The gym looks like a glitter bomb went off inside a disco ball factory.

It's all silver and white, streamers swooping down from the rafters like shimmering icicles, twinkle lights blinking in time with the pounding bass of whatever Top 40 hit is currently assaulting my eardrums. There's a massive banner strung up over the DJ booth, "Winter Wonderland" spelled out in blue and white balloons.

It's exactly the kind of over-the-top, trying-way-too-hard nonsense that I usually avoid like the plague. But here I am, tugging at the collar of my starched shirt, feeling like an overstuffed sausage in this damn suit.

Jordan, of course, looks infuriatingly at ease, like they were born to wear tailored menswear. They keep fiddling with their cufflinks, these little silver crescent moon shapes that wink in the strobing lights.

"Stop fidgeting," they murmur out of the corner of their mouth, flashing me a grin. "You look great."

I scowl, resisting the urge to run my hands through my hair. I had Mom buzz it short a few days ago, the sides shaved down almost to the scalp but with some length left on top to show my "feminine side", as she put it. Jordan said it makes me look badass. I just feel exposed, like a plucked chicken. I hope it grows in soon.

"I look like a wedding cake topper that's trying too hard," I grumble, picking at the ruching on my dress shirt.

Jordan snorts. "Okay, first off, your metaphors need work. Second, you're playing a part, remember? This is our alibi. So shut up and try to look like you're having fun."

I take a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. They're right. We have a job to do here, and it's not just about blending in and looking pretty. We're the distraction, the shiny object everyone's going to be looking at while the real shit goes down online.

Speaking of which...

"Is it done?" I ask, my voice low as we make our way through the throng of bodies towards the punch bowl. "Did the post go up?"

Jordan's grin sharpens, their eyes glinting in the strobing lights. "Oh yeah. It's up. The server logged thirty comments in the first seventeen minutes. By the time anyone thinks to look our way, we'll be old news."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. We did it. The truth is out there, and there's no taking it back now.

Of course, that's when Mike fucking Giannopoulos comes bounding up to us, his tux straining around his football player bulk. "Yo, Westwood!" he crows, slapping Jordan on the back hard enough to make them stumble. "Looking sharp, dude! Didn't think you had it in you!" Then he turns to me, smiling. "What's up, Sam!"

I smile back thinly, trying not to grimace as the scent of his body spray clogs my nostrils. "Hey Mike," I say with about as much enthusiasm as if I was saying, "Hey, root canal".

He doesn't seem to notice, already turning back to Jordan to yammer on about some boring football bullshit - football bullshit that I'm sure Jordan couldn't care less about. I tune him out, my eyes scanning the room. The chaperones are all clustered by the doors, their heads bent together as they mutter into their walkie-talkies. Every entrance and exit is manned by at least two security guards, big beefy dudes who look like they bench press Chevy Tahoes in their spare time.

It's all just so stupid. This whole dog and pony show, pretending like everything's fine, like we're not just one spark away from the whole powder keg blowing sky high. The girls in their glittery dresses, the boys in their ill-fitting rental tuxes, the teachers trying so hard to act like this is just another school dance, just another night.

And maybe for them, it is. They don't know what we know. They don't have the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders, the sick swoop of anticipation and dread churning in their guts.

They're just kids. Just dumb, oblivious teenagers, worrying about who's going to ask them to dance and whether they'll get lucky in the back of a limo later tonight.

I almost envy them. Almost.

I'm a minor celebrity, people passing me by with loose, mostly appreciative comments. If someone in this school didn't know who I was from the T-Rex incident, they knew who I was from the Aikido Throw - or, as everyone's been calling it, the Kung Fu Throw, which makes me a little irrationally upset because those are two very different martial arts. Faces I barely recognize, names I struggle to remember. Is that Melissa? Who else is here? My breath feels tight in my chest.

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But then Jordan's hand is on my elbow, steering me towards the dance floor. "Come on," they say, raising their voice to be heard over the music. "Let's get this over with. One dance, then we can raid the snack table and bail."

I let them lead me into the throng, the bass vibrating up through the soles of my sensible dress shoes. Jordan pulls me close, their arms draping loosely around my waist as we sway in time with the music.

It's awkward at first, my body stiff and uncooperative. I've never been much of a dancer, too self-conscious, too aware of my every movement. But Jordan's a natural, their hips moving in sinuous figure eights, their feet gliding effortlessly across the polished floor.

I try to mimic their movements, but I feel like a marionette with its strings tangled. Jordan just laughs, spinning me out and then reeling me back in until we're nose to nose.

"Relax, Sam," they say, making as direct of eye contact as they can. "Pretend like you don't have a peg leg with an unscratchable itch."

I huff out a laugh despite myself. "Shut up," I mutter, but I can feel some of the tension leaving my body, my limbs loosening as I let myself get lost in the beat, in the warmth of Jordan's hands on my hips.

We dance like that for a while, the rest of the world fading away until it's just the two of us, just the music and the movement and the glide of fabric against skin. It's nice, in a weird way. Normal. Like we're just two kids at a dance, with nothing more to worry about than whether our corsages match our outfits.

(They don't. Jordan's gone for a purple and black tux, a clip on glitter moon on their vest. I don't know where they even found something so ugly. My mom said the only thing I'd be wearing was a "classic pantsuit".)

But of course, the illusion can't last forever. Eventually the song ends, the spell broken as the DJ transitions into something slow and sappy, all swelling strings and crooned declarations of eternal love.

Jordan steps back, their hands falling away from my waist. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" they ask, grinning.

I'm about to answer when a sudden commotion by the gym doors catches my attention. The chaperones are backing away, their hands raised as a phalanx of security guards push their way into the room.

And that's when all hell breaks loose.

It starts with a commotion at the gymnasium entrance, a sudden flurry of activity that has heads turning and voices rising in confusion. I'm already on high alert, my body tensing like a coiled spring, ready to react at a moment's notice.

But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Patriot himself striding into the room, flanked by Egalitarian and a phalanx of police officers in full tactical gear.

The music cuts out quietly, fading to, like, one tenth of its original volume, leaving only the murmur of the crowd and the heavy tread of boots on polished wood. Patriot stands at the center of the floor, his posture ramrod straight and his expression carved from granite.

"Students of Tacony Charter Academy High School," he booms, his voice cutting through the stunned silence like a knife. "We are here on official business. We are looking for Jordan Westwood, in connection with a series of cybercrimes and acts of domestic terrorism."

The words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. Beside me, I feel Jordan go still, their hand clenching around mine like a vise.

The room erupts into chaos, students shouting and pushing, trying to get a better look or get as far away as possible. The chaperones and security guards are struggling to maintain order, their voices high and tight with barely controlled panic.

My mind is racing, trying to process what's happening, to sort through the fear and confusion and find some kind of solution. This isn't how it was supposed to go. We had a plan. We were going to control the narrative, to strike first and leave them reeling.

But somehow, they've outmaneuvered us. Somehow, they knew, minutes after we posted it.

We've been set up.

"Jordan Westwood!" Patriot calls again, his voice booming over the din. "Step forward and surrender yourself to the authorities, and no one else needs to get hurt."

No one else. The words echo in my head, a chilling promise and a threat all in one. They're not here for me. They're not here for anyone but Jordan.

"Jordan," I whisper, my voice cracking on the single word. "What do we do?"

They're still holding my hand, their grip so tight I can feel my bones grinding together. But when they turn to look at me, their eyes are blazing with a fierce, reckless light.

"We stick to the plan," they murmur, their voice low and steady. "We keep our heads down and our mouths shut. And when the time is right..."

They don't finish the sentence. They don't need to. I know what they're thinking, because I'm thinking it too.

When the time is right, we fight. We take these bastards down, whatever it takes. Even if it means tearing this whole place apart brick by brick.

But for now, we have to play along. We have to be smart. We can't let them see how rattled we are, how close they are to breaking us.

So I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and schooling my features into a mask of confused innocence. Just another face in the crowd, another kid caught up in something they don't understand.

"Jordan Westwood!" Patriot roars, his patience clearly wearing thin. "This is your last chance to come quietly. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I feel Jordan tense beside me, their body coiling tight as a spring. For a moment, I think they might actually do it - might throw themselves into the fray, damn the consequences.

But then they're taking a step forward, their head held high and their voice ringing out clear and strong.

"I'm Jordan Westwood," they call, their words cutting through the noise like a blade. "And I'm not going anywhere with you fascist fucks."