THE DISCARDED LUNA‘S REVENGE

Chapter Ten

LYRA‘S POV

The final bell of the afternoon didn’t just ring; it felt like a starting gun.

The moment the high-pitched digital tone resonated through the marble corridors of the east wing, the invisible lines of the academy shifted once more. Just like in Economics, the scholarship students in my advanced calculus seminar sat entirely motionless, their hands pinned to their desks like obedient soldiers waiting for the trench officers to clear the field.

Down in the lower tiers, the legacy students took their time. They gossiped about an upcoming weekend yacht excursion to the northern bay, slowly folding their sleek tablet folios and adjusting their pristine, gold-trimmed blazers. Every second they wasted was a tick of a clock that was currently suffocating me.

My phone was heavy in my skirt pocket, vibrating with a pre-set silent alert: 3:25 PM.

Mitch’s words from the weekend echoed in my head, sharp and jagged like a broken bottle: The first time you're late because some fancy ridge professor kept you after class, the schedule is gone.

Across the room, Chloe was laughing at something her friend whispered, deliberately slowing her movements as she adjusted the silk scarf around her neck. She knew exactly what she was doing. The legacies didn't just own the property on the ridge; they owned the time. They could afford to dawdle, to linger, to stretch the afternoon out into infinity, because the world waited for them. For people like me, time was a luxury currency we were constantly running out of.

The moment the last white-jerseyed senior sauntered through the double oak doors, the classroom erupted into a frantic scramble of cheap synthetic wool and rushing bodies. I didn't wait to trade anxious glances with Cadence or any of the other scholarship students who had cornered me in the cafeteria. I threw my notebook into my canvas pack, pulled the heavy straps over my shoulders, and broke into a fast, controlled stride the second my boots hit the corridor linoleum.

The architecture of Garrison Heights was designed to inspire awe, but today, the sweeping marble staircases and endless vaulted archways were just obstacles. I forced my way through the heavy throngs of students in the main rotunda, keeping my chin down and my eyes fixed on the floorboards to avoid any accidental eye contact that could freeze my progress. If another legacy student stopped me to assert their dominance, or if an administrator pulled me aside for a random uniform compliance check, my timeline would be shattered.

When I burst through the heavy front gates of the academy, the crisp, expensive air of the ridge hit my face, but I barely had time to breathe it in. The sun was still high up here, illuminating the pristine gravel paths and manicured hedges with a blinding, mocking clarity. I broke into a jog, my heavy, government-issue lace-up shoes clattering loudly against the cobblestones as I sprinted toward the transit terminal at the edge of the mountain crest.

The clock on the digital kiosk read 3:38 PM.

The heavy, dented valley transit bus was already idling at the curb, its exhaust pipe coughing out thick, gray plumes of diesel smoke that polluted the pristine ridge atmosphere. It looked entirely out of place parked next to the line of sleek, imported sports cars waiting to pick up the legacy day-students. I practically threw myself through the folding doors, my level-four uniform jacket catching briefly on the metal handrail before I stumbled into a worn vinyl seat near the back.

The bus groaned, its brakes releasing with a loud, mechanical hiss as it began its steep, winding descent down the mountain road. I leaned my head against the rattling window pane, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. The ride down the ridge was a daily lesson in economic gravity. With every sharp turn down the mountain switchbacks, the pristine lawns and limestone facades vanished, replaced by the stark, industrial reality of the valley flats.

I watched the luxury sedans and sports cars of the legacy students effortlessly glide past the heavy transit bus in the fast lane, their windows tinted, their worlds entirely detached from the heavy gravity pulling the rest of us down. Up there, life was frictionless. Down here, everything required an immense, bone-deep effort.

By the time the bus slammed to a halt at the bottom of the mountain terminal, the dashboard clock read 3:51 PM.

Nine minutes. I had exactly nine minutes to pull off the transition.

I stepped off the transit bus into the suffocating, heavy heat of the valley. The scent of hot asphalt, old grease, and sulfur from the nearby rail yards hit me instantly, a brutal reminder of where my nights belonged. I ran the three blocks to our apartment building, my stiff uniform shoes thudding against the cracked concrete of the avenue. My lungs burned from the sudden shift in air quality, but I didn't slow down.

I took the tenement stairs three at a time, the wooden steps creaking violently under my weight, before bursting through our front door.

The apartment was empty, the quiet rooms smelling faintly of the morning’s leftover rice. Both my mother and father were still trapped in their respective shift metrics, fighting their own battles against the clock. I ran straight to the small bathroom, tearing the boxy blue blazer off my shoulders and throwing it onto the laundry hamper. My fingers were trembling slightly as I fumbled with the stiff white buttons of my collar, practically ripping the uniform shirt off.

I stepped out of the heavy pleated skirt, hanging it up with an obsessive precision despite my panic—if it got wrinkled, I wouldn't have time to iron it before tomorrow morning's inspection. I yanked my faded black Rusty Spoke t-shirt over my head, its familiar, worn cotton a relief against my skin. I pulled on a pair of old, denim shorts, grabbed a clean apron from the hook behind the door, and checked my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror.

The girl looking back at me had flushed, red cheeks and wild hair, but her eyes were entirely cold. The ridge student was gone. The machine was back.

I locked the deadbolt behind me and sprinted down the back alleyway, cutting through the narrow gap in the chain-link fence of the iron yards to save three precious minutes. The dust from the yard swirled around my ankles, coating my bare legs in a fine layer of gray soot, but I didn't care. I was tracking the seconds in my head.

When I pushed open the heavy glass back door of The Rusty Spoke, the bell above the frame jingled aggressively. The thick, aerosolized smell of frying onions, old tobacco, and commercial lard enveloped me like a second skin, erasing the lingering scent of cedar and expensive perfume from the ridge.

Mitch was standing by the high laminate pass-through counter, his massive, tattooed arms crossed tightly over his stained apron. His large, sweat-glistened bald head reflected the harsh fluorescent lighting as his small, dark eyes fixed entirely on the greasy plastic clock hanging above the jukebox.

The black minute hand clicked forward, settling precisely on the twelve.

4:00 PM.

Mitch shifted his gaze down to my face, his heavy jaw working as he evaluated the sweat dripping down my temples and the frantic rise and fall of my shoulders. For two long, agonizing seconds, the only sound in the diner was the sizzling of frozen patties on the flat-top and the low, rattling hum of the sweating ice machine. I held his gaze, refusing to look weak, refusing to let him see how hard I had run to meet his metric.

"You're on the line, transfer," Mitch finally grunted, turning back to his grill without a single trace of pity in his voice. He slammed his heavy metal spatula onto the iron cooktop with a loud, ringing scrape. "Table four just sat down. They want two double-freight baskets and a side of lard-fries. Move it."

"I'm on it, Mitch," I said, my voice completely level, completely calm.

I reached into my pocket, grabbed my order pad, and tied the thick black strings of my apron around my waist as I strode out onto the linoleum floor. The double life had officially begun, and the clock was already ticking for tomorrow.