Jack Sommers and I lived in the same wing, walked the same halls, and ate in the same cafeteria together for decades before I became a Guard, without ever really getting to know each other. There had been the occasional Winter social event or clandestine dorm party, where Noelle would inevitably gravitate toward him and start a conversation, and that was usually about the same time I left. Something about the way she had looked at him—the way everyone had looked at him, as if he was some mystery everyone wanted to solve—had always pissed me off. Lyon had been my faculty adviser when I first became a Winter, years before Jack. But then Jack came along, and every time I turned around, there he was. It was as if Lyon had some low-key obsession with the new kid; he was always playing favorites, devoting all his time to “help Jack acclimate” because Sommers was too much of a whining brat to realize he’d won the fucking lottery when he died and got to come here. The next year, I requested a change of advisers, just so I wouldn’t have to listen to it.

When Michael invited Sommers to join the Guard, I was sure it was because Lyon had given Jack a leg up. Only later did I come to realize why Michael had tried recruiting him . . . because he had seen something in Jack’s future, or maybe in his own, and was attempting to derail a runaway train before it even left the station. And yet, Jack turned him down.

I toss the cube. Dust scatters where it lands on the sunken cushions of a crappy old sofa. I move to the desk in the corner. Chill’s workstation is the most impressive thing in the room—three sleek, high-end monitors, a pricey ergonomic keyboard, and a carefully dismantled hard drive. Guts and wires spill out of its shell, ensuring it’s completely useless to me.

I dump out a desk drawer. Crumbs spill from an open bag of chips and a roach skitters out, disappearing under a pile of empty file folders. The trash can under the desk is mounded with shredded documents and photos. Jack and his Handler were careful when they left.

I follow the sound of Lixue’s rustling to their shared bedroom and watch her tear through what little Jack and his Handler left here. Unlike Jack, his Handler seems to have amassed a few personal possessions over the years. Jack’s side of the room feels stark by comparison—no framed family photos, trinkets, trophies, or hobby paraphernalia that might reveal more about him than the bits and pieces I’ve managed to string together from the few insignificant records Lyon didn’t waste time purging from the servers. It’s as if Jack Sommers never bothered to settle in. As if, from the very beginning, he’d never intended to stay.