The announcement comes during morning lecture, and I know immediately that the universe has a sick sense of humor.
"A new experimental initiative," Professor Hendricks says, reading from his tablet like he's announcing a death sentence. "North Side and West Side will be participating in paired projects for exam session. Each of you has been randomly matched with a student from the opposite college. One week to complete and present. No exceptions, no switches, no excuses."
The room erupts.
"This is bullshit," someone behind me mutters.
A girl from my economics study group — Madison, I think, trust fund baby with a horse named after a Greek goddess — slams her notebook shut. "Why should we help those idiots? Half of them can barely read."
"They're going to drag our grades down." This from a guy in the front row, already typing furiously on his phone. "This is discrimination against students who actually worked to get here."
Laughter. Agreement. More complaints piling on top of each other like a avalanche of entitlement.
"My father is calling the dean. This is insane."
"I heard West Side doesn't even have a proper library."
"They probably think Excel is a type of car."
I sit frozen in my seat, listening to the venom pour out of people I've known for years. People I've sat beside at charity galas and sorority events. People whose parents golf with my parents, whose trust funds are managed by the same firms, whose futures were mapped out before they could walk.
They sound exactly like my father.
A month ago, I would have agreed with them. Would have rolled my eyes at the forced integration, complained about carrying dead weight, texted Maren something cutting about West Side hygiene.
Now the words make my stomach turn.
Because Ghost is West Side. Ghost, who listens when no one else does. Ghost, who held me together in the dark. Ghost, who might be —
I shut that thought down before it can finish.
The contact list goes up on the projector screen. Names paired with names, fates sealed by some administrator's random number generator. I scan for Wilson, my heart pounding against my ribs.
There it is.
Eleanor Wilson — Daniel Vega.
The universe isn't just laughing at me. It's doubled over, gasping for breath, wiping tears from its eyes.
I spend the next hour in a daze. Professor Hendricks keeps talking about project parameters and grading rubrics, but the words blur into static. I was supposed to go to the gaming club tonight. I was supposed to find Ghost, get my answers, figure out if I'm losing my mind.
Now I have to work with Danny.
The same Danny I've been avoiding for days. The same Danny who might be Ghost. The same Danny who let me struggle under a barbell and mocked me until I screamed his name.
A contact list circulates — phone numbers so partners can coordinate. Danny's number stares up at me from the page, ten digits that feel like a loaded gun.
I type and delete the same message four times before finally hitting send.
"This is Nora. When can you meet to start the project?"
His reply comes fast. Too fast. Like he was waiting.
"Tonight. I'm busy until 7. Come to the club and we'll go somewhere to work after."
I stare at the screen. The club. His motorcycle club. The place I've been avoiding on instinct, flinching at every engine rumble.
"Why the hell would I come there?"
"Do you need a good grade or not?"
"That's not an answer."
"Fine. Here's an answer: I'm not excited about this either. But the deadline is in a week and I'm not failing because you're too precious to step foot on my side of town."
My jaw tightens. Precious. Like I'm some fragile thing that can't handle a little dirt.
"I'm not precious."
"Then prove it. 7pm. I'll send the address."
I want to argue. I want to tell him to meet me somewhere neutral — a library, a coffee shop, anywhere that doesn't involve walking into a warehouse full of West Side guys who probably hate North Side girls on principle.
But he's right. The deadline is brutal. My grades are already being monitored by my parents — monthly reports, one bad mark and they'll be back in my apartment, finding new things to destroy.
I can't afford to fail.
"Fine," I type back. "Send the address."
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
"Don't wear anything expensive. The guys will eat you alive."
I don't dignify that with a response.
The drive across the city takes forty-five minutes. I watch the landscape shift through my windshield — manicured lawns giving way to chain-link fences, boutique coffee shops replaced by laundromats and check-cashing stores. The invisible line between North and West made visible in architecture and attitude.
Somewhere around the halfway point, I realize I haven't thought about Danny himself since the rooftop. Not really. I've been so consumed with the Ghost connection — is he or isn't he, could it be, what if — that I forgot Danny is a person too.
A person who watched me run away without explanation.
A person who probably thinks I'm insane. Or disgusted by him. Or both.
He was already hostile before the rooftop. The gym. The bar. The bet that made me feel like entertainment. But after I ran? After I looked at him like he'd grown a second head and bolted without a word?
He must hate me now.
Which is fine. I don't care if Danny Vega hates me.
Except some small, traitorous part of me does care. Some part that remembers the way he laughed — rough and warm and nothing like Tristan's polished performance. Some part that noticed his hands catching the barbell, steady and sure, even as his mouth said cruel things.
Some part that keeps whispering: what if he's Ghost? What if the person you hate and the person you love are the same?
My GPS announces that I've arrived. I pull into a parking spot across the street and kill the engine.
The rumble of motorcycles hits me immediately — engines revving, bass thumping from inside, the sound of a world I've been taught to fear my entire life.
I stare at the building through my windshield, heart hammering. Danny's clubhouse, surrounded by leather jackets and chrome and people who look at North Side girls like we're the enemy.
My hands shake as I start walking.
The warehouse comes into view first — a converted industrial building with motorcycles lined up outside like chrome soldiers. Music spills from the open door. Laughter. Someone shouting something I can't make out.
I stop at the edge of the parking lot, heart hammering.
This is insane. I should turn around. Drive back. Email Danny that we can meet tomorrow, somewhere civilized, somewhere that doesn't smell like gasoline and testosterone.
But then I think about my father's voice: "West Side is trash."
And I think about Ghost's voice: "Rules are optional."
And I think about my own voice, all those times I agreed with people like Madison without questioning why.
Maybe that's the person I need to stop being.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk toward the sound of motorcycles.
Whatever happens next, at least I'll stop hiding.