By the time Jasmine reached the Student Union building, the rally was already a living, breathing creature.
Thousands of students packed the quad, waving banners, chanting, some holding iPads with hashtags glowing brightly:
#FutureIsOurs
#CryptoFreedom
#BreakTheChains
Booths lined the edges, offering free Bitcoin starter wallets, free merchandise, fake internships promising remote six-figure salaries. DJs blasted remixed anthems while smoke cannons fired into the sky, painting the air electric.
It was thrilling.
It was dangerous.
Jasmine could feel it humming through her skin like static.
She slipped through the crowd, her hoodie pulled low over her forehead. Hidden earpiece buzzing.
"Visual?" Damon's voice crackled in her ear.
She scanned the tents. The stage. The faces.
"Yeah. I'm in."
From his black Aston Martin parked a block away, Damon watched live drone footage, his jaw tight.
This wasn't just a rally.
It was a trap.
He could see the hidden operators—moving against the grain of the crowd. They wore expensive sneakers, blank expressions, coordinated steps.
Professionals.
Waiting for a signal.
And Jasmine was walking straight into their crosshairs.
---
At the far end of the stage, a girl with platinum hair stepped up to the mic.
It was Layla Wynn — the most famous influencer on campus.
Twenty-two million followers.
CEO of her own "self-love" brand.
Crypto investor.
And secretly?
A Helix operative.
Her eyes glittered as she grabbed the mic, wearing a velvet mini dress that made camera flashes explode.
"My generation is tired of waiting!" Layla shouted.
The crowd roared.
"We're tired of fake promises! Fake leaders! Fake dreams! It's OUR TIME to take control—of our data, our money, our lives!"
She lifted a silver keycard into the air.
"This—" she cried, "—is your passport to freedom!"
The jumbotrons behind her lit up: images of Bitcoin QR codes, links to download "Project Eden" wallets.
Exactly what Jasmine feared.
Exactly what Damon knew they had to stop.
And then — Layla smiled.
Too wide. Too knowing.
Because she wasn't just launching an idea.
She was launching an attack.
The ground beneath the stage shook—small tremors at first, barely noticed through the thundering bass.
But Damon noticed.
He slammed the steering wheel.
"Jasmine, get out!"
Too late.
Explosions tore through the outer edges of the quad—small, controlled blasts designed to scatter the crowd into chaos.
Screams pierced the music.
Panic spread like gasoline fire.
And in the confusion, the hidden operators moved.
Not toward the Bitcoin booths.
Not toward the stage.
Toward Jasmine.
---
She ran, heart pounding, weaving through the screaming students.
Two men in black jackets followed—casual at first, then sprinting when they realized she knew.
She ducked behind a vendor cart, pulled out the taser Damon had given her.
Breathing hard, she pressed her back against the cold metal.
Footsteps.
Closer.
She waited until she could smell their cologne—then spun around and fired.
Crack!
One man convulsed, dropping instantly.
The second lunged, grabbing her wrist.
Jasmine fought like hell—biting, kicking, using every dirty trick Damon ever taught her.
But he was strong.
Too strong.
He pinned her against the cart, snarling, "You should've stayed quiet."
Then—
BANG!
The man dropped, blood blooming across his jacket.
Behind him stood Damon, gun in hand, eyes colder than winter.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't flinch.
He grabbed Jasmine, pulling her close, shielding her as another wave of explosions rocked the rally.
"Come on," he said roughly. "We're not done yet."
---
They raced through the service tunnels beneath campus—the same ones Damon used to sneak into concerts and protests back when he was still pretending to be just another student.
But this wasn't pretend anymore.
He knew exactly who they were dealing with.
As they ran, Jasmine clutched the silver keycard she'd snatched from the fallen operative.
Engraved on the back were two words:
Ascend Now.
"What the hell does that mean?" she panted.
Damon's jaw tightened.
"It means Helix isn't recruiting students."
She frowned. "Then what are they doing?"
He stopped, turning to her, eyes haunted.
"They're harvesting them."
She froze.
"No. No way. That's not—"
"It's always been about the bloodlines, Jasmine. The genetics. They're looking for 'perfect candidates.' High IQ, resilience to disease, emotional pliability. Bitcoin is just bait. They're offering fake scholarships, fake freedom... but anyone who signs up?"
He shook his head grimly.
"They vanish."
The ground trembled again, deeper this time.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
Jasmine gripped his arm, realization sinking in like a stone.
"They're going to collapse the campus."
He nodded.
"Kill the evidence. Erase the witnesses. Control the narrative."
Terror rippled through her.
"How do we stop it?"
Damon smiled grimly.
"We don't run."
He pulled out his phone, typing rapidly.
Within seconds, black SUVs roared down the surrounding streets.
Monarch private security.
Unmarked helicopters rose over the skyline.
Damon wasn't just a student anymore.
He was a king.
And he was going to fight for his kingdom.
---
They burst back onto the quad just as chaos reached its peak.
Students trampling each other to escape.
Tents on fire.
Layla Wynn being hustled away by bodyguards.
Damon handed Jasmine a spare earpiece.
"Stay close."
She nodded, heart hammering.
They weaved through the smoke, the screams, the broken dreams.
Damon tackled one of the operatives near the main stage, slamming him into the ground, gun jamming against the man's jaw.
"Who's in charge?" he barked.
The man sneered.
"You're too late."
Then he bit down—on something in his mouth.
Damon recoiled, but it was too late.
The operative convulsed, foam spilling from his lips.
Suicide pill.
Jasmine watched in horror as another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
These weren't amateurs.
They were believers.
True believers.
Willing to die for a cause Damon barely understood yet.
---
By sunset, the rally had devolved into national news.
Headlines screamed about "Anarchist Students," "Bitcoin Radicalization," "Campus Terror."
The university issued a carefully worded statement of regret.
Helix's name was nowhere mentioned.
And Jasmine?
She sat on the penthouse balcony, knees drawn to her chest, watching the city lights blink like faraway stars.
Damon poured two glasses of scotch, handed her one.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"What if we can't win?"
He looked out over the city, the weight of a thousand invisible battles pressing against his spine.
"We don't have to win," he said quietly.
"We just have to survive long enough to change the game."
She looked at him—really looked—and realized something.
He wasn't the boy she met at the campus café anymore.
He wasn't just the heir to a dynasty or a rogue hacker or even a billionaire in a tailored suit.
He was a fighter.
A survivor.
And she was standing on the edge of a world much darker, much sharper than she ever imagined.
But she wasn't running.
Not anymore.
She reached out, took his hand.
They didn't need words.
They had each other.
And tomorrow?
They would tear Helix down, piece by bloody piece.
---
Far below, in the neon-drenched underbelly of the city, a figure watched the newsfeeds flickering across hundreds of monitors.
The silver-haired man from the casino.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling lazily.
"Let them think they won," he murmured.
Behind him, steel doors slid open with a hiss, revealing rows of cryogenic chambers.
Inside?
Students.
Frozen.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
The real war hadn't even begun yet.
And when it did?
Not even Damon Vale would be enough to stop it.
---