Chapter 10:

 #BleederBoard

The morning sun stabbed my eyes, temples pounding. I’d been dreaming—but it felt less like sleep and more like pulling an all-nighter I wasn’t trained for. The images clung like burrs, whispering of another me.

Someone with medical knowledge I hadn’t earned yet.

Someone with Parker’s arms to curl up in—while I clutched Hotstuffy, my stuffed dragon, like he could guard me from everything I wasn’t.

Gotta hand it to those herbs—calming, sure, but they blurred the edges of reality in ways I wasn’t ready for.

Between academic probation, the run-in with Sebastian, and stress spilling over like a cracked beaker, I was hanging by a thread. The herbs were the only thing keeping me from a week of sleepless nights.

The sun climbed higher, marking a morning of firsts.

First class.

First day of college.

First time dunking Oreos in orange juice.

Nerves do strange things to my food choices.

The auditorium was vast, C-shaped, buzzing with freshmen chatter. A sharp voice cracked through the mic, too close for comfort.

“Welcome to Biology 101—one of four required courses for all freshman pre-med students.”

Professor Nash’s voice boomed. “I’m Head of the Pre-med Program. My office door is always open. Today you’ll get lab schedules, and in four weeks we’ll release the first Pre-med Leaderboard results.”

The guy in front of me leaned to his friend. “Who do you think’ll end up a bleeder?”

The BleederBoard. Pritzker’s infamous ranking system. Bottom rung: the “bleeders,” students academically flatlining. Top rung: the Pre-med Pick, lording over all four classes—Bio, Biochem, Math, Physics.

Faculty swore it fostered “healthy” competition. Reality? It pushed freshmen to medicate their cereal with Ativan. The rare exceptions—vegan triathletes, meditation junkies—were unicorns. The rest of us survived on Hot Pockets and fighting for library chairs.

“As many of you already know,” Professor Nash continued, smoothing her hair with practiced precision, “we consider multiple factors when compiling rankings. To reduce pressure, students appear under anonymous hashtags—#SpliceGirl215, #Bad2theBone01.”

My heart thudded when mine flashed on the screen: #BloodReign.

An old inside joke with Parker—back when his hand brushing mine felt like electricity sparking me alive. That was then. Another lifetime in a galaxy far, far away.

“Let’s do an icebreaker,” Professor Nash said as Post-its were passed down the rows. “Write a movie character on the note, stick it on the person next to you. They get three questions to guess who they are.”

The girl beside me looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Samantha Parkington American Girl catalog—dark hair glossy, posture unnervingly perfect. Her name tag read Linden Greene.

She slid me a Post-it with a smile so polished it belonged on a brochure.

“Here. Just one, not four.”

A dig at my #VanishedValedictorian past? Cute. She pressed the note to my back like she was pinning a target. No introduction. No small talk.

I raised my eyebrows. “Is my character male, female, or gender-neutral?”

Her smile was cavity-sweet. “Assigned male at birth. XY chromosomes—basic Bio 101.”

My stomach churned—like a blender on overdrive. I couldn’t let her see she was getting to me. If Zara were here, she’d know exactly what to say.

And Parker… well, boy-candy has a way of softening even the iciest mean-girl heart.

“I wasn’t struggling with genetics, but thanks. What does he do for a living?”

“Owns a motel,” she said, the smile sharpening. “Someone you clearly have a lot in common with.”

Four out of five stars for delivery, American Doll. Almost impressive. Almost.

She turned away before I could reply, leaving me to swallow the silence. I rolled my eyes and kept moving.

Madison squinted at my back. “Weird. Yours has a pitchfork and the letter O.”

I grabbed the note. “That’s not a pitchfork—it’s the psychiatry symbol. ‘Psych-O.’ Norman Bates.”

“Wait—there’s another one.” She peeled a second Post-it off my shirt. Yellow. Stark.

VANISH.

My fingers crushed the paper, sweat slicking it. Heat drained from my skin.

Someone wanted me gone.

Maybe dead.

But who?

***

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XOXO, Sabina