Prologue

Blake Foster's panted breath appeared in front of him as he gasped for air, his long athletic legs sprinting through the wet grass. The park was dark except for the old 19th century-inspired lamps that dimly glowed in the fog—the ones that looked like the gas lamps in Sherlock Holmes films.

The water of the Charles River hissed ahead of Blake. He was almost to the bridge.

"Come on, Foster!"

"Cut him off!"

"You can't run forever!"

The voices of the boys after him blended together behind Blake. He could see the lights from the boathouse. He would make it, just a little further-

That was when a clenching hand pressed down on his back and grasped his shirt, and Blake and his attacker both tumbled to the ground on the bank of the Charles River.

Blake called out for help, and an arm sleeve was shoved into his mouth-it tasted of sweat and dirt.

"Come, now, Foster."

The boy chasing after Blake, a year older at eighteen, placed his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Then he rubbed his long black hair off his forehead, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the boathouse.

"Did you really think you could get away?"

Blake struggled enough that he could finally get the disgusting shirt sleeve out of his mouth, but didn't scream. He was surrounded by the boys-the Left-Hands.

"Where is it, Blake?" the boy went on.

"Where's what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Foster."

"You will not rule this campus forever, Dmitri," Blake spat back, "The truth will come out. And you will pay. You and your boys."

"We'll worry about that on the day of reckoning, now won't we?" Dmitri responded, his words charming, smooth, and deceivingly friendly, "Now tell me, where is the recording device you used to record me and my boys here without our permission?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blake responded.

Dmitri smiled. Like the devil.

"Edmund. Carlos. Pick up our friend here."

The two boys each grabbed one of Blake's arms. He didn't even bother to fight back. Dmitri held his hands out at his sides, "May I?"

Blake spat on the ground in front of him for a response.

"Watch yourself, Foster," Dmitri growled, and started patting him down and checking his pockets. Blake clenched his teeth in anger, staring out into the fog. I was so close...

"Well, it's not there," Dmitri sighed, running his hand through his hair before resting his hand over his mouth, furrowing his brow.

"Maybe he hid it in his dorm?" Edmund said.

"Maybe his girlfriend has it," Clayton offered. He was the large, muscular boy of the group, even though he was one of the youngest. Blake had once considered him a friend.

How wrong he had been.

"Leave Lindsey out of this. She has no idea and doesn't need to get involved."

"How cute," Carlos laughed, "Blake and Lindsey, sitting in a tree."

A group of the other boys joined in, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

They started laughing. But Dmitri wasn't laughing. He looked at the boathouse, then back to Blake, looking him up and down.

"Let him go," Dmitri said.

The boys looked confused, but obeyed. They stayed close by though, just in case Blake decided to make a run for it again. Blake's hands had gone numb from them cutting off the circulation in his arms.

"Take off your boots," Dmitri said.

Blake's stomach dropped.

"No."

"No?" Dmitri stepped closer to him, his breath fanning across Blake's face, "Is that what you said to me?"

The slap that came afterward snapped Blake's head backward. His knees went weak and he hit the ground, the world spinning around him. Blake muttered insults under his breath as he put his hand to his throbbing cheek. He tried to get back up, but Carlos and Edmund held him down.

"Clayton," Dmitri called theatrically, "You know what to do to our dear soccer protege, don't you?"

Clayton glanced down at Blake and blew out a breath.

"Wait," Blake said as Clayton grabbed his boot, "Don't-"

That was when Clayton twisted Blake's ankle at an unusual angle, and a tortured scream escaped him.

"We could've done this all in a friendly manner," Dmitri said as he walked behind Blake. "But you had to resist."

Then, in a malicious act, Clayton pulled off the boot with excessive force, and turned it upside down. An object fell out, and Clayton picked it up. Dmitri squatted next to Blake, rubbing his shoulders.

"Tell me, Blake," he said into his ear, "Your acceptance into Appleton Hall was because of your soccer skills, no? So...what happens when you can no longer play on the field?"

"You're a monster," Blake hissed through gritted teeth, beads of sweat running down his forehead even though it was chilly and cold.

"You can now go back to whatever undereducated poor neighborhood you came from," Carlos laughed.

Clayton handed the object to Dmitri, who held it up in the light. It was a recording device that was hidden in a pen. He tapped on the playback button. The Left-Hands' voices echoed through the night.

"...Do you think Professor Martin will let us use her lab to make the product?"

"...Professor Martin doesn't want the photos to leak out. She'll behave."

"Mancini! I delivered the message. The witnesses won't be bothering us."

Dmitri pressed the pause button.

"Now who did you expect to share this with, Foster?"

Blake didn't respond. He only waited.

Dmitri broke the pen in half, and then tossed it in the river.

"Such a shame, isn't it?" Dmitri said, almost to himself. "All that work, and for nothing."

"Should we toss Blakey Boy into the water as well?" Clayton asked.

Blake's eyes widened. He couldn't swim. He didn't like water. Dmitri knew that. Dmitri knew everything he needed to know to control the outcome of the story. Dmitri saw Blake's fear, and enjoyed it.

"Hmm," Dmitri said, stepping towards Blake, slightly moving Blake's injured ankle, and he hissed in pain. Dmitri laughed, "No, I think he's learned to keep himself out of our business."

Laughing, they walked away, leaving Blake in the grass.

Blake was later suspended and then expelled. Blake Foster had constantly been testing his professors, breaking curfew, and being a terrible example of an Appleton Hall student. He'd been recruited by the soccer coach for his talent, and his financial need was covered, granting him the chance of a lifetime. But even after he had been offered such grace, he managed to destroy his career path and throw away his chance of a lifetime.

After Blake acquired an injury to his ankle that made him useless on the field during one of the sneakouts, not even the coach could vouch for him.

That, at least, was the official version of what happened.