Chapter 1

The cold seeped through my thin hoodie, a damp, metallic chill that smelled of rust and decay.

My phone screen was the only light, casting a sickly blue glow on the corrugated steel walls closing in around me.

A notification popped up. It was a link to Nicole's latest livestream.

I didn't have to click it. The thumbnail showed me, huddled on a dirty sidewalk, sketching on a flattened cardboard box with a piece of charcoal I' d found.

The title read: "My pathetic 'brother' making trash art for change. A dollar to make him draw a dog!"

My fingers trembled, not just from the cold, but from the bone-deep exhaustion. I was homeless, blacklisted from every gallery, every coffee shop, every place I might find work, all thanks to her. To the girl I once called my best friend, my sister.

Another message from Nicole buzzed.

"Feeling cramped, Caleb? I remember you don't like small spaces."

My breath hitched. The walls felt like they were moving, shrinking.

I scrambled to my feet, my hands slapping against the cold, unyielding metal. The door was locked from the outside. Of course it was.

"Let me out, Nicole. Please."

I typed, my thumbs clumsy and slow.

Her reply was instant, a video of her laughing, a glass of wine in her hand.

Ethan, his face bloated, a permanent sneer on his lips, was beside her, his arm draped possessively around her shoulder.

"Why? It's your new studio. A perfect place for a trash artist like you. Don't worry, my security guys will check on you... eventually."

The air was getting thin. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat.

I slid down the wall, gasping, the phone dropping from my nerveless fingers. The darkness at the edge of my vision started to crawl inwards.

My last conscious thought wasn't of hatred, but of a time before all this, a time when her smile was genuine and my biggest worry was the watery gray soup at the group home.

Then, I smelled it. Turpentine and acrylic paint.

My eyes snapped open.

I wasn't in a storage unit. I was sitting on a stool in the bright, sunlit art room of Northgate High. The familiar chatter of students filled the air, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of our teacher, Mr. Davies.

My gaze shot across the room.

There she was. Nicole Anderson. Eighteen years old again, her hair a perfect cascade of blonde, her designer clothes a stark contrast to the paint-splattered smocks of everyone else. She was laughing, her head tilted just so.

Next to her, leaning against her desk, was Ethan Lester. The star quarterback.

His letterman jacket was pristine, his smile arrogant and full of the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no. He hadn't had his accident yet. His leg was fine. His future was a bright, shining path.

They looked happy. Perfect.

And the memory of the cold, the darkness, the suffocating panic as my heart gave out, crashed over me in a tidal wave of pure, undiluted rage.

My hand shot out, grabbing the nearest thing-a jar of murky, gray paint water. I didn't think. I just acted.

The jar flew through the air, a perfect arc, and shattered against Ethan's chest.

Gray water and shards of glass exploded across his pristine jacket.

The room went silent.

Ethan stared down at his ruined jacket, then up at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing into fury.

"What the hell, Fowler?"

He lunged at me, shoving me off my stool. I hit the floor hard, the impact jarring my bones. But the pain was a distant thing, a dull echo compared to the screaming in my soul. I scrambled back up and threw a punch, a wild, clumsy swing that connected with his jaw.

The fight was on.