The hours pass torturously slow as I settle into a new routine. I spend my days with a tutor, being homeschooled to catch up for the lost time. I stare at the pages, and all I can see is a blur of paint, a bunch of words that I do not recognize, the syllables struggle to get free of the cage that is my throat.Mrs. Hill tries to appease my nerves but in vain. There are no reassuring words that can eliminate the shame that rises deep within; how idiotic it is to be sixteen and not know how to write or read. The pens and pencils lean clumsily on my fingers, and the curves and shapes of the letters I try to copy are messy and childish.Natalie and Adam used to make me spell out loud every word, though Mrs. Hill says it helped my development, I see no improvement. I make an effort to practice in my free time, trying to speed up the process.The nights are reserved for research: every evening without exception, my parents and I gather around the kitchen table to go through the alpha's files

I fidget with the hem of my simple, black sweatshirt as my body fills with nervous energy. I recite the little lie inside my mind countless times, hoping the repetition might, somehow will it to be true. I check the arsenal of weaponry that I dutifully covered myself with as if they were nothing more than some beauty accessories, to make sure that everything is in order. I stare at my reflection in the rectangular mirror stuck in the inside of my closet that my parents recently purchased, as I tie my short hair in a ponytail. The mark on the right side of my neck is red and swollen, still healing from the attack I commanded a few hours ago. Despite that, I look menacing all clad in black with a belt firmly placed in my waist, sustaining the knives. A dark thin strap connects the leather to a tiny pocket in my right leg where I placed my phone. I lower the fabric until it covers the blades to avoid unwanted attention from outsiders and sigh in frustration when a lock of brown hair

An envelope finds its way to my kitchen in the middle of the afternoon, a couple of days after my strange meeting with Ryan. I stared at the elegant, cursive calligraphy at the front, where my name was carefully written. Inside it was a letter written on the computer with a list of instructions that I had to follow dutifully. I had to travel to a safe house three hours away from my own pack to meet the Elite's leader in a week from then. In the directions I received, it was clearly stated that an excuse would be made for me. I crumbled the sheet as soon as Mrs. Hill- sworn to secrecy- helped me make sense of the words written on the page. Still, the fact that I was able to recognize and understand a few terms excited me in ways I couldn't describe. I'm finally doing something constructive for me, and the slow but steady progress only motivated me to try harder, to learn more. My parents thrill with my newfound passion, aiding me to the best of their abilities. I was receptive at f

I assault Ryan with questions, but he deflects them with ease. He doesn't unveil the mystery, preferring to leave all the explanations to the Elite's leader, whose name Ryan refuses to divulge. After a few minutes, I give up on my restless quest, and instead, appreciate the view as it hurriedly passes by my window. A tinge of doubt finds its way to my bloodstream, becoming impossible to ignore as time wears on. It's been only three weeks since I escaped the hybrid's clutches, and I'm already running towards them, to the nest of my enemies. Everything is rushed, and every task is counted to the second to ensure maximum productivity. It seems I can barely breathe before I'm hastened to another problem, another concern, while I'm still trying to solve my own. My investigation to find the traitor has come to a stop as we can't eliminate any other suspect and don't have enough information to go further. I hope the Elite can at least give me that advantage. If I could just review their

My eyes follow Nathan, even as Ryan tries to avert my attention elsewhere. Something is awfully wrong with the Elite's leader; though the air is heavy with our mixed breaths, the cold that wafts from Nathan chills me right down to the core. Ryan had me sit on the floor with him, expertly blocking my eyesight of the leader. I curse beneath my breath as I attempt to distract myself by examining the people who crowd the room. I realize with a twist of anger that only a woman joined the ranks of the Elite. It seems that no matter how advanced this group must be, it isn't strong enough to overcome the misogyny that plagues our world. My focus drifts to her. She leans against the wall, a foot propped against the metal behind. She's slender, but her form fills the combat clothes she poured over herself. Her hair is pitch black, billowing around her in a mess of curls, creating an aura around her dark-colored features. She eyes the room warily, almost daring her fellow members to approach h