Prologue 𖹭
Found girl, Waverly

         𝔗he corner house on South Palm was a fever dream aglow in the night air of steamy Florida, every window running over with music, laughter, the occasional shriek that could be joy or despair. Palm trees—untrimmed fronds, brown-tipped—stood above the roof, long shadows falling on the lawn where crushed beer cans glinted like hurried abandonment trinkets. Cars straggled along the sidewalk in unlevel rows, dashboards aglow with notes left unread, headlights going dim late as if the drivers had been too busy to bother parking nicely. The battered teal front door creaked open and closed on a hinge that groaned each slam, spilling bodies into the lobby like a tide continuously surging ahead, never in reverse.

     Inside, the house bore the unmistakable hallmark of neglectful parenting: crooked family photos in ornate frames on walls, lamps with bent shades from careless elbows, rugs sticky with something underfoot. The air was a blend of sweat, cheap vodka, vape fluids flavored with chemicals and fruit, and the sweet remnant of cologne. A chandelier—once lovely, now two of its bulbs burnt out—cast a sickly glow over the living room, where a dozen teenagers were packed together, dancing to bass that seemed to shake the plaster from the ceiling. Old posters—Marilyn, Hendrix, some worn-out surf scene—hung persistently on the walls, memorabilia not of this generation but taken over, ironically or genuinely, by some who craved the appearance of style.

       On the couch, its velvet green once but now bleached by years and abandonment, Waverly sat cross-legged at the ankle, the twins Belladonna flanking her. They were statues carved from the same strange marble, their faces close enough the same except for the small differences of fate—Stacy taller, a gaunt 6'0, Tracy two inches shorter but wearing it differently, as if the world itself weighed more on her shoulders. Their blond hair, light enough to be touched with silvery radiance in the dreadful light, fell in waves too smooth to be real, though both claimed it was effortless. Cheekbones that prominent were mimicked in the catch of light as they tipped their head, cutting and androgynous in the most deliberate way, always shiny lips just apart, as if they would whisper something sinister at any second.

       They descended upon Waverly, their scent suffocating—artificial vanilla dumped on top of powder and smoke. Their laughter, two shots like the breaking of glass, cut through the music, the kind of sound meant to make you uncomfortable, to let you know that beauty can be violence. One descended, their voice just above a whisper, their words curling into Waverly's ear like rumor in the flesh, while the other followed the motion, so that she was caught between them, hostage to their attention, suffocated by their laughter.

          At the far end of the room stood Orion Summers. He wasn't gazing at her—he never did when she wished him to. His profile, underlit by the strobe radiance of some LED strip that throbbed violet-blue along the wall, was all sharp jaw, incurious eyes, the set of a body that knew it was regarded. He was a part of the room without effort, a gravitational pull wrapped in the complacency of one who never felt obligated to seek notice. Waverly tilted her head, eyes following him, remembering that curious suspended place they had occupied with each other: not lovers, not friends, a halfway point where words were exchanged and remembered like shattered promises.

      The twins leaned forward, their voices low and poisonous, saying his name, taunting the raw thread that held her to him. Waverly raised an eyebrow, deflected, telling them she and Orion weren't a trend, weren't some temporary distraction—she and Orion were simply slow. The twins, like they were choreographed, laughed in her face. "Yeah, that's what they all say." Their laughter went over one another in gruesome synchrony, laughter sharp as knives.

        She rolled her eyes, ignoring their meanness with the elegance of one who is used to being underestimated. She assured them she would go talk to him this evening, turn the in definitive into something tangible, maybe real. By the time she turned around, her mouth open slightly in betrayal, breath suspended, Orion was already making his way towards Odessa Albrecht.

         Odessa blazed like temptation and venom fleshed out, wearing something black and glittering that hugged around her like darkness itself. Waverly's heart dropped as Orion's hands stroked with practiced smoothness to Odessa's hips, the two of them dancing together within the dense throng of bodies, a dance both obscene and languid under the shattered chandelier light.

   "That bitch..." The words fell from Waverly's lips before she could stop them, bitter and venomous, tasting of rust on her tongue.

        The twins laughed again, out of control, as heartless as children who rip the wings off flies. They called Odessa a "world slut", their tone thick with derision, and Waverly's eyes widened, a surge of anger rising in the wake of her grief. The picture burned itself into her—the betrayal, the humiliation, the ravenous, unspoken need. The din of the room swelled, the music throbbed, the chandelier burned, but to Waverly, the world had been narrowed down to one image: Orion's hands, Odessa's hips, and the burn of her own anger held behind clenched teeth.

        The music inside the South Palm house had transformed from thudding trap bass to a hard remix of some pop standard, the type that vibrated every empty bottle on the countertops and impacted the ribcage like a hammer. Light filtered from LEDs affixed at random places along the crown molding—red, blue, ultraviolet, stuttering like the beat of a dying star. There was a smell of cheap pot, cologne, and excess hairspray in the air. In the kitchen, a shot glass was thrown against the tile and someone applauded the person for it.

         Enzo Cardoza stumbled through the living room with two girls clinging to him like ornaments, the grin on his face big enough to show the silver star that glimmered on his tooth cap. His sides were cropped short, the dark curls wet and heavy at the crown, as if sweat and cheap gel had conspired to form them. His face was olive, prominently set cheekbones with acne scars etched very lightly along the jaw, each flaw emphasized by the harsh strobe of a rotating party light. A silver hoop through his septum; small diamonds in both ears. Tattoos colored jagged on his fingers and hands—unfinished letters, wavering flames, initials that only he could see.

He sniffed, swept the remnants of a white powder from under his nose with the back of his hand, and leaned forward in a slurred grin.

             "Don't you guys want to party with us?" he asked, voice saccharine, stretching vowels out like his tongue was leaden.
             "Aw c'mon... get a drink. We got a... pound of coke, the good stuff! The kind the white folks in Miami snort!"

The two girls beside him—eyes glistening, pupils as wide as coins—laughed on cue, high-pitched and vapid, the chirping of puppets with strings pulled.

        The Belladonna twins sat up at the same time, Stacy dangling one long leg over the other, Tracy tossing her shiny mane like a signal flag.

            "Coke?" they panted together, wicked, famished.

Waverly wrinkled her nose in distaste.

                "No, thank you. To both," she said primly, and then she asked,
        "Don't you lose weight like crazy if you do cocaine?"

Enzo leaned so far back that he almost fell over, recovering with a laugh that wheezed out of him like steam.

               "Isn't that the whole thing?" His smile widened, his star tooth flashing. under the twinkling lights, and the twins laughed again,. already. getting down from the couch to follow him and. his crew. further into chaos.

Waverly slid back into the couch alone, grasping for her phone in. her bag like a lifeline. Her thumbs darted quickly across the glass. screen:

           waverly: where r u? please hurry up, I'm not having fun and I'm scared, i think one of these guys are gonna jump me.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared.

         piper: right now?? why right now???? i was this close with jordan

Waverly took a deep breath, typed the lone pouting emoji, sent.

        piper: I'll be done in a few

She locked the screen and wrapped her arms tight around her chest, feeling the bass thump through her ribs. For a moment, she wished to collapse into the furniture, become one with the upholstery and gone from this whole goddamn night.

         That's when Jett and Shannon collapsed across the couch on either side of her, pinning her in the center like prey hemmed between two wolves.

         Jett was lean but wiry, with lighter skin and angular features that liked to line up in a smirk even when he was silent. His braids were freshly redone, beads softly clinking when he turned to face her. He had a scar across his eyebrow, not jagged but clean, as if he'd earned it in some story he's never tired of. His shirt hugged his frame, his chain glinting where it lay over his chest—he was a predator cut out for this same location.

       Shannon was the opposite, tall, white, and broad-shouldered, with a face both beautiful and cruel in its evenness. His nose was hard, his lips soft but drawn in a line of accustomed boredom, eyes hooded and unreadable. He had a whiff of whiskey and expensive cologne about him, his hair thick and curled in waves that were already starting to disintegrate because of the heat of the room. His height alone was impossible to ignore, but he sat as though he owned the room, knees spread, arm loosely thrown over the back of the couch, too close to her shoulder.

                     Jett sat forward, first, voice slicing, taunting.
           "Damn, look at you sitting here all by yourself. What—Orion lose interest in you for Odessa already?"

                   Shannon smiled low, less sharp but no less invasive.
          "Don't pay any attention to him. You look hot tonight, Waverly. Real hot."

She clenched her teeth, said nothing, eyes darting back to her phone as if Piper could save her faster if she wanted.

              Jett smiled, slapping her knee with two fingers.
             "Come on, don't be shy now. Gonna sulk the entire night, or you wanna actually have some fun?"

        The air around them intensified—the music faster, the lights more intense, the laughter spilling like broken glass. Somewhere down the hallway, someone shrieked, not with terror but with delight, and a door slammed shut in retaliation. The air was thicker, the house closing in on itself, heat and madness curling against Waverly's skin.

       She was between them, arms locked about herself, heart beating under the pressure of their presence. The night was shifting—exuberance seeping into malice, rioting curdling into something more sinister. The party was not merely healthy now, it was ravenous, devouring every last soul who dared to linger too long.

          The living room seemed to swell with heat, with menace disguised as laughter. Jett leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning like a jackal who'd found prey too tired to run. Shannon stayed lounged, taller and heavier, but his eyes tracked Waverly with a steadiness that made her stomach twist. The couch dipped beneath their weight; she felt cornered, as if the velvet upholstery itself was conspiring to hold her there.

          "Why so quiet?" Jett asked, his tone cutting. "Usually girls like you got plenty to say." He tilted his head, braids clinking softly, eyes narrowed in cruel amusement. "Or maybe Orion sucked the voice right outta you."

          Waverly's jaw tightened. "Fuck off." The words came low, flat, but her voice betrayed her—thin, not sharp enough. Jett smirked wider, satisfied.

          Shannon chuckled. "Relax, he's just talking shit. You know how he is." He leaned closer, the heat of his body pressing into the already stifling air, his cologne almost suffocating. "He's not wrong, though. You could use some fun tonight. You don't wanna be sitting here looking miserable while everyone else is getting theirs." His hand brushed against the back of the couch, his fingers curling just an inch from her shoulder, not touching, but threatening to.

         The house had shifted. The music was harsher now, rattling the windows, vibrating in her ribs like a warning. The laughter around her had turned brittle, meaner; in the kitchen, a girl cried while her friends shouted over her, pretending it was nothing. The chandelier overhead flickered weakly, every shadow stretched long and strange.

   Her phone buzzed. A text. She pulled it out, clutching the screen like it might save her.

            piper: two more minutes. swear. I'll come get u.

       She exhaled sharply, her body stiff, as Jett leaned closer, his grin wide.
"Who you texting, princess? Hm? Piper?" He laughed, sharp and biting. "She your babysitter or something?"

           Waverly shot him a glare, lips pressed into a hard line. Shannon raised his brows at Jett, giving a small, amused shake of his head.
            "Chill, man. Don't scare her off." Then, softer, to Waverly, "He's just playing. You know that, right?"

        But she didn't answer. Her eyes slid across the room again, desperate for escape. She caught sight of Orion, still pressed close to Odessa, his hand low on her hip. The sight made her throat close. The music seemed to fade in and out, her pulse louder than the bass.

      The party was unraveling into something darker—what had been giddy chaos was turning feral, a living organism feeding on nerves, on fear. Every shadowed corner hummed with risk. Every laugh carried a blade inside it.

     And Waverly sat trapped between Jett and Shannon, counting every second until Piper's face appeared in the doorway.

       The house had reached a fever pitch, every wall vibrating with the pulse of music, every body inside a blur of sweat and shadow. Then Piper appeared—arm wrapped around Jordan Schneider's waist. Piper, all firefly brightness with dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her laughter spilling like champagne. Jordan was luminous too, the easy smile of someone who knew how to turn every eye in the room, her hand pressed at Piper's hip like it belonged there.

    Waverly's gaze snapped to them, her jaw tightening. Piper met her eyes across the room, still smiling, but Waverly's expression was molten—anger dressed up as composure. Jett scowled instantly, his bravado punctured; Shannon looked up with a grin, greeting them as though this were any other night.

Then—the crash of silence.

   The music cut off mid-beat. For one terrible second the house held its breath. Then the shatter of glass: a bullet tearing through the living room window. A yell followed, hoarse and ragged, the kind of voice carved by cigarettes and war.

The crazy neighbor.

        He stood in the darkness of his yard, cock-eyed, a shotgun cradled against his chest, his voice ripping through the night like a saw.
        "Get the fuck outta that house before I blow the whole goddamn place to the ground!"

       Another shot cracked the air, this time into the sky, a warning that carried the weight of promise. Panic surged. Teenagers screamed, shoved, clawed at the doors. The Belladonna twins shrieked like hyenas, Enzo tripped over a table and kept laughing, and bodies funneled into the night like rats fleeing fire.

     Waverly bolted with Piper and Jordan, feet pounding against broken glass and overturned cups, the neighbor's voice still tearing through the chaos. They didn't look back. Piper's car waited at the curb, half-buried between crookedly parked sedans. They tumbled in—Piper in the driver's seat, Jordan in the passenger, Waverly pushed into the back, seething.

     The tires shrieked against the asphalt, carrying them down South Palm, the house shrinking behind them into darkness and gun smoke. Piper and Jordan laughed nervously, then leaned into each other, whispering, flirting, their hands brushing like it was the most natural thing in the world. Waverly turned her face to the window, every flickering streetlight cutting her reflection into fractured pieces.

    Jordan was dropped at the boulevard, near the corner where her house stood half-hidden by palms. Piper leaned over to kiss her cheek, promises of "text me when you're home" spilling out. Then it was just Piper and Waverly, the night air heavy as they turned into the quiet suburban streets.

    Waverly's house loomed soon after, a two-story box of pale stucco and terracotta roof tiles, the driveway sloping toward a garage with both doors open. The front lawn was trimmed too neatly, a garden bed of hibiscus half-wilted under the heat of the day. Porch lights glowed soft yellow, the air smelling faintly of jasmine mixed with oil.

     In the garage, her brother Truey was sprawled beneath his car, grease staining his shirt, the sound of a wrench echoing as it scraped metal. The hum of Piper's engine caught his ear, but he didn't roll out. Only when they parked did he glance up, nodding once, his face blank in the harsh fluorescent light.

      "Hey, Truey," Piper called casually, slipping off her shoes.

      "Hey," he replied, low, before ducking back under the chassis.

Waverly ignored him, slipping past to the front door. She unlocked it with a too-loud clatter. The entry smelled faintly of sandalwood and lemon cleaner.

      Inside, her father appeared first. Parker, in his Garfield slippers and reading glasses, carrying a paperback tucked under one arm. His brows lifted.
       "Huh... well, aren't I glad to see you," he said, voice dry. He lifted his wrist, checked his watch, pausing deliberately. "You're... ten seconds late."

       "The study group ran long," Waverly replied evenly. Piper nodded beside her, complicit in the lie.

      Parker hummed, skeptical, but said nothing more.

     Vanna arrived next—her voice soft, her presence gentler, like a balm to the sharp edges Parker left. She smiled at the girls, smoothing her pale hair behind one ear.
          "You must be starving. All that studying," she said. "Do you want me to fix you some food?"

Waverly shook her head quickly. Piper hesitated, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. Later, when Vanna disappeared to fetch food, Piper whispered, sheepish.
          "Uh... actually, I do want some."

    Waverly sighed. "Fine. I'll bring it up."

         The girls skipped upstairs after slipping free of their shoes, laughter too forced to be real. Parker watched them vanish, then turned to Vanna, lifting a finger that wagged more like a sermon than a scolding.
            "That daughter of yours," he said, slow and deliberate, "is on thin ice."

        Upstairs, Waverly's room was a shrine to her contradictions. Neutral tones—soft beige walls, light pink curtains glowing faint with moonlight. A corkboard cluttered with Polaroids, old concert tickets, scraps of doodled notes from friends. Books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, a jewelry dish spilling with tangled chains. The bedspread was cream, pillows piled high, fairy lights strung unevenly across the ceiling. Artsy prints—some watercolors, some stark black-and-white photographs—were taped at crooked angles above her desk. It smelled faintly of rose spray and vanilla lotion.

           She wore a white ribbed tank top and fitted pink shorts, bare feet curling into the rug. Piper borrowed a loose tee and shorts, already sprawled on the bed with a plate of food balanced on her knees.

         They gossiped—the words pouring like a leak Waverly couldn't contain. She told Piper about Orion and Odessa, her fury, her humiliation. Piper listened, chewing, then shook her head gently.
           "I'm not surprised," she said. "But don't go to him about it. He'll just make you feel worse."

"Yeah," Waverly muttered, looking down at her hands. "You're right."

But it was a lie.

           Later, when Piper drifted to sleep beside her, Waverly lay awake, the blue wash of night filtering through her curtains. She unlocked her phone, thumbs trembling.

        waverly: are you awake? can we talk?

The three dots blinked.

       orion: yea, what's up?

She asked about him and Odessa, about what it meant, about them. His replies came fractured, hesitant, but brutal

          Waverly, we're not closed off. I've told you. I'm focusing on wrestling right now. I just want something casual. Odessa... she gets that. You want more, and I don't know if I do.

Her chest tightened. She stared, phone clutched so close she could hear the faint hum of its vibration. She reacted with a thumbs up.

      orion: You get it? You're not mad right?

     waverly: No.

A smiley face from him. A goodnight.

          She set the phone down, twisting beneath the sheets, eyes fixed on the soft glow of her curtains. The silence pressed heavy against her. Her hand clutched the pillow, her throat aching with words unsaid.

And in the quiet, in the hollow of her chest, she whispered to herself what no one else could
       You're gonna be found, girl.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

trying a new writing style && format! i love the writing and feels of this fic it reminds a lot of teen drama television series. i wanted to keep the prologue simple and straight to the point before i dive deeper into any dynamics , further drama and realism where nothing is either black or white with the way how some of the characters are gonna be towards each other. plus baby's first situationship, it's always inevitable in highschool.