Razor Stone's Dining Hall appeared massive and small all at once. The vaulted ceiling, supported by thick, dark wooden beams and the equally dark, paneled walls, made me dizzy. Maybe it was the unfamiliar space, or how out of place I felt, or the whispers and stares from the others that quickened my breath. I assumed I couldn't feel more uncomfortable at that moment, but that was wrong. Sweat dripped down my back to pool at the elastic of my panties. The slickness spread out as fabric soaked the moisture into thread. The dark clothes I wore only dampened the grossness factor by a point or two. It was a matter of time before the wet spot grew so everyone could see.

Dozens of potential students milled around the tables in varying sized groups. Their clashing voices rang in my ears, the sound like swords striking together repeatedly. I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears, to stop the invasion. It set my teeth on edge. I struggled to breathe until I stepped back.

The farther I drifted away from the crowd to the outskirts of the hall, the easier it was to inhale full breaths. I stood near the wall, close but not touching. Large portraits of stern, fierce faced women and men sat on high-backed chairs or stood in dignified poses, and draped in dark robes lined the walls and dragged my attention from the noisy crowd. Their dead gazes produced a shiver to crawl like spreading ice across my skin, made hairs on the back on my neck rise. A voice deep inside warned against touching the surface even as my hand twitched to feel the hard wood, as if those people would climb out of their decorative frames and punish me for my disrespect. A memory of my father caning me for an infraction flashed in my head. I pulled my twitching hand against my chest and moved ever so slightly away from the wall, other hand unconsciously touching where faint marks hid under my clothes.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. More eyes found me as my surprised shriek echoed in the hall. I spun away to block them from view. The tingle of my ability shimmered at the edges of my senses. At that moment, I had to fight not to disappear into my surroundings. It would be easy. Focus on the color of the wood, the grain, the fine, detailed carvings that showed the opulence of the room. The colors of my skin would shift to match those near me until there was no trace I was there. I think that's how it worked. I'm not sure, really. For my level of training, it only got tricky when I moved.

I opened my phone. It was a text from my dad. The heat that had warmed my cheeks moments before vanished as I read the text. My legs suddenly couldn't support my weight, my body cold. I felt the world tilt as my knees gave out. I steadied myself with my hand on the wall, angry portrait people forgotten. In fact, everything faded into a grey haze as the message registered.

At the hotel. Text when you pass.

Typical dad. Short and to the point. No flair. No encouragement. All business. No matter how I tried to fool myself or whined inwardly about our pathetic attempt to climb from the low middle ranks of villain families, I knew I was the last shot my family had to change our place in history. It wasn't just my parents; it was every Blaze that ever walked the Earth that balanced on my shoulders. My family didn't consist solely of hacks and losers, though. A dreaded, humiliating family secret hung over our heads—my Great Grandpa was the legendary hero Full Strike.

A piercing whistle reverberated off the walls. I cringed and covered my ears. In the main entrance, a burly man stood with hands on his hips. He looked like he stepped out of an old mob movie. Short, compact, and arms like a gorilla, hairy knuckles to match. Built from muscle, what frightened me most about the infamous teacher Ham Hands was not that he looked like he could snap me like a twig, but the rumor that he actually killed a hero that way.

His scowling, pinched face looked once around the room.

"Cell phones away," he barked.

I hurried to comply, so did others.

A woman with eagle sharp features stepped forward, a manila folder in pale hand. Everything about her was the opposite from Ham Hands. Where he was short and all muscle, she was lean and tall. He was rough with a scrunched, wrinkled face. Her beauty lay in the acute angles that made up her features. He stood like a linebacker on a football team. Her stance was that of a dancer, erect and graceful. He was all man. She most definitely all woman. My eyes lingered on her ample breasts covered by a tight, pink blouse. His beady eyes like dark pools the same color of his hair, while her fair hair flowed loose down to back. His resting face seemed to be a scowl. A small smile rested on her lips as her large, pale blue orbs took in the students before her.

Even her honey voice was contrary to his gravelly one. "Good morning, students."

"Good morning," the other students answered in unison.

"For those of you who don't know, I'm Mistress Graves and this is Master Stevens. Our villain names are Asp and Crusher."

"If I hear any of you calling me Ham Hands, I will shove your head through a wall," Master Stevens said, eyes threatening.

An amused chuckle. Mistress Graves continued, "You are to take the entrance exam for Razor Stone Academy this morning. While you're here, you will address us as Mistress Graves and Master Stevens. You will be ignored, and possibly hurt if you call us anything else."

Master Stevens growled.

I heard someone swallow.

She pulled a paper from the folder. "You have assigned seating for the exams. When I call your name, please take a seat at this table, and remain quiet." With a long, elegant finger, she pointed to a table near her. "Inez Anders."

"You're assigning us seats?" Nikita's unmistakable voice cut her off.

Mistress Graves' face twisted marginally as her eyes laser focused on Nikita. "Feng Xuē. Sydney Blaze. Norman West."

I stopped listening. She called my name. Like wet sand filled my legs, they were heavy and unmovable. I thought if I took a step, I might fall flat on my face. That was the worry of my hammering heart. But I had to move. The students whose names she called swiftly found their seats. Yet, here I stood like an idiot. My eyes flicked to Mistress Graves, who had yet to ease her glare at Nikita. I didn't want her to look at me that way.

The thought got my legs moving before I knew it; I sat at a table with four other teens. My head down, I avoided eye contact with the others. I worked up the courage to look at the boy to my right, Feng. He stared. His slanted eyes didn't blink as he studied me. Immediately, I looked away. Those eyes reminded me of my dad's. Feng's were a deeper brown than my dad's but the intensity in which he stared at me felt exactly like my dad. Even the hint of disapproval matched perfectly.

Mistress Graves continued calling names. I stole a glance at the voluptuous older woman, eyes unconsciously drawn to her chest. Her boobs press against the fabric of her blouse, stretching out as she breathed. A sensation I'm unfamiliar with hit my abdomen, a tightening that I realized stirred lower between my legs. My face flushed with embarrassment. I wanted to tackle those feelings and lock them up where they came from with many locks—the biggest and the strongest. That whole moment didn't need to repeat itself. Nope. Self-conscious and uncomfortable, I lowered my eyes to my lap. Before I did, I caught Mistress Graves' steel eyes piercing into Nikita. The mean girl didn't pay attention, whether she didn't care or more likely she avoided those eyes that penetrated her skull like an icepick.

My gaze steady on the table in front of me, I batted at the image of those supple breasts as it hung on like a tick in my brain. That wasn't the time to fantasize. I scolded my stupid horniness. Nothing could fuck this up, not my over stimulated sexuality, not the other kids like Feng and Nikita who judged me, and not Yasuko Noguchi.

As if brought to life by my thoughts, Yasuko's soft, lyrical voice cut through the silence like a songbird at predawn.

"Forgive me, most honorable Mistress," she said.

I look. I can't help myself. She'd bent at the waist in a bow, arms stiff at her sides. Her long bangs obscured her face. A gesture I'd seen often enough in the Anime I sometimes watched. It mesmerized me.

"Yes?" Mistress Graves said.

"You have not called my name, Mistress."

At that, Mistress Graves flicked her attention to Yasuko. "Name?"

"Yasuko Noguchi, Mistress."

After looking over the list, she gestured Yasuko over.

My eyes wandered the room, noting the number of students at each table. Six at each. The only one without—. I realized too late. My heart stopped when Yasuko headed to my table. I worked to stay cool as my throat clamped shut.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I dug my nails into my sweaty palms to gain focus—tracked pain up my arm, to the burning in my chest, down to my sweaty butt on the hard wooden chair. Like a valve released, air flowed into my starving lungs. Awareness of my surroundings crept into focus. Back in the stuffy, quiet dining hall. Back to the table with the others, with Yasuko.

There she was, sitting down across from me. She flashed an easy smile my way, which I promptly ignored and looked elsewhere instead. I had to concentrate. Any thought of Yasuko took my focus away from the exams, a distraction I couldn't afford right now. Still, my traitorous brain had other ideas.

Yasuko Noguchi lived across the street from me. My dad said he inherited the house from his family. During my digging through family records, all I ever found were losers, nobodies, and deadbeats. When you're an only child who trains constantly with parents who only talk about developing abilities and skills, research became my way to forget about my loneliness. It was a game at first, which turned into an obsession, I guess. It calmed my brain after training. Despite how hard I searched, there were gaps in the records. Nothing explained how we lived in a house in one of the wealthiest parts of the city.

To be honest, I didn't care that my research came up nil on that front. The moment I saw Yasuko playing in her gated yard with her dogs, I thought of little else. My room faced the street, so I had a clear view of her house. My ninth birthday was around the corner and I remember looking out the window daydreaming about a party or something. It wasn't important. She was important. My neighbor, Yasuko, the daughter of the Japanese crime lord Masaru Noguchi, was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. Her laugh made me smile. I'd hear it sometimes on the breeze through my open window. Until my dad made me keep the window closed in case heroes were spying or something stupid like that. Paranoid isn't the half of it.

I didn't make it a habit to disobey my parents, except to see or hear Yasuko. I'd open the window if she were playing in her yard to catch her laugh in the wind. My body got warm and tingly every time I saw her. Though a familiar sensation, that day, sitting at the table across from her to take the entrance exams for Razor Stone Academy, it became fucking weird.

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