Eight elite students at Ridgemont Academy thought I was just an ordinary scholarship girl — Until they saw the FBI break into their $90,000 mansion and “break” the most dangerous thing.
PART 1: THE BAIT
The slap echoed through the packed cafeteria like a gunshot. My head snapped to the side, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. My left cheek burned, pulsing with the rhythm of my heart, but I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even flinch.
I stood perfectly still in the center of the Ridgemont Academy cafeteria, staring directly at Preston Blackwood. He was smiling—that arrogant, shark-like smirk that had terrorized this school for years.
Around us, 200 students froze, their high-priced smartphones raised like digital tombstones to record my humiliation.
Preston laughed, leaning in so close I could smell the expensive espresso and the sheer entitlement on his breath. “Know your place, Kansas,” he sneered.
“Scholarship trash doesn’t talk back to royalty.”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I slowly raised my left arm and glanced at my watch. The second hand swept past the twelve.
“Three more minutes,” I whispered.
My voice was unnaturally calm, a contrast to the chaotic energy of the room.
Preston’s smirk faltered.
“Three minutes for what? To pray?”
“Three more minutes,” I repeated, meeting his gaze with eyes that weren’t those of a victim, “and I’ll have everything I need.”
I leaned my head down slightly, as if submissive, but my lips were inches from the tiny, high-gain microphone hidden in my starched white collar.
“Phoenix to Cardinal,” I muttered.
“Target has taken the bait. Prepare for breach in T-minus 10.”
Three weeks ago, I had arrived at Ridgemont Academy. My backstory was a masterpiece of fiction crafted by the best data scrubbers in the federal government. Grace Sullivan: orphan from Kansas, 4.0 GPA, quiet, vulnerable. I was the perfect prey for a predator like Preston Blackwood.
But I wasn’t Grace Sullivan, the orphan. I was Junior Agent Grace Sullivan, Identification Delta 77, and I was here for blood.
PART 2: THE RECKONING
Ridgemont wasn’t just a school; it was a hunting ground. Preston and his “Elite 8” crew operated under an impenetrable shield of their parents’ billions. But they had grown sloppy. They thought they were untouchable because they had never met someone who wasn’t afraid to die.
Earlier that day, I had felt the calluses on Preston’s thumb and index finger when he grabbed my wrist. They were specific—the kind you get from repeatedly tightening industrial-grade zip ties. The kind used to restrain people who don’t want to be moved.
“Listen carefully, Kansas,” Preston shouted, realizing the crowd was unsettled by my composure.
“This school has its own laws, and the first law is knowing your place.”
“Interesting you mention laws,” I replied, finally allowing the steel to enter my voice. I straightened my posture, shedding the “quiet girl” persona like a second skin.
“Do you know the federal sentence for interstate human trafficking? It’s 25 to life, Preston. Especially when the victims are under 18.”
The word “trafficking” detonated like a flashbang. Ryan, Preston’s second-in-command, started shaking. His Instagram live-stream, titled “Humiliating Kansas Girl,” was suddenly flooded with comments—not of mockery, but of horror.
I pulled out my phone. My fingers flew across a military-grade security application. Within seconds, I hijacked Ryan’s stream.
“How did you—” Preston lunged for my phone, but I moved with a fluid, textbook combat motion I had practiced a thousand times. I caught his wrist, twisted, and forced him to his knees. The sound of his joint popping was lost in his cry of pain.
“Melissa Chen, 16. Missing since September 12th,” I said, my voice carrying to every corner of the silent cafeteria.
“Jennifer Park, 17. Disappeared September 25th. Ashley Rivera, 15. Last seen October 8th.”
Ryan fumbled with his phone, his voice cracking into his earpiece.
“Code Red! The girl knows about the basement! Clean everything now!”
I smiled, and it wasn’t a kind look.
“Thank you, Ryan. That call just gave us three more localized pings. We now have the exact GPS coordinates of the buyers.”
Suddenly, the fire alarms began to shriek—but not in the standard rhythm. It was a tactical signal.
“T-minus 30 seconds,” I announced.
“I suggest everyone get on the floor. Now.”
The cafeteria doors didn’t just open—they exploded. Controlled charges blew the hinges, and SWAT teams poured through the smoke, tactical lights cutting through the chaos like lasers.
Special Agent Director Mills walked through the breach, his expression grim.
“Agent Sullivan. Report status.”
I reached into my blazer and pulled out my badge, the gold reflecting the fluorescent lights.
“Primary suspect Preston Blackwood in custody, sir. Requesting immediate extraction for the victims in the East Building basement.”
The shock that rippled through the room was physical. The “charity case” was their judge and executioner.
We found them. Melissa, Jennifer, and Ashley. They were alive, held in a soundproofed bunker beneath the very gym where Preston played varsity basketball. As they were carried out on gurneys, Preston sat on the floor in zip ties—the irony wasn’t lost on me.
“My father… he made me do it,” Preston blubbered, the transition from king to coward complete.
“Richard Blackwood. It’s a family business.”
I knelt beside him, my voice low and dangerous.
“I know, Preston. And your father is currently being arrested at his Manhattan office. But this isn’t just about the Blackwoods.”
I turned to the Principal, Henderson, who was trying to slip out the back.
“Principal Henderson? Or should I say Kevin Matthews? The East Coast coordinator for this entire network?”
He didn’t even make it to the door before a SWAT officer tackled him.
This was for my sister, Emma. She didn’t make it out of a network like this two years ago. I had spent every waking hour since her death training for this three-week undercover stint.
Every insult, every milk carton thrown at me, every slap—it was all worth it to see the “Elite” crumble.
But as a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the school gates later that evening, my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
“Impressive work, little wolf. But you only caught one head. The Hydra has seven more. Watch your back.”
I looked at the photo of Emma in my wallet. The war wasn’t over. Ridgemont was just the first domino. I stepped into the sedan, leaving the sirens and the ruined lives of the “Elite 8” behind.
“Phoenix to Cardinal,” I said into my comms.
“Assignment accepted. Let’s hunt the second head.”
PART 3: THE HEART OF THE HYDRA
The sirens were a beautiful symphony. They screamed through the manicured hills of Greenwich, tearing through the silence that wealth usually buys. I stood in the middle of the Ridgemont Academy cafeteria, my boots planted firmly in the spilled chocolate milk and the shattered remains of Preston Blackwood’s ego.
“Agent Sullivan, we have the perimeter. The victims are secured. Paramedics are moving in,” Agent Mills’ voice came through my earpiece, grounding me.
I looked at Preston. He was still on his knees, his wrists bound by the very zip ties he had used to terrorize girls like Melissa. He looked at me, his eyes searching for the “Grace” he could bully. He found nothing but the cold, hard reality of an operative who had played him like a cheap violin.
“My sister,” I whispered, leaning down so close that the cameras couldn’t catch my words.
“Her name was Emma. Two years ago, she was a guest at your Friday night party. She was sixteen. She came home a ghost, Preston. And six months later, she left us for good.”
Preston’s jaw dropped.
“I… I don’t remember her.”
“That’s the difference between us,” I said, my voice as sharp as a scalpel.
“You don’t remember the lives you break. But I remember every single one of you.”
I stood up and turned to Agent Mills.
“Take him. And get a forensics team on his phone. There’s a ghost server he uses to communicate with the buyers in Manhattan.”
As the SWAT teams cleared the building, the “Elite 8” were lined up like common criminals. These were kids who had never faced a consequence they couldn’t buy their way out of. Now, they were staring at the barrel of a federal indictment.
The Principal, Henderson—or Matthews, as we knew him in the files—was being dragged toward a transport vehicle. He was screaming about his rights.
“Rights?” I shouted across the quad, my voice vibrating with three weeks of suppressed rage.
“You sold the children you were supposed to protect! You don’t have rights anymore. You have a cell.”
THE DOCK RAID: BATTLE IN THE SHADOWS
The intel from Ryan’s phone was the key. Shipping container BWXU793. Hartford Docks.
I didn’t wait for the debrief. I jumped into a black tactical SUV with Mills. We flew down the I-95, the blue and red lights reflecting off the rainy asphalt. My hands were steady on my sidearm, but my mind was in that basement.
“Sullivan, stay focused,” Mills cautioned.
“You’ve been under for three weeks. The adrenaline is high. Don’t let the personal stuff cloud your sight.”
“Personal is why I’m good at this, sir,” I replied.
We hit the docks at 0200 hours. The air smelled of salt and industrial grease. The shipping yard was a labyrinth of steel cages. We moved in silence, a black shadow against the grey fog of the Atlantic.
“Thermal signature detected in the blue container,” the drone operator whispered over the comms.
“Armed guards on the perimeter. Two snipers on the crane.”
“Cardinal to Phoenix,” I signaled.
“I’m moving in for the breach. Cover me.”
I moved like a ghost between the containers. I saw the guards—men hired by Richard Blackwood, professionals with cold eyes. They weren’t teenagers. This was the real Hydra.
I took the first guard out with a silent neck restraint, his body sagging into the shadows. The second guard turned, his hand reaching for his radio, but I was faster. Two rounds from my suppressed weapon, center mass. He went down without a sound.
I reached the container. The lock was heavy, a high-security electronic bolt. I pulled out my tactical tablet, slaving it to the container’s wireless frequency.
3… 2… 1…
The doors hissed open.
The sight inside ripped my heart out. Twenty-three girls, huddled together on thin mattresses. They were terrified, their eyes wide and hollow. They looked just like Emma did when she came home.
“FBI! You’re safe! Stay down!” I yelled, my voice breaking for the first time.
Behind me, the docks erupted into a war zone. The Blackwood mercenaries realized they were being raided. Tracers lit up the night sky like demonic fireworks.
“Get them out of here!” I screamed to the tactical team.
I turned just in time to see Richard Blackwood himself stepping out of a black Bentley near the pier. He held a submachine gun, his face twisted in a snarl.
“You ruined everything!” he bellowed, spraying bullets toward the container.
I dove behind a stack of pallets, the wood splinters flying like shrapnel. I breathed.
4 seconds in. 4 seconds out.
I leaned out, my sights aligned with Richard’s shoulder. One shot. He spun, the gun flying from his hands as he hit the ground.
I didn’t kill him. Death was too easy for a man like him. I wanted him to see the faces of the girls he had tried to sell. I wanted him to rot in a federal prison in Colorado where no amount of money could buy him a warm meal.
THE FINAL TRUTH
By dawn, the Hartford Docks were a sea of federal agents and paramedics. Richard Blackwood was in an ambulance, handcuffed to the gurney. Preston was already in a cell in New Haven.
I sat on the back of a tactical truck, a grey blanket over my shoulders. Agent Mills walked over, handing me a coffee.
“We got them all, Sullivan. All twenty-three. And the data we pulled from Richard’s laptop? It’s a goldmine. Six more schools. Seven more ‘Heads’ of this Hydra.”
I looked at the sunrise. It was beautiful, but it felt temporary.
“Henderson said the Hydra has seven heads,” I said, my voice hollow.
“Richard was just one. The Blackwoods were just one cell.”
“And we’ll find the rest,” Mills promised.
Suddenly, a black sedan pulled up to the perimeter. The windows were tinted blacker than the night. The back door opened slightly. A man in a dark suit gestured for me.
“Who is that?” Mills asked, his hand going to his holster.
“My next assignment,” I said, standing up.
I walked toward the car, leaving Ridgemont Academy and the ruins of the Blackwood empire behind. As I reached the door, I turned back to look at the girls being loaded into the ambulances. They were going home.
But as I stepped into the car, a new message popped up on my phone. An image. It was a photo of me, sitting in the Ridgemont cafeteria, taken just five minutes before the breach.
“One head down. Six to go, Little Wolf. See you in Boston. – H.”
The war hadn’t ended at Ridgemont. It had just begun. The Hydra was deeper than we thought, embedded in the very fabric of the elite. And I wouldn’t stop until every single head was severed.
For Emma. For Melissa. For every girl the world forgot.
“Drive,” I said to the driver.
“We have a lot of work to do.”
PART 4: THE BOSTON BREACH
The wet pavement of Beacon Hill, Boston, mirrored the cold, dark void in my chest. Greenwich was a victory, but the Hydra didn’t die when you cut off a single head; it just grew back hungrier. The text from “H” burned in my brain.
Richard Blackwood was a pawn. Preston was a footnote. The real architect was still out there, sipping $500 scotch in a brownstone that had been paid for with the lives of girls like my sister, Emma.
“Sullivan, you’re drifting,” Agent Mills said, his voice crackling through my comms.
I blinked, refocusing on the tactical monitor inside the unmarked van. My hands, still scarred from the Greenwich docks, hovered over the keyboard. We were positioned outside the Sterling Estate. $150 million of old money, high walls, and a security system that would make the Pentagon jealous.
“I’m not drifting, Mills. I’m calculating,” I snapped. I adjusted the tactical titanium pen in my pocket.
“Senator Elias Sterling doesn’t just run the state; he runs the network. The Blackwoods were his distributors. The girls from Ridgemont were ‘inventory.’ If we don’t hit him tonight, at the Founder’s Gala, the rest of the Hydra goes dark forever.”
Mills sighed.
“You’ve been undercover for six weeks straight, Grace. First Ridgemont, now this. Your vitals are red-lining. You haven’t slept more than three hours a night.”
“I’ll sleep when the Hydra is in a cage,” I whispered.
I stepped out of the van, draped in a $10,000 gown of midnight blue—the color of a bruise. I wasn’t the scholarship girl from Kansas anymore.
Tonight, I was the daughter of a fake oil tycoon from Texas. I walked up the cobblestone path, my heels clicking like the countdown on my watch.
The security guard at the gate scanned my biometric invite. He didn’t see the Junior Agent. He didn’t see the girl whose sister died in a cold room in Hartford. He saw a target.
“Welcome to the Sterling Estate, Miss Vance,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Thank you,” I smiled, a cold, predatory curve of my lips.
“I’ve heard this party is… life-changing.”
THE FINAL TRAP
The ballroom was a masterpiece of 19th-century opulence. Crystal chandeliers, gold leaf, and the most powerful men in the country. This was the “Head.” Senator Sterling stood at the center of the room, looking every bit the American hero.
I scanned the room. Tactical breathing: 4 seconds in, 4 seconds out.
My heart rate slowed to a steady 60 BPM. I identified the exits, the guards, and the hidden cameras. I saw the silver rings—the serpent and the key—on at least five men in the room. It wasn’t just a school ring; it was a brand.
“Senator Sterling,” I said, gliding into his orbit.
“A pleasure to finally meet the man behind the curtain.”
Sterling turned, his eyes narrowing. He was seventy, with a voice like polished mahogany.
“And you are?”
“The girl who found the basement at Ridgemont,” I whispered, stepping close.
The color didn’t just drain from his face; it vanished. He tried to maintain his composure, but I saw the micro-tremor in his hand. The same hand that had likely signed off on Emma’s transfer.
“You’re bold, Agent Sullivan,” he hissed, his voice dropping an octave.
“But you’re out of your league. You think a badge protects you here? My friends own the Department of Justice. By morning, you’ll be a headline: ‘Undercover Agent Suffers Mental Breakdown, Commits Suicide.'”
“Funny,” I said, checking my watch.
“My sister’s journal said the exact same thing about your threats. But she left me something you didn’t count on. The encryption keys to your private server.”
I pressed a button on my watch.
Across the room, the massive 4K displays meant to show the Sterling Family history flickered. Instead of black-and-white photos of ancestors, the screens filled with ledgers.
Names. Dates. Prices. The faces of the girls from Ridgemont, from St. Jude’s, from every elite school on the East Coast.
The music stopped. The champagne glasses stayed mid-air.
“Phoenix to Cardinal,” I barked into my collar.
“The Head is exposed. Initiate total breach.”
The windows didn’t just break; they vaporized. Flashbangs turned the room into a white void. I didn’t wait for the SWAT team. I lunged for Sterling. He was fast for an old man, reaching for a concealed pistol in his waistband, but I was faster.
I used a textbook CQC move, grabbing his wrist and driving my palm into his elbow. The bone snapped with a satisfying crack. He went to his knees, howling as I pinned him to the floor.
“That’s for Emma,” I whispered, my knee buried in his back.
“You… you’ll never stop us all,” Sterling gasped, blood trickling from his lip onto the white marble.
“The Hydra… we are everywhere.”
“Then I’ll be everywhere too,” I replied.
THE AFTERMATH: THE LONG ROAD HOME
The Sterling Estate was a crime scene for three weeks. We recovered fifty-four girls from the underground facility. They were the ones the world had already given up on.
But as I watched the paramedics help them into the sunlight, I realized the cost of the war.
I sat on the steps of the estate, my gown torn, my hands covered in Sterling’s blood. Agent Mills walked over and sat next to me. He didn’t say anything at first. He just handed me the photo of Emma.
“We found the rest of the journals, Grace. Sterling was the one who personally oversaw her ‘sale.’ The evidence is ironclad. He’s going to spend the rest of his life in a hole so deep he’ll forget what the sun looks like.”
I looked at the photo. Emma was smiling. She looked so young. So safe.
“Is it over?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“The Blackwoods are in prison. Sterling is in custody. The Hydra is shattered,” Mills said.
“But there will always be another shadow, Grace. That’s why we do what we do.”
I stood up, the adrenaline finally leaving my system, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. I looked at the FBI badge in my hand. It was just a piece of metal, but it carried the weight of every soul we had saved.
I walked toward the black sedan waiting at the gate. I wasn’t Grace Sullivan the scholarship girl, and I wasn’t just Delta 77. I was the girl who had burned down the playground of the elite to save the children they thought they owned.
As the car pulled away from Beacon Hill, my phone buzzed. No blocked number this time. Just a text from Melissa Chen, the first girl I saved at Ridgemont.
“Thank you, Grace. We’re finally sleeping without the lights on.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back. For the first time in two years, I breathed.
Not tactical breathing. Just… a breath.
The Hydra was dead. For now. And if it ever grew another head, I’d be there with the blade.
PART 5: THE CAPITAL OF SHADOWS
The marble monuments of Washington D.C. looked like white bones bleaching under the cold March sun. This was the final stop. The “Head” of the Hydra wasn’t in a school basement or a Boston brownstone; it was here, in the literal heart of American power.
The text from “H” had changed. It wasn’t a threat anymore; it was an invitation.
“The reflection in the mirror is always the last thing you see, Little Wolf. Come to the Congressional Ball. Let’s finish the dance.”
I sat in a safe house in Alexandria, staring at the digital footprint of the “H” server. My eyes were bloodshot, my fingers trembling from a cocktail of caffeine and pure, unadulterated rage. I had dismantled the distribution. I had arrested the financiers. But the soul of the network—the man who actually ordered Emma’s “delivery”—was still breathing.
“Grace, stop,” Agent Mills said, walking into the room. He looked older, his face etched with a weariness that mirrored my own.
“We have Sterling. We have the Blackwoods. The task force is declaring victory. They want to bring you in. They want to give you a medal and a new identity.”
I didn’t look up. I was tracing a routing number found in Sterling’s private ledger. It wasn’t a bank. It was a black-budget government account.
“They want to bury me, Mills,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a deep well.
“Because if they give me a medal, I stop looking. And if I stop looking, they stay safe.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Mills asked, his voice low.
I finally turned to him.
“The account belongs to the Office of Intelligence Coordination. The very office that funds our task force. ‘H’ isn’t an outsider, Mills. ‘H’ is the Director.”
The silence in the room was deafening. Director William Thorne. The man who had sat in my living room and promised my grieving parents that he would find Emma’s killers. The man who had “recruited” me, knowing my personal trauma would make me the perfect, obsessed weapon to clear out his “disloyal” underlings like the Blackwoods.
“You’re theorizing, Sullivan,” Mills whispered, but his eyes told me he knew I was right.
“If you go after Thorne in D.C., there’s no extraction. No backup. You’ll be labeled a rogue agent. They’ll kill you before you reach the podium.”
I checked my watch. The second hand was a heartbeat.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve been practicing my rogue moves,” I said, sliding the tactical titanium pen—the one that could pierce a car door—into my clutch.
THE FINAL BALL: THE BEAST UNMASKED
The Congressional Ball at the National Portrait Gallery was a sea of power and lies. I wore a gown of liquid silver, a color that blended into the moonlight. My heart rate was a steady, rhythmic 55 BPM. Tactical breathing: 4 seconds in, 4 seconds out.
I didn’t have a badge. I didn’t have a team. I just had the truth.
I saw him near the statue of Lincoln. Director Thorne. He was the picture of a patriot—silver hair, an American flag pin on his lapel, and a smile that had fooled the nation for decades.
“Director Thorne,” I said, stepping into his path.
He didn’t look surprised. He took a sip of his champagne and leaned in.
“Agent Sullivan. Or should I say, the scholarship girl from Kansas? You’ve made quite a mess of my distributors.”
“Distributors?” I whispered, my hand tightening on the pen.
“You mean the people who kidnapped my sister? The people you paid to break her?”
“Emma was a rare gem, Grace,” Thorne said, his voice devoid of any human emotion.
“High intelligence, perfect health, and no powerful family to come looking… or so I thought. I didn’t count on a younger sister with a death wish and a talent for combat.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You have everything. Why this?”
“Power isn’t about money, Grace. It’s about leverage. My network owns the secrets of the people in this room. I don’t just run an intelligence office; I run the country.”
He signaled to two men in black suits—his personal security detail.
“But every operation has a life cycle. And yours ends tonight.”
I didn’t wait for them to move. I pivoted, driving my heel into the first guard’s kneecap. As he went down, I used the momentum to drive the titanium pen into the second guard’s shoulder, hitting the nerve cluster. He dropped his weapon, his arm paralyzed.
The gala erupted into screams. Power-players dove under tables.
But Thorne didn’t run. He pulled a compact 9mm from his jacket.
“You’re good, Grace. But I’m the one who taught you,” he sneered, leveling the gun at my chest.
“I learned one thing you didn’t teach me, Thorne,” I said, raising my watch.
“Transparency.”
Behind him, the massive digital displays in the gallery—the ones meant to show the portraits of the Founding Fathers—flickered and died. Then, they were replaced by a live recording.
Thorne’s own voice filled the room.
“Emma Sullivan is too unstable. Move her to the secondary facility. If she can’t be broken, she’s an overhead cost. Liquidate the asset.”
I had been recording our entire conversation on a blockchain-encrypted loop, broadcasting it directly to every news outlet in the D.C. area through a hijacked satellite link Mills had secretly set up for me.
“You’re live, Director,” I whispered.
“The whole world is watching.”
Thorne looked at the screens, then back at me. The American hero was gone. In his place was the Hydra. He roared, his finger tightening on the trigger, but a single shot rang out from the balcony.
Thorne spun, his shoulder shattering as he hit the marble floor.
Agent Mills stood at the railing, his sniper rifle still smoking.
“Phoenix to Cardinal. Target is down. Federal Marshals are entering the building.”
THE END: BEYOND THE SHADOWS
The fallout of the D.C. raid was a political earthquake. The Office of Intelligence Coordination was dissolved. Director Thorne was sentenced to life in a maximum-security black site—a place as dark as the one he had sent Emma to.
The task force found Emma’s real journal in Thorne’s private safe. The last entry wasn’t about pain. It was a message to me.
“Grace, if you’re reading this, it means you found the truth. Don’t let the shadows take you too. Live for both of us. The Hydra is just a myth men use to feel powerful. They’re just men, Grace. And men can be broken.”
I stood at Emma’s grave in Kansas three months later. The sun was warm, and the wheat fields were gold, just like she remembered them. I wasn’t wearing a gown or a tactical vest. I was wearing a simple sweater and jeans.
I placed a single white lily on her headstone.
“It’s over, Emma,” I whispered.
“They’re all in cages.”
Agent Mills stood by the car, waiting. He had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but he had resigned from the FBI.
“Where to now, Grace?” he asked as I walked back to the SUV.
“The Bureau wants you back. They say there’s a new task force forming.”
I looked at the horizon. I thought about the 200 girls we saved. I thought about the families who finally had their daughters back. But I also thought about the look in Thorne’s eyes—the knowledge that there would always be someone else waiting to fill the void.
“I’m not going back, Mills,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Then what are you going to do?”
I touched the titanium pen in my pocket—the one I had kept.
“I’m going to do what Emma told me. I’m going to live. But if I ever see a silver ring with a serpent and a key… I’ll be back.”
The car pulled away, leaving the quiet grave and the ghosts of Ridgemont Academy behind. Grace Sullivan was gone.
The scholarship girl was a memory. But the Hunter? The Hunter was just getting started.
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