer's boots. These were light, deliberate, and expensive.
Jace didn't open his eyes. "Lost your way to the country club, Officer?"
"Not quite."
The voice was crisp. Controlled. It sounded like Sunday mornings and private tutors.
Jace opened his eyes. Standing on the other side of the bars was Adrian Cole.
The school president looked absurdly out of place. He wore a tailored charcoal overcoat and a silk scarf, his blonde hair perfectly swept back despite the midnight hour. Adrian was the antithesis of Jace—the boy with the 4.0 GPA, the debate team captain, the one the teachers pointed to when they spoke about "potential."
They had hated each other since the ninth grade. Jace saw Adrian as a hollow puppet of the elite; Adrian saw Jace as a ticking time bomb waiting to ruin the school's reputation.
"What are you doing here, Cole?" Jace asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Come to take notes for your next speech on 'Youth Deviance'?"
Adrian didn't flinch. He gripped the bars with leather-gloved hands, his expression unreadable. "I saw what happened tonight. I was driving by."
"Stalking is a crime, even for Golden Boys," Jace sneered, standing up slowly. He walked toward the bars until they were inches apart. "Get out of here. This isn't your world. Go back to your spreadsheets."
"I saw her, Jace," Adrian said quietly.
Jace froze. The mention of Elara made the air in the cell feel thin.
"She was terrified," Adrian continued, his sharp eyes scanning Jace's bruised face. "And your mother isn't coming. I checked. Her assistant said she's unreachable for the next ten days due to a merger in Zurich."
Jace's jaw tightened until it hurt. "I don't need her. And I definitely don't need you."
"Maybe not," Adrian said, stepping back and straightening his coat. "But you're looking at a week in here. Maybe longer if Pike's family decides to press the civil suit. You'll be expelled before you even see the sun again."
"And why do you care? You've wanted me gone since the day I walked into Westbridge."
"I want order," Adrian corrected. "But I also don't like seeing talent wasted on a lost cause. My father knows the Chief of Police. One phone call from me, and I can have you out by sunrise. 'Administrative error.' 'Misunderstanding between youths.' It goes away."
Jace felt a surge of pure, unadulterated loathing. He didn't want Adrian's charity. He didn't want to be a debt on Adrian Cole's ledger.
"Get out," Jace hissed, his fingers curling into fists.
"Jace—"
"I said get going! Get out of my sight and stay out of my business! I don't want your help, and I don't want your pity. I'd rather rot in this cage for a month than owe a single second of my life to a person like you."
Adrian stared at him for a long beat. The silence between them was heavy, filled with years of unspoken resentment and a divide that no amount of money could bridge.
"You're a fool," Adrian said finally, his voice regaining its icy composure. "You think being a martyr makes you a hero. It doesn't. It just makes you absent. While you're sitting in here feeling proud of your 'integrity,' who do you think is watching over Elara?"
Jace lunged at the bars, the metal rattling with a violent clang that echoed through the entire station. "Don't you say her name."
Adrian didn't blink. He simply adjusted his scarf, turned on his heel, and began to walk away.
"The offer stands for exactly one hour," Adrian called back over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "After that, you're on your own, Holloway. Just like you've always been."
Jace watched him disappear around the corner. He was left alone in the dim light, the silence of the cell pressing in on him like a physical weight. He sank back onto the bench, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked at his hands. They were stained with the blood of a monster, and yet, he was the one behind the bars.
He had a week. Seven days.
I'm coming back for you, Elara, he thought, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Just hold on.