AMAYA.

The air inside the Academy’s rebuilt west wing smelled of fresh cedar and drying plaster, a thin veil of "newness" trying to hide the scars of the recent attacks. But no amount of paint could cover the feeling of being watched.

I was standing by the window of our private suite, watching the moon rise over the jagged peaks of the Northridge mountains. My skin still felt sensitive from the time on the roof with Javier. The "heat" he had helped settle was still humming under my surface, a low-frequency vibration that made me feel hyper-aware of everything—the weight of my clothes, the cool breeze, and the three distinct...