I woke to the sound of water dripping somewhere in the walls. For a blissful moment, I thought I was back home, that the leaky faucet in our bathroom had finally given out. Then reality crashed in like a tidal wave - my father's blood - soaked body, the strange symbols on our apartment walls, the note clutched in his cold hand.
The mattress beneath me felt like concrete, and the thin blanket did nothing against the bone - deep chill that permeated this place. Blackthorn. My new "home." The word tasted like ash in my mouth.
Headmistress Winters' words from last night echoed in my head: "It means that Blackthorn has its own rules, Mr. Cross. You'll learn them quickly enough if you wish to survive." Not live. Survive. The distinction hadn't escaped me.
I sat up, running a hand through my hair. The room they'd given me was sparse - a twin bed with metal frame, a wooden desk that had seen better decades, and a dresser with three drawers, one of which was missing its handle. The walls were painted an institutional shade of faded green that reminded me of hospital corridors.
My watch read 7:15 AM. I'd been told breakfast was at 7:30. No time like the present to meet my fellow "orphans."
I pulled on my jeans and the cleanest of my t - shirts, then slipped my father's silver ring onto the chain around my neck. It felt warm against my skin, the last piece of him I had left. I tucked it under my shirt and headed for the door.
The hallway was dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath my steps, announcing my presence to anyone listening. I followed the smell of coffee and the faint sound of clattering dishes downstairs.
The kitchen was larger than I expected, with an industrial - sized stove and a long wooden table that could seat at least fifteen people. But it wasn't the kitchen itself that made me pause in the doorway - it was its sole occupant.
A guy about my age sat at the table, spinning what looked like a butterfly knife between his fingers with hypnotic precision. He wore a black leather jacket that was slightly too small for his frame, the sleeves riding up to reveal white bandages wrapped boxer - style around his hands. His hair was black with a streak of dark blue, and when he looked up, his light blue eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity.
"Well, fuck me sideways," he said, the knife suddenly still in his palm. "The new meat finally decided to join the living."
I said nothing, assessing. The way he held himself - loose but alert, like a coiled spring - told me he was dangerous. The kind of guy my father would've called "violence waiting for an excuse."
"What, cat got your tongue?" He flipped the knife closed, then open again. "Or are you just the strong, silent type? Because we've already got one of those, and trust me, Silas does it better."
"I'm Ash," I said finally. "Ash Cross."
"Rafe Mercer." He didn't get up, just gestured to the coffee pot with his knife. "Help yourself. It tastes like shit, but it'll wake the dead."
I walked to the counter, feeling his eyes track my movement. Every instinct told me not to turn my back on him, but I refused to show fear. I found a chipped mug that read "World's Best Dad" with a crack running through the word "Best." The irony wasn't lost on me.
"So," Rafe said as I poured, "what's your story? Daddy issues? Mommy problems? Or just the regular 'everyone I ever loved is dead' special?"
I turned, coffee in hand. "My father was murdered three days ago."
Rafe's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened fractionally. "Welcome to the club, Cross. Membership cost is everything you ever cared about."
"Is everyone here this fucking cheerful in the morning?" I asked, taking a sip of the coffee. He was right - it tasted like battery acid.
A low chuckle came from the doorway. "Mercer's actually our ray of sunshine."
The newcomer was tall and well - built, with long dark brown hair pulled into a man bun. He wore black jeans and a crisp white t - shirt under an open black hoodie. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit. Despite the casual clothes, he carried himself with a formality that reminded me of military personnel.
"Cassian Voss," he said, nodding in my direction. "Most call me Cas."
"He means most call him 'sir' while begging for mercy," Rafe muttered, flipping his knife open and closed rhythmically.
Cas ignored him, walking to the window and pushing it open before lighting his cigarette. He took a long drag, studying me through a cloud of exhaled smoke. "Headmistress informed us about your... situation."
"Did she also mention I didn't ask to be here?" I set my mug down harder than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"None of us asked to be here, Cross," Cas replied, his voice level. "But Blackthorn has a way of collecting those with nowhere else to go."
"Or those no one else wants," Rafe added with a sharp grin.
The tension in the room was broken by the sound of running feet, followed by a blur of motion as someone skidded into the kitchen, nearly colliding with me. I stepped back instinctively, my hand moving to where my father's pocketknife rested in my jeans.
The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, with black hair that stood up in all directions and mismatched eyes - one brown, one covered by an eyepatch. His energy was frantic, like he was operating on a different frequency than everyone else.
"Holy shit, you're still alive!" he exclaimed, circling me like a shark. "Thought maybe the Hollow got you in the night. First night's always the riskiest."
"The what?" I asked, but he was already moving on, grabbing an apple from a bowl on the counter and taking a massive bite.
"Ignore Nico," Cas said, exhaling smoke. "He runs entirely on sugar and chaos."
Nico grinned around his mouthful of apple. "You look like you could use some chaos in your life, new boy. Too uptight. Like you've got a stick so far up your ass it's tickling your tonsils."
Before I could respond, Rafe's knife embedded itself in the wall inches from Nico's head. The kid didn't even flinch, just laughed - a sound that was half maniacal giggle, half villainous cackle.
"Missed me, asshole," Nico taunted.
"Wasn't aiming for you," Rafe replied lazily. "Just giving our new friend here a demonstration of the house rules. Rule one: don't fuck with me before I've finished my coffee."
I watched their interaction, noting the underlying familiarity beneath the hostility. It wasn't friendship exactly, more like soldiers who'd been in the same foxhole too long.
"Is that all of you?" I asked, glancing between the three of them.
Cas snorted. "Not even close. The others will trickle in. Some are early risers, some wouldn't get up before noon if the building was on fire."
As if on cue, two more figures appeared in the doorway. They were identical down to the last detail - silver hair, gray eyes with golden flecks, lean builds. The only difference I could spot was that one wore his silver ring on his left hand, the other on his right.
"Well, well," said the one with the ring on his left, his voice smooth as silk. "The new addition to our dysfunctional family."
"Fresh meat," his twin agreed, his tone colder, more assessing.
"Lucian and Adrian Graves," Cas said by way of introduction. "Our resident con artists and general pains in the ass."
"We prefer 'strategic social engineers,'" Lucian corrected with a wink, sliding into a chair. "Has anyone warned him about the bathrooms yet?"
"Or the food?" Adrian added, taking the seat beside his brother.
"Or the fact that the world is slowly forgetting he exists?" Lucian finished, both of them staring at me with identical smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
The casual cruelty of the statement hit me like a physical blow.
"Don't be dicks," came a new voice. A guy with glasses and at least three electronic devices clutched in his hands entered. "He's barely been here a night."
He looked perpetually bored, as though the entire world moved too slowly for his liking.
"Oh come on, Ezra," Lucian protested. "It's practically tradition."
"So is dying young and tragically, but I don't see you rushing to uphold that one," Ezra retorted, claiming a seat and immediately beginning to type on one of his devices.
The kitchen was getting crowded, conversations overlapping. A guy with dark teal headphones entered silently, nodding once at me before grabbing coffee. Silas, I presumed. He was followed by a wiry blond with gold - rimmed circular glasses who seemed to vibrate with barely contained energy.
"Is that coffee fresh? Is that the new guy? Did anyone see where I left my lighter? Not the red one, the blue one with the silver dragon?" The words tumbled out in a rush as he bounced from one spot to another, never quite still.
"Felix, for fuck's sake, take a breath before you spontaneously combust," Rafe groaned.
"Actually, spontaneous human combustion is a fascinating phenomenon," Felix replied, his eyes lighting up. "The human body is basically a big bag of chemicals. Did you know that under the right conditions - "
"It's too early for your pyro shit," Adrian cut him off.
I watched the chaotic interactions, feeling increasingly out of place. These people knew each other, had history, inside jokes. I was the outsider, the intruder in their strange, closed world.
Then the kitchen fell silent. Every head turned toward the doorway, and I found myself doing the same, curious what could possibly command the attention of this unruly group.
She stood like a shadow given form - tall, with short jet - black hair framing a face of striking, cold beauty. Her dark gray eyes swept the room, missing nothing. She wore all black - fitted jeans, a sleeveless top that revealed pale, toned arms, and silver rings on several fingers. Dark lipstick and the faint scent of lavender mixed with cigarette smoke completed the picture.
But it wasn't her looks that made my breath catch. It was the stillness she carried - like the air before a storm, charged with potential violence.
"Vesper," Cas acknowledged with a slight nod. She returned it almost imperceptibly, then her gaze landed on me.
"You must be Ash Cross," she said, her voice low and melodic. Not what I expected. "Detective Cross's son."
The mention of my father sent a jolt through me. "You knew my father?"
A subtle shift crossed her features - too quick to name. "He came here sometimes. Asked questions." She moved to the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup with precise movements. "He was one of the few who could remember us."
"What the fuck does that mean?" I demanded, suddenly tired of cryptic statements and half - answers.
"It means," Vesper said, turning to face me fully, "that your father was special. And now he's dead, which suggests you might be special too. Whether that's good news or a death sentence remains to be seen."
The kitchen fell silent, tension crackling like electricity. I stared at her, anger and grief threatening to overwhelm me. Before I could respond, a bell rang somewhere in the building.
"Breakfast," Cas announced unnecessarily, crushing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
The orphans began to move, filing out toward what I assumed was the dining hall. Vesper lingered, those dark gray eyes still watching me.
"Your father was trying to save you," she said quietly. "From this place. From what we are."
"And what exactly are you?" I asked, voice tight.
The corner of her mouth curved upward, not quite a smile. "The forgotten ones. The ghosts who still breathe." She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the individual flecks of silver in her eyes.
After that, she turned and walked away, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that I'd just been assessed and categorized - prey or predator, asset or liability.