The plane landed with a screech of rubber on asphalt.
Allison Harper didn't wait for the seatbelt sign to dim.
She grabbed her carry-on. Her movements were sharp. Efficient. Deadly.
She was done waiting. Done being the girl who sat in the corner.
The airport was a blur of noise and color. LAX smelled like jet fuel, cheap perfume, and desperation.
Perfect.
She stepped onto the curb. The California sun hit her face like a physical blow. It was hot. Relentless.
Just like her ambition.
A black limousine idled at the curb. It wasn't just a car; it was a tank. Tinted windows. Chrome bumpers that gleamed like knives.
The driver held a sign with a single symbol: a stylized golden laurel wreath.
Allison approached. Her heels clicked on the concrete. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of a ticking clock.
"I'm Allison Harper," she said. Her voice was flat. Cold.
The driver didn't speak. He simply nodded and opened the door.
She slid inside.
The air conditioning was arctic. The leather seats were softer than her ex-boyfriend's conscience.
Sitting opposite her was a woman. She looked like a runway model who hadn't slept in three days and lived entirely on espresso and spite.
Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like flint. A suit that cost more than Allison's rent.
"I'm Vivienne," the woman said. She didn't offer a hand. "Your liaison. Your wake-up call. And potentially, your executioner."
Allison stared her down. She didn't blink. "Try it.＂
Vivienne's lips twitched. A ghost of a smile? Or a predator assessing its prey?
"You have fire," Vivienne noted. She tapped a tablet screen. "Good. You'll need it. The Olympus Initiative isn't a summer camp. It's a slaughterhouse."
She slid the tablet across the seat.
"Read this. Sign here. And here. And here. Your life belongs to us for the next six months."
Allison looked at the document. It was thick. Legalistic. Intimidating.
Nondisclosure.
Non-compete.
Total obedience to the Board of Directors.
Most people would run. Most people would call a lawyer.
Allison thought of Jack's smirk. She thought of Lena's laugh.
She picked up the stylus. She signed her name with a flourish. Allison Harper.
The ink dried instantly.
"Welcome to hell," Vivienne said.
The limo accelerated. The city of Los Angeles flashed by. Palm trees. Billboards. Giant posters of smiling faces.
Faces of the lucky ones.
"Where are we going?" Allison asked.
"Where the magic happens," Vivienne replied. "Or where it goes to die. The facility is an hour outside the city. No phones. No internet. No contact with the outside world."
Allison stiffened. "No contact?"
"You are entering a crucible, Harper," Vivienne snapped. "To be a god, you must sever ties with mortals. Jack Thompson. Lena Martinez. They don't exist anymore."
The mention of their names felt like a slap. But it didn't hurt. It fueled her.
"Good," Allison said. "I was getting tired of the view."
They left the highway. The concrete jungle gave way to dry, scrubby hills. Dust. Isolation.
They turned onto a private road. guarded by a massive iron gate.
The gates groaned open.
The facility ahead was brutalist architecture. Concrete walls. Barbed wire. It looked less like a drama school and more like a black site prison.
This was the Olympus Initiative.
The car stopped.
"Get out," Vivienne commanded. "Grab your bag. You have two minutes to reach the main quad or you're disqualified."
Allison grabbed her bag. She didn't hesitate.
She stepped out into the heat. The silence was heavy.
Around her, other cars were arriving. Other students were spilling out.
She scanned them.
A guy with chiseled abs and a jawline that could cut glass. He looked terrified.
A girl with fiery red hair, screaming at a porter about her luggage.
A trio of European sophisticates, smoking cigarettes and looking bored.
Competition.
Allison's eyes narrowed. She wasn't here to make friends. She was here to make careers.
And break hearts.
She marched toward the main building. A large digital clock hung over the entrance. It was counting down.
01:59... 01:58...
She started to run.
Her bag bumped against her hip. Her lungs burned.
She burst into the quad just as the timer hit 00:45.
A tall man stood on a platform. He was older. Silver hair. A beard that looked like it could hide a multitude of sins.
He wore a black turtleneck. He looked like an assassin who had retired to teach art history.
"I am Director Thorne," the man barked. His voice echoed off the concrete walls. "You are the chosen few. The one percent of the one percent."
"Wrong!" Thorne shouted. "You are nothing! You are plankton! You are raw sewage waiting to be turned into gold!"
The crowd flinched.
"Look at you," Thorne sneered, walking along the line of students. He stopped in front of a trembling boy. "You. Why are you here?"
"I... I want to be famous," the boy stammered.
Thorne slapped him. Hard.
The sound cracked through the quad like a gunshot.
"Get out!" Thorne roared. "Fame is for prostitutes and reality TV stars! We are here to create ART! We are here to create LEGENDS!"
Two security guards appeared and dragged the sobbing boy away.
Allison didn't move. She didn't flinch. She watched.
Good.
She hated weaklings.
Thorne moved on. He stopped in front of her.
He looked into her eyes. Allison stared back. She didn't look down. She didn't look away.
She projected one thing: Challenge me.
Thorne's eyes narrowed. "You. What is your name?"
"Allison Harper."
"You have pretty eyes," Thorne said. "Vacant. Haunted. Like a cow waiting to be slaughtered."
The crowd gasped.
Allison smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Careful, Director. Cows can kick."
Silence.
Absolute, terrified silence.
Thorne stared at her. Then, he laughed. A deep, booming sound.
"I like you," he said. "You have anger. Anger is good. Anger is fuel."
He turned back to the group. "Listen to me! For the next six months, you will bleed. You will sweat. You will beg for mercy. You will learn to speak five languages. You will learn to fight. You will learn to seduce. You will learn to lie until you don't know the truth anymore!"
"Psychological warfare," Vivienne whispered, appearing beside Allison like a ghost. "Day one starts now."
"Drop your bags!" Thorne commanded.
Fifty bags hit the ground simultaneously.
"Run!" Thorne pointed to a steep, dusty trail leading up the hill. "To the observatory! Last ten people there go home! Now!"
The group erupted into chaos.
People shoved. People tripped.
Allison didn't shove. She flowed.
She dodged a falling student. She leaped over a discarded suitcase.
She found her rhythm.
Left. Right. Breathe.
The hill was a beast. It was steep. The sun beat down on her neck.
Her muscles screamed. Her throat was dry.
I will not fail.
She saw the blonde girl from the airport ahead. The one with the luggage.
The girl was struggling. She was fast, but she was running out of steam.
Allison accelerated.
She passed the blonde girl. Their eyes met for a split second.
Pure hostility.
Allison didn't care. She pushed harder.
The observatory loomed at the top of the hill. A white dome in the sky.
She was tenth. No, fifth.
She crossed the line.
Her chest heaved. She fell to her knees, gasping for air.
"Welcome to the top five," a voice said.
Allison looked up.
It was the guy with the jawline. He was sweating, but he looked annoyingly fresh.
"Devon," he said, offering a hand.
Allison ignored it. She stood up on her own.
"Allison."
"I saw you back there," Devon said. "You don't run like a girl. You run like you're chasing something."
"I am," Allison said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm chasing a future."
More people crossed the line. The blonde girl crawled across, sobbing.
Then, the stragglers arrived.
Thorne stood at the finish line. He checked his watch.
"You," he pointed to a heavy-set boy who had collapsed ten yards short. "Too slow. Go home."
"Please!" the boy begged. "I paid everything I had!"
"And you bought yourself a lesson," Thorne said coldly. "Leave."
The boy was dragged away.
This was real.
Allison looked at the horizon. The sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean. It painted the sky in blood and fire.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
She thought about Jack again. He was probably at a bar right now. Buying Lena a drink. Laughing about the "small town" girl they left behind.
He had no idea.
He was playing checkers. She was playing 4D chess.
Vivienne walked over to her. "Not bad, Harper. You made the cut. But that was just the physical test."
She handed Allison a key. Number 404.
"Your room. Get cleaned up. Dinner is at 1800 hours. Don't be late."
Allison took the key. "What's tomorrow?"
Vivienne's smile was shark-like. "Tomorrow? Tomorrow we start breaking you down. We strip away your ego. We find out who Allison Harper really is when there's no one watching."
Allison gripped the key until it dug into her palm.
"You might be surprised," Allison said softly.
She walked toward the dormitories. Concrete blocks. Sterile. Cold.
This wasn't a school.
It was a forge.
And she was the sword.
She found her room. Small. Bunk beds. A stranger's bag already on the bottom bunk.
Allison claimed the top bunk. She liked the high ground. It was where the sniper sat.
She sat on the edge of the mattress. She pulled out her phone.
One signal bar.
She hesitated.
Should she check? Should she look at Instagram? Facebook?
No.
That was the old Allison. The Allison who needed validation.
The new Allison didn't need to look.
She knew what was happening.
She opened her photos instead. She found the picture of the invitation.
The Olympus Initiative.
She deleted the photo. Then she emptied the trash can.
She turned off her phone. She threw it into her drawer.
She stood up and walked to the small mirror bolted to the wall.
She looked at her reflection.
Sweat-streaked. Wild-eyed. Determined.
She saw the ghost of the girl she was yesterday. The girl who got dumped in a coffee shop.
"Goodbye," she whispered.
She wiped the sweat from her face.
She pulled her hair back into a severe, tight ponytail.
The transformation wasn't complete. Not yet.
But it had started.
A loud siren blared outside. The dinner signal.
Allison Harper didn't walk to dinner.
She marched.
The game was on.
And she was ready to play.
"Watch out, Hollywood," she muttered to the empty room.
"The Queen is coming."