WHATEVER I'M FEELING, KYLER MUST be feeling tenfold.

I hear him exhale shakily, but other than that, he hasn't moved or made a sound. I glance over my shoulder at him, his face cutting a tragic silhouette in profile. Looking at Kyler is heartbreaking.

The edges of his eyes are cloudy and shimmering, cheeks completely drained of colour and lips trembling. It's only money that's being stolen, but the implications of what Brittany's telling Terrence to do is much more than a handful of loose change.

That money is Kyler's last shot at saving the newspaper he's nurtured for years. He loves being editor, he loves writing and showing people what the downfalls and beauties of being human are. The absence of his hard-earned donations could break him.

But there's not much Kyler can do to stop it, unless he plans to follow Terrence around every day for the rest of the year. Even then, he can only do so much. Locks can be picked, and Brittany will always find some other way to get the money if Terrence is stalled. We both know this.

Reece's pristine car flashes in my mind, with it the memories of a stressful, illuminating exchange. He mentioned Brittany taking a break from the Monarchy, needing to gather her strength, and that we should make the most of the reprieve. Terrence essentially said the same thing.

With things as they are, the ceasefire must have ended. It wouldn't have lasted long, anyway. It was incredibly lucky it lasted as long as it did. Brittany must have needed a long rest, and it clearly paid off. She looks invincible and colder than ever. I'm not afraid, just sad that she struck back when the Chronicle was gaining traction.

I suppose I should be grateful that Kyler managed to get out what successful editions of the paper that he did, but I'm disheartened that he couldn't publish more.

Terrence's voice drifts around the corner. "No."

"No?" Brittany takes a measured step towards him. I've been the subject of her petrifying glare many a time, the shivers that slither down one's bones and the dizzying scent of her saccharine perfume. "Now Terrence, I think you're forgetting where your place is. Remember, I was the one who—"

"Okay!" Terrence shouts. His head drops the second after, hands raising to rub his temple like the sudden volume brought on a headache. "I'll do it. Is this all you need?"

"For now."

Kyler and I sense that Madison and Brittany are done with the press room. Taking quiet steps, we rush deeper into the unlit hallway, taking refuge in the doorway of a science classroom. As soon as our backs press against the cold wood, clicking heels and shuffling footsteps walk past where we were seconds ago. Once the air falls still and silent, Kyler pulls me out into the corridor.

"We have to stop them."

"Yeah, didn't someone tell them?" I agree, "Stealing is fucking wrong."

We both jolt when a voice comes from behind us, at the mouth of the hall. "Half an hour."

Looking like the dead freshly arisen, Terrence's tall frame casts a long shadow towards where Kyler and I stand. Confused, I survey his face, wondering if he's telling us the amount of sleep he's gotten in the past few days.

It certainly looks like he's only slept half an hour.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Kyler bitterly asks.

"You have half an hour to get as much money out as you can, before I come around and take what's left."

The only thing to do is stare in shock. In the back of my mind, I wonder if this is a trick Brittany told him to play on us, so we'll run right into her clutches. Nowadays, I can't help but think that all acts of kindness must stem from a selfish, ulterior motive. The Monarchy makes me lose all faith in humanity.

Terrence doesn't seem bothered by the sceptical look I'm pinning him with. "Won't Brittany find out when you show up with no money in your hands?"

"She won't find out. Reece will be more than glad to give me some cash."

"So Reece is in on this, too?" At this point, I'm so confused. Terrence's loyalties don't seem to call anyone home. Maybe he's a two-faced traitor, only looking out for himself.

"Sophie, you don't have much time. You can spend valuable time doubting my character, or you can go before Brittany comes back for the money. If that happens, I think we'll all need to be carried out on stretchers."

"He's right, Sophie," Kyler murmurs, softly tugging me away from Terrence. "Come on."

Once out of earshot, and racing towards the donation box we walked past to get here, Kyler speaks. "That was weird. Uncharacteristic of him. Do you know Terrence?"

"Don't we all know him? I was under the impression everyone knew the Monarchy."

"Yeah, but I mean know him. Personally."

"Um." How would I classify our relationship? We're barely friends, but I sometimes get information from him. Maybe through circumstance, he trusts me more than he should. Maybe it's the same for me. "I guess he's the lesser of five evils."

Kyler exhales a humourless chuckle as we scour the school, repeating the pattern we used last week. I hold the money sack, which Kyler keeps in his knapsack. Each time we successfully clear out a box, Kyler feverishly checks his watch. And the look on his face is always the same: panicked, and close crumbling under the stress. It drives me crazy.

By the time we get back, we are flat out of breath and unable to speak. That's more than enough running for me.

Terrence is leaning against the press room door, looking on the brink of sleep. "You got all of it?"

I nod heavily, the weighty bag hitting my leg gently. His tawny hair tumbles into his eyes as he raises his head from the door. After forcing himself to his feet, Terrence slowly walks away. Simple as that. But for me, it's not simple. Nothing has been for a while.

Every time I figure out a solution or uncover a secret, a dozen more problems spring up. As of present, the dozen new problems all centre around the newspaper, and what hand Terrence has in saving or destroying it. So far, he's been the only one to openly act upon his dislike for Brittany.

Reece has expressed his discomfort with being in the Monarchy, but I know he's not like Terrence. He'll remain loyal to Brittany so long as she has her leash on him. Derek and Madison are shadowy, in means and motive. I'm not nearly close enough to them to decode their thoughts.

But Terrence — he helped us the day we played the video and he's helping us now. Why? It makes no sense why he'd blatantly disobey Brittany like this, just when she's ended the ceasefire. And a thought seizes me, making the relief of Terrence's small gesture vanish.

Terrence has been coming to the press room for the last three days. Brittany said so.

"Kyler... Open the door."

Kyler does as I say, too tired to question why. He uses his key gingerly, and all it does is cement the futility of trying to defend the press room when Terrence knows how to fucking lockpick.

The door whines as I push it open. It's like it doesn't want us to see inside. The light from outside cuts a harsh rectangle on the floor, highlighting ripped, inky paper.

I should have known.

Terrence wouldn't just let us salvage the money out of the kindness of his heart. What he did for me at the sound booth was repaid by a snake. What he did for us here is repaid by destruction. He wanted us to have a means to soften the blow. And if he hopes a bit of cash will make this any less devastating, he is stupider than I am.

When the lights flicker on, the extent of the destruction drives a stake into me. The air is knocked out of me, and even taking a breath feels painful. Kyler elbows his way past me to get a better look at the press room. His hands are shaking.

The computers have been thrown carelessly on the floor, a few screens cracked beyond repair. Strewn throughout the rooms and walkways are shreds of older copies of the Carsonville Chronicle. All the developing photos Wyn had hung up on the clotheslines are unpegged and trampled into the ground. It's like a whirlwind came in and tore everything up. This is only my second visit, but even I can tell that nothing is where it belongs.

The most looming difference is that the three print machines that used to sit on the right side of the room are gone. Lines of dirt and dust reveal the shape of the machines, like a chalk outline for a murder victim. The floor is stark white where the printers once sat. They've been unbolted from the floor and simply wheeled out. And it was probably in the previous days.

Terrence did this.

I'm fuming, and all I can think about is getting revenge. But a small part of me, the cold water amidst a wildfire, is reminding me that Terrence is only an extension of Brittany. Everything he does is a product of her twisted, tyrannical mind. He can stand to be a charming guy when he's not doing devious favours for Brittany.

But the pain he causes outweighs everything else about him, so my anger will burn on.

I have half a mind to storm out of there and hunt down those bastards, who might still be in school. I want to demand they haul back the print machines and replace every copy of the newspaper they ruined. Then my eyes land on the trembling figure of Kyler Valentin, and his tears douse the fire inside me instantly.

He's kneeling on the ground, staring at something. A note lies in front of him, ostensibly discarded by chance. One glance at the letterhead tells me that it's been sent on the school's behalf. This pisses me off immensely, because I hoped to report this to Principal Fisher and see if he might do anything about this. But the letter probably means that Brittany has convinced him to condone it.

How can she be one step ahead of us all the damn time?

She's got control of Carsonville's social media activity through Madison, has a spy through Terrence, a steady stream of cash from Reece, a bodyguard through Derek and immunity to the rules through Principal Fisher.

It's a foolproof system, because the components are all linked to each other. But it can also work against her. If all the puppets she controls are linked to each other, then it only takes the removal of one to topple her whole empire.

With a tiny flicker of hope, I direct my attention to Kyler. It takes three attempts to make him look at me, instead of the letter on the floor. There really is no way to describe how he looks right now. The closest would be more tortured than tortured and sadder than sad.

His pain is one I can't take away with the kindest words in the world. I hug him tightly, and try to keep my breathing steady. For a moment he just breathes jaggedly into my shoulder before crossing his arms loosely around my back.

If I'd been attacked like this, my immediate response would be to fight. I don't think I could back down, despite the odds being stacked against me. But Kyler is different. He has no defences. He's a diplomat. He's a gentleman. He wants to spread knowledge and consideration but to do that, he's had to open himself up to whatever the world has to offer him. Fair or foul.

"They're not going to get away with this." It's a feeble attempt to console him, but still.

Kyler chuckles emptily. "That may be the most cliché thing I've ever heard."

"Then the villain says that they've already gotten away with it and starts to monologue." I add onto the joke.

"But they never win."

"Exactly, Kyler."

I can feel his laughter in his chest. The toxic mix of anguish and fury that sunk into me rolls away like water, leaving me feeling thoroughly numb and empty. I really should stop caring about so much. Every time I do, people get hurt because of their connection to me.

"It's not your fault, Sophie."

"Hm?"

"I know you'll go home, overthink the whole thing, and conclude that Brittany attacked the Chronicle because it supports the Revolution. But I'm fighting for the same thing as you."

"Okay."

"I'm serious. It would have happened eventually, with or without your help. Read the letter."

Dear Sir/Madam,

To whom it may concern, the school is facing some recent budgeting obstacles. In order to maintain the quality of our curricular services, we regret to inform you that your extracurricular activity is being shut down. You have not managed to pay your operational fees and have left the school with a debt of $3296.87. We have confiscated equipment to balance this debt.

I thank the five students who brought your outstanding debt to my attention and hope you have more success with your endeavours in the distant future. Any further questions can be directed towards the school secretary or any administration staff.

Yours faithfully,

E. Fisher

Fuck that. What are they trying to pull here? Spouting some crap about the newspaper not being able to pay for itself. It may have accumulated some debt, but the bag full of money in my hands is a testament to how rewarding the Chronicle can be if allowed the space to grow and spread its petals.

"Come on, Kyler. Don't give up. We can get Wyn, Delaney and my friends to help us. Maybe do a petition to keep the newspaper going." I rise to my feet.

"That's not going to work."

"Why not?"

"No-one cares about the newspaper."

"Then we'll make them care as much as you do. No-one could ignore that it's great if we showed them." I hope I sound convincing because honestly, my plans haven't been working out so far.

"One problem. I owe the school—" he glances at the paper in my hands "—three thousand, two hundred, ninety-six dollars and eighty-seven cents."

I extend my hand down to him. "Well, it's not an impossible number to make up for. It only means we need to work harder. Okay?"

Kyler sighs depressedly. I wonder if, after four years of grief, he's finally run out of love to give the newspaper. But then he glances upward, and pulls himself up with my hand.

"Okay," he agrees. "You're fudging crazy. But okay. Let's get the newspaper back."