The sirens cut through everything. High and sharp. They drown out the music. The laughter. The festival sounds.

I'm still on the ice. The cold burns through my coat. My ribs scream every time I try to breathe. There's blood on my hands. I don't know if it's mine or if it came from somewhere inside me.

A black SUV pulls up to the edge of the festival grounds. The doors open. A woman steps out first. Older. Gray hair pulled back tight. She's wearing a long coat and her face looks like stone.

Behind her, a man emerges. Tall. Dark suit. He's carrying a leather folder. He moves like he's done this before. Like he's been waiting.

The crowd parts. People step back without thinking. The man doesn't look at anyone. He walks straight to the police officers standing near the snowplow.

I try to lift my head. Pain shoots down my spine. I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming.

The man opens his folder. He pulls out papers. He hands them to the first officer. Then more papers to the second. His voice is low. I can't hear what he's saying. But the officers' faces change.

One of them looks up sharply. His eyes go to Maisie.

She's still in Craig's arms. Still crying. But something shifts in her posture. She goes very still.

"Miss Lynch," the first officer says. His voice is different now. Formal. "We need to ask you some questions."

Maisie pulls back from Craig. She wipes her eyes. "Of course, officer. I'll help however I can. That girl—" She points at me. Her hand is shaking. "She just came out of nowhere. I didn't see her. I swear I didn't—"

"That's not what we're asking about." The officer holds up one of the papers. "This is your scholarship application to Columbia University. Is that correct?"

Maisie blinks. "Yes?"

"According to this," the officer continues, "your family's annual income was listed as $18,000. Your father is listed as unemployed due to medical disability. Your mother works part-time at a grocery store in Brunswick, Georgia."

"That's right." Maisie's voice is quieter now.

The man in the suit speaks for the first time. His voice is calm. Flat. "Brunswick High School has no record of your attendance. The tax returns attached to your application were fabricated. The medical disability claim for your father cannot be verified because the man listed does not exist."

The crowd goes silent.

Maisie's face drains of color. "I don't—I don't understand what you're—"

"Everything on your application is false." The man doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. "You constructed an identity. You falsified financial records. You committed fraud to gain admission and financial aid."

The woman in the gray coat steps forward. "I'm Dean Holloway. Columbia University. Miss Lynch, you are hereby placed on immediate suspension pending a full investigation."

Maisie's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Craig is staring at her. His arm has dropped from her shoulders. "Maisie, what is he talking about?"

The man in the suit turns to Craig. He pulls out another sheet of paper. "Mr. Perry. You've stated multiple times to Miss Vargas that Miss Lynch is your foster sister. That you have a family obligation to care for her."

"I—yes." Craig's voice is unsteady. "That's right."

"There are no foster records." The man holds up the paper. "No family court filings. No state documentation of any kind. Miss Lynch has no legal or familial connection to your family whatsoever."

Craig goes pale.

I'm still on the ice. My vision is blurring. But I can see Craig's face. I can see the moment it hits him.

The man continues. He's pulling out more papers now. Laying them out one by one like cards on a table. "October 12th. You canceled a study session with Miss Vargas, citing that Miss Lynch had a family emergency. There was no emergency. You were seen at a campus coffee shop with Miss Lynch for three hours."

"November 3rd. You told Miss Vargas you had to help Miss Lynch move furniture because her back was injured. Miss Lynch's medical records show no such injury. You were seen at an off-campus bar."

"December 8th. You told Miss Vargas that Miss Lynch was having a mental health crisis and needed immediate support. Phone records show you and Miss Lynch exchanged 47 text messages that evening. None of them reference any crisis."

Each date lands like a blow. Craig's face goes from pale to gray.

People in the crowd are filming. I can see the phones. The little lights. Everyone is recording.

Maisie takes a step back. Then another. "This is insane. You can't just—"

"Every excuse," the man says. His voice is still calm. Still flat. "Every reason Mr. Perry gave Miss Vargas for spending time with you. Every emergency. Every obligation. Documented. Verified. False."

The ice is so cold. My body is going numb. I don't know if that's good or bad.

Craig is shaking his head. "I don't—this doesn't—"

The man in the suit finally looks at me. His eyes meet mine. There's something in his expression I can't read.

Then he looks back at the officers. "The woman on the ice is Brynlee Vargas. I suggest you call for medical airlift immediately."

One of the officers speaks into his radio. Fast. Urgent.

The man closes his folder. He stands there. Waiting.

The crowd is silent. The only sound is the wind and the distant sirens getting closer.

I close my eyes. The darkness is easier.

The man in the suit pulls out his phone. He doesn't look at anyone. He just dials.

One call.

That's all it takes.

I'm still on the ice. The paramedics are working on me. One of them is cutting my coat open. The other is pressing something against my ribs. Everything hurts. Everything is too bright.

But I can hear phones buzzing. All around me. A hundred phones. Maybe more.

Someone in the crowd gasps. Then another person. Then everyone is talking at once.

"Oh my god."

"Are you seeing this?"

"It's her. It's actually her."

I don't understand. My vision is swimming. I try to focus on the paramedic's face but it keeps sliding away.

A woman near the police barrier is reading from her phone. Her voice is loud. Shaking. "Brynlee Vargas. Daughter of Jackson Vargas. Sole heir to Vargas Capital. Estimated net worth—" She stops. Her hand covers her mouth.

The crowd goes silent.

Then the noise comes back. Louder. Sharper.

"She's the Vargas heiress?"

"She renounced her inheritance?"

"She's been here the whole time?"

I close my eyes. The words don't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

Someone is crying. I think it's me.

When I open my eyes again, I see Craig. He's standing ten feet away. His face is white. Completely white. Like all the blood drained out.

He's staring at me. His mouth is open. His hands are shaking.

Then his legs give out.

He doesn't fall. He just... sinks. His knees hit the ice. He catches himself with his hands. He's on all fours. Staring at the ground.

Someone near him is reading from their phone. A man's voice. Flat. Factual. "She worked at the campus bookstore for $12 an hour. She lived on a need-based scholarship. She hasn't accessed her trust fund in over two years."

Craig makes a sound. It's not a word. It's something broken.

I remember the ramen. Five nights a week. The same cheap brand. Craig always offered to pay for dinner. I always said no. I wanted to prove I could do it myself.

I remember the jacket. Thrift store. $8. I wore it all winter. Craig bought me a new one for Christmas. I cried when I opened it. He thought I was happy.

I was. I was so happy.

The paramedic is talking to me. I can't hear the words. Just the tone. Urgent. Steady.

My phone is still in my pocket. Cracked. Wet with blood. But the screen lights up. Notifications. Hundreds of them. My social media is exploding.

Someone in the crowd shouts. "The livestream! It's still going!"

I turn my head. Pain shoots through my neck. I see Maisie's phone. Still propped on the tripod. Still recording. The little red light is still blinking.

The view count is climbing. 50,000. 75,000. 100,000.

People are holding up their phones. Filming everything. The police. The paramedics. Craig on his knees. Me on the ice.

A woman near the front is reading the comments aloud. Her voice is shaking. "'She's the one who got hit?' 'Oh my god, we were calling her jealous.' 'I said she was causing drama.' 'I feel sick.'"

The comments keep coming. Faster. Angrier.

"'Arrest her!' 'That girl tried to kill an heiress!' 'This is attempted murder on camera!'"

Maisie is still standing by the snowplow. She's not crying anymore. She's just... frozen. Staring at her phone screen. Watching the view count climb.

150,000.

175,000.

200,000.

Her face is gray. Her hands are shaking so hard the phone almost falls.

One of the officers steps toward her. He's holding handcuffs.

Maisie's head snaps up. "No. No, wait. You don't understand. She—"

"Miss Lynch." The officer's voice is firm. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."

"This wasn't supposed to—" Maisie's voice cracks. She looks at Craig. He's still on his knees. Still staring at nothing. "Craig. Craig, tell them. Tell them it was—"

She stops.

The crowd is silent. Waiting.

Maisie's breathing is fast. Shallow. Her eyes are wild. She looks at the cameras. All the cameras. Dozens of them. All pointed at her.

Something breaks.

"It was YOUR idea!" She's screaming now. Her voice is raw. Ugly. "You said we'd teach the little princess a lesson! You said we'd make her fall in love and then watch her crawl! You called it 'The Game!' Don't you DARE pretend you have a conscience now!"

The words hit the air like a bomb.

The crowd erupts.

Craig's head jerks up. His eyes are wide. Terrified.

Maisie is still screaming. "You picked the alley! You handed her the rose! You said she deserved it! You said she needed to know what it felt like to be—"

The officer grabs her arm. "Miss Lynch, you have the right to remain silent."

But Maisie doesn't stop. She's sobbing now. The words are pouring out. "I did everything you told me to do! I built the whole thing for you! And now you're just going to—"

The handcuffs click.

Maisie goes limp.

The livestream chat is a blur. I can't read the words. They're moving too fast. But I can see the emojis. Angry faces. Shocked faces. Crying faces.

Someone in the crowd is shouting. "She just confessed! She confessed on camera!"

The paramedic is lifting me onto a stretcher. My body screams. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood.

I turn my head. One last time.

Craig is still on his knees. He's staring at Maisie. Then at me. Then at the ground.

His face is empty.

I close my eyes.

The stretcher lifts. The world tilts. I hear the helicopter before I see it. The sound drowns out everything else.

One tear rolls down my temple. Into my hair.

Then the darkness comes.