The Culver City Public Library smells like old carpet and I reek of desperation. 

 I pull Mom's baseball cap lower over my eyes and hunch my shoulders as I push through the glass doors. The cap is faded and has the Dodgers logo peeling off the front, which feels like a cruel joke considering the last Dodgers game I went to was with Mateo. We shared garlic fries and he got mustard on his jersey and I laughed so hard I almost choked on my beer. He wasn't even old enough to drink. Neither was I. 

Focus, Press.

The library is half-empty. A few older women browse the fiction section, while a man in a wrinkled button-down sleeps in a chair near the magazines with his mouth open. A mother tries to wrangle two kids near the picture books. Nobody looks up when I walk in. For once, anonymity is a gift. 

I find the row of public computers near the back wall, tucked behind a shelf of encyclopedias that probably haven't been touched since someone's grandma was in high school. I slide into the one farthest from view, keeping my back to the room. 

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I can't use my phone. Airplane mode killed the GPS, but I don't know what else the Consortium can track. For all I know, they've got magical surveillance I've never heard of. Dr. Santos is the most powerful Arcanist on the West Coast. She could probably find a needle in the ocean if she wanted to.

I pull up Signal's web app in the browser and log in with shaking hands. It takes two tries because I keep mistyping my password. 

Harley's name appears in my contacts. I type fast. 

Press: It's me. I'm on a library computer. Don't call my phone. 

The cursor blinks. Ten seconds. Twenty. My knee bounces under the desk. 

Harley: PRESS. Oh my god. Where ARE you?? 

Harley: It's bad. Like really bad. Some people just left my apartment. Suits. Looking very serious. They asked me where you were and I told them I didn't know because I DON'T. They didn't believe me. They even searched my car.

My chest gets tight. Of course they went to Harley's. She's my emergency contact on every form I've ever filled out. 

Press: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry they came to you. 

Harley: Don't apologize. Just tell me you're safe. 

Press: I'm safe. I'm going to lay low at my favorite place. You know the one. 

I hold my breath. If she doesn't remember, I'll have to spell it out, and I don't want to type it. But Harley and I have talked about that spot before. The one time I got drunk enough to tell her about Mateo and me, about the ruins and the tide. The way moonlight turns the ocean into a vast vortex that doesn't look real. 

Harley: I know the one. Be careful. 

Press: Don't tell anyone where I am. You haven't talked to me. You don't know anything. 

Harley: Obviously. But Press...what about Luxecaster? They called me today. TWICE. They're about to make a decision and it's not going to be the one we want.

I stare at the screen. The cursor blinks patiently.

What am I holding on to? Luxecaster is slipping away whether I fight for it or not. My reputation is a house with the foundation cracked, and I keep rearranging furniture on the top floor. The blackmailer has a video that will end me, and they're going to release it in two days regardless. I'll spend those two days hiding in a crumbling beach house while the Consortium hunts me down, and by the time they find me, the video will already be everywhere. 

Unless I release it first. 

The thought lands in my stomach like a stone dropped into still water. My throat aches. The library's ancient air conditioning pushes stale air across the back of my neck. 

If the video goes public on my terms, the blackmailer loses their leverage. No more countdown or threats. No more running. 

But it also means the world sees me at my worst. Screaming and sweating. Eyes bloodshot, with the wild feral look. The rose bushes on fire, everyone screaming and ducking for cover, a woman's wig flying off her head. That video is the end of Press Gregor, mage influencer. Goodbye to the brand deals, content creation, maybe even Vale College. The morality clause doesn't have fine print that says "unless you release the footage yourself." 

But here's the thing about rock bottom--you can't fall off the floor. I've been running from this video for three months. And running hasn't saved me. It's made everything worse. Every day I spend hiding is another day someone else controls my story. 

If I'm going down, I'm going down swinging.

Press: I'll tell Luxecaster the truth. All of it. I'm done hiding. 

Harley: Press... 

Press: I'm going to release the video myself. 

The typing indicator appears and disappears three times. I can picture her on her couch, phone in both hands, biting her bottom lip raw. 

Harley: Do you understand what that means? This could be the end. Of everything. 

Press: I know. But it's already the end. 

A long pause. Thirty seconds that feel like thirty years. 

Harley: Then we do it together. When you're ready, send me the file. I'll edit it, we'll write a statement, and we'll post it ourselves before anyone else can spin it. 

My eyes burn. I blink hard and press my palms flat on the desk.

Press: Thank you. For everything. I have to go. I love you. 

Harley: Stay cheeky, baby. I love you too. 

I log out, clear the browser history and push away from the desk. The chair squeaks against the floor and the sleeping man near the magazines flinches but doesn't wake up. Outside, the late afternoon sun hits me square in the face. I fish Mom's keys out of my pocket and walk toward the Honda Civic parked at the far end of the lot. 

A siren wails in the distance. My whole body goes rigid. I stop mid-step, keys biting into my palm. The sound swells, getting louder, closer. I scan the parking lot for black SUVs, for suits, for anyone who looks like they've been sent to collect a fugitive.

The siren peaks and passes. An ambulance screams through the intersection two blocks away, lights flashing red and white and disappears down the boulevard. 

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My hands are trembling. I'm losing it. This is what paranoia feels like. 

 I get in the car and drive to the only place that's ever made me feel safe.

✨✨✨

The ruins don't have a name. Mateo and I just called them "the spot."

You can't see it from Pacific Coast Highway. You can't even see it from the beach, not unless you know where to look. You have to park at a pull-off near Point Dume, hike down a narrow trail that cuts through scrub brush and ice plant, then follow the shoreline south for about ten minutes until the rocks jut out and the sand gets coarse. Past the rocks, hidden in a shallow cove, sits what's left of a beach house that somebody built decades ago. 

The ocean's slowly taken it back. The roof is half gone and the walls lean at angles. Salt and weather have stripped the wood to a pale gray that almost glows in the right light. Driftwood and kelp pile up against the foundation where the tide pushes in. At high tide, the water creeps through the doorframe. At low tide, the floor dries out enough to sit on without getting soaked. 

Mateo found it our freshman year. He'd been surfing nearby and wandered too far down the beach, and when he showed it to me, I understood immediately why he loved it. The ruins felt like ours. A place where the world couldn't reach us.

We came here so often that I've titled different memories in my mind. After our First Real Date. After Our First Fight. After the Night on the PCH When We Steamed Up His Backseat. I kissed him for the first time against that leaning west wall while the sunset turned everything copper and pink. He tasted like salt water and the mango candy he always kept in his pocket.

I pull my knees to my chest, sitting alone on what's left of the floor, my back against the one wall still sturdy enough to hold weight. 

The tide is going out. Each wave pulls a little farther from the ruins, leaving dark wet sand behind. The sun hangs low over the Pacific, swollen and orange, dragging streaks of pink and purple across the sky. The air smells like salt and seaweed, and somewhere down the beach, a seagull screams. 

Tomorrow night, I'm supposed to meet Katya at the reservoir off Mulholland. She promised to tell me everything. But the more I sit here, the more the doubts crawl in like the tide. Katya told Dr. Santos that I asked her for the enchanted tea. She lied. She looked me in the face with those wide, frightened eyes and said be careful with this family, and then she turned around and threw me under the bus.

What if she does it again? What if I show up at the reservoir and the Consortium is waiting for me? What if Katya is Dr. Santos's puppet, dangling information in front of me to lure me into a trap? 

I press the heels of my hands against my temples. Trust is a currency I'm running out of. My dad can't protect me. My mom gave me her car keys and a head start, which might be the most maternal thing she's done in years, but it's not a plan. Harley is loyal, but she can't fix this. And Mateo--

Mateo is kissing someone else now. 

My eyes sting. I let them. Out here, with the ocean drowning out everything, nobody can hear me fall apart. The tears come hot and fast, rolling down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw. I don't wipe them away.

I cry for the boy I was before the garden party. The one who thought he had it figured out. Brand deals, a beautiful boyfriend, a future at Vale College that would prove everyone wrong about the kid from the West Side. That boy is gone now, and the person sitting in his place is someone I barely recognize. 

The sun sinks lower. The sky deepens to bruised purple at the edges. The water turns dark. It's getting colder. 

I don't know how long I sit there before I hear it. 

"Press!" 

My name, carried on the wind. I think I'm imagining it. 

"Press!" 

Closer now. Coming from the trail behind the ruins. Footsteps crunch on sand and gravel. 

I scramble to my feet, my heart slamming against my ribs. The Consortium. They found me.Did Harley rat me out? Would she do that?  Dr. Santos tracked me down and sent her people and this is it, this is where it ends.

I press my back against the wall. My hands curl into fists even though I have no magic to fight with. 

Two figures round the rocks and step into the cove. 

My fists drop. 

Mateo stands there, slightly out of breath, sand clinging to his sneakers. He's wearing a dark hoodie with the hood down, and his buzzed hair catches the last of the fading light. His chest rises and falls from the hike. 

And next to him, arms crossed, black hair whipping in the ocean breeze, stands Allegra Shaw.

I open my mouth. Then close it.  "What the hell are you doing here?" I ask finally.

"You're welcome," Allegra answers, folding her arms across her chest.

Mateo steps forward, his hands in his hoodie pockets. He won't quite meet my eyes when he says, "My mom called. She's been looking for you since you drove off. She asked me if I knew where you'd go." 

"And you told her?" 

"I told her I didn't know." He swallows. "But Harley texted me. She said you were going to your favorite place. And I just..." He trails off, one hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "I knew. I knew you'd come here." 

The wind shifts. I can smell cedar on him, faint beneath the salt air. 

"You brought Allegra," I say, because I don't know what else to say. Nothing about this makes sense. Allegra Shaw, who kicked me out of her house. 

Allegra uncrosses her arms. "Don't look so shocked. I'm not here because I like you. I'm here because my Verity won't shut up." 

"She showed up at my baseball practice," Mateo interjects. "Wouldn't leave until I listened to her." 

"I used my Verity on him, too," Allegra says, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. She looks at Mateo, then back at me. "He cares about you, Press. And I'm not talking about the surface level, 'oh we used to date' kind of caring. It goes deep. But someone's been messing with his head. The same way they've been messing with yours."

Mateo flinches beside her. 

"Someone's been using mentalism on both of you," Allegra says, her eyes softening. "Manipulating your emotions and planting thoughts." 

"But why?" My voice comes out hoarse. "Why are you helping me?" 

She's quiet for a moment. The ocean fills the silence, waves folding over each other in the growing dark. "Because my magic requires me to speak truth to power," she says. "That's not a choice. It's a calling. And right now, someone powerful is lying. To you. And Mateo. To everyone around you. And as long as that lie stands, my Verity won't let me rest." She pauses. "Trust me, I've tried ignoring it. I haven't slept in days."

Mateo looks at me for the first time since he got here, really looks at me. His brown eyes are red-rimmed. "I'm sorry, Press. About Xander. About all of it. I thought what I was feeling was real, but Allegra says..." He stops himself. His voice cracks. "Someone's been in my head." 

My legs feel like they might give out. I lean harder against the shaky wall. "Who?"

 "That's what we're going to find out," Allegra says. She steps closer, her sneakers leaving prints in the damp sand. "But first, you need to remember what happened at that garden party. The real version." 

"You can do that?" 

"Verity doesn't just detect lies, Press. It breaks them. Including the ones you're telling yourself." She stops a foot away from me. The wind dies down for a second and the cove goes quiet. "It might hurt. It will definitely be uncomfortable. And you might not like what you see."

I look at Mateo. He nods once, barely. 

I look back at Allegra.  "I'm ready," I say with a deep sigh.

Allegra places both hands on my shoulders. Her grip is firm, like she's obviously done this before. Up close, her black eyes have flecks of gold in them I've never noticed. Out here, there are no truth chimes. Just the ocean and the last streak of daylight bleeding out of the sky. 

"Take a deep breath," she says softly. "It's time for you to remember."