Chapter Text
I have survived three years at the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women.
I have memorized every access code, bypassed every alarm system on campus at least once (for educational purposes), and can field-strip a SIG Sauer in under thirty seconds without smudging my lip gloss.
I have survived midterms, finals, pop quizzes, late-night drills, Sublevel Two simulations, Professor Buckingham’s stare, and one particularly unfortunate bout of food poisoning after a code-breaking lock-in involving experimental lasagna.
What I have not survived?
Lawyers.
Or whatever the spy-world equivalent of lawyers is when they come wrapped in Townsend’s accent and a thin red folder that looks like it could casually end my life.
“Sit,” he says, as if I’m a badly trained puppy and not a near-graduating operative who knows seven ways to incapacitate a grown man with a Bic pen.
The debrief room is empty except for us. No classmates. No girls whispering in the rows behind me. No helpful eye contact from Bex or Macey or anyone else who might mouth what did you do? at me over Townsend’s shoulder.
Just me.
And the folder.
On the table, the red looks almost… wet. I know that’s stupid—it’s card stock, not blood—but my palms still get sweaty.
“Juliette,” Townsend says, dropping into the chair opposite mine. “You understand you’re entering your final term. Things will be changing.”
“That’s what the Career Counseling packet was for?” I say, aiming for casual. “Come to Gallagher, graduate, pick a three-letter agency and try not to die?”
One corner of his mouth twitches like it wants to be amused and decides against it.
“This isn’t career counseling,” he says.
He turns the folder so it faces me and flips it open.
I see my name first.
HART, JULIETTE E.
Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women
Year 4 – Covert Operations Track
Underneath that, a string of words that should not go together:
JOINT OPERATIONS: BLACKTHORNE INSTITUTE
CONTAINMENT CLAUSE: PROVISIONAL ASSET
My stomach does a weird swoopy thing.
“Question,” I say, raising my hand like we’re in class, because if I don’t, I might just blurt something unhelpful like Am I being fired from spy school?
“Yes, Hart?”
“What, exactly, are we… containing?”
“You.” He says it like he’s telling me it’s Tuesday. “We’re containing you.”
Okay. Not the answer I was expecting.
“I—sorry—what?”
Townsend’s eyes are steady and very, very calm. “As of this semester, you’ll be attached to a standing Gallagher–Blackthorne joint team. You will serve as primary field asset and provisional lead when circumstances require.”
“That sounds… good?” I say slowly, because it does. It sounds like the kind of thing girls whisper about after curfew, lying on their backs in their dorm beds. Primary asset. Field lead. Big leagues.
“So why,” I tap the words on the folder, “does it also come with a Containment Clause?”
He leans back, folding his arms like he has all the time in the world.
“Tell me, Hart,” he says, “what’s the first rule of joint operations?”
“Don’t die,” I say automatically.
“The other first rule.”
“Don’t get your partner killed?”
“The other other first rule.”
“Uh…” I blink. “Trust the team?”
“There it is.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Trust isn’t abstract in our world. It’s written down. Signed off. Codified. The Clause simply states that the Blackthorne operatives attached to your unit have the authority to remove you from the field if, in their judgment, your decisions endanger the mission or the team.”
“In their judgment,” I repeat. “Not yours. Not mine.”
“Correct.”
My mouth goes dry. “So they can… bench me. Mid-op.”
“They can extract you,” he says. “By any means necessary.”
Images flicker through my head: being dragged off a rooftop. Getting slung over some Blackthorne boy’s shoulder like a duffel bag. Being locked in a van while everyone else finishes the mission without me.
I try not to let my face show how much I hate all of that.
“With respect, sir,” I say, “why do I need a special clause? We’ve been doing joint ops with Blackthorne for years. Cammie never had one. None of the older girls—”
“This isn’t about them.” His voice cuts clean through the room. “It’s about you.”
I swallow. “Did I do something wrong?”
He looks almost surprised. “Wrong? No. Quite the opposite. Your instructors’ reports are… impressive.”
I feel heat creep up my neck.
“You see patterns quickly,” he goes on. “Faster than your peers. You change routes mid-simulation when others cling to the plan. You improvise. You lead.”
He says lead like it’s dangerous.
“Which is also,” he adds, “why you get into more trouble than your peers. We are placing you with a team that has the training to follow your calls—” he taps the folder “—and, when necessary, to stop you.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
“Good. It’s meant to be.” He folds the folder shut again. The red seems even brighter. “You’ll meet them at seventeen-hundred hours in Sublevel Two.”
“Them?”
“The Blackthorne operatives chosen for this initiative.”
I sit up straighter before I can help it.
I have heard about Blackthorne boys since before they were allowed on campus. We all have. Dark legends shared in stairwells. Classified incident reports someone “accidentally” left on the CoveOps printer. Covert training videos with the faces blurred but the silhouettes unmistakably tall, broad, and terrifying.
I have been daydreaming about Blackthorne boys since before they were more than rumors—about someone finally being able to outthink me, outfight me, pin me down when I push too hard.
Not that I’m going to tell Townsend any of that.
“Any… names?” I ask. I aim for breezy. I probably land closer to strangled curiosity.
“You’ll be briefed as a team,” he says. “Until then—” he taps the folder once more “—understand that as of this moment, the Containment Clause is active.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he says, standing, “that from now on, when you step into the field with them, you are not only responsible for their lives and the mission—” his gaze pins me in my chair “—you are also, officially, an asset they are authorized to control.”
The word asset lands heavy in my chest.
Asset is what we call people. Informants. Civilians with something we need.
Not Gallagher girls.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” I ask.
Townsend’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Simple,” he says. “Earn the right to make ‘containment’ unnecessary.”
At sixteen-hundred hours, I’m still staring at my reflection in the mirror over my sink, trying to decide if I look like someone who can make containment unnecessary.
You’d think after three years of spy school, I’d know what that looks like.
I smooth my hair back into a ponytail, then shake it out again. Let it fall around my shoulders. I swap my plain black tee for the one that fits just a little sharper under my Gallagher tac jacket.
Completely ridiculous. I’m going to Sublevel Two, not a date.
(Not that I’ve ever had a date where the other party was legally allowed to extract me by force. That would be weird. Even for us.)
By the time I make it down the stone staircase and through the secure door to Sublevel Two, my heart is pounding harder than it does after a ten-minute run in the sparring ring.
The corridor is cool and quiet, the air smelling faintly of metal and ozone. I punch in the code on the keypad, palm the scanner, and step into the briefing room.
They’re already there.
Five of them, scattered around the room like they own the air.
One is leaning back in a chair, feet propped on the table, grin bright enough to power a small city. Dark hair, sharp eyes, relaxed posture that absolutely screams I can take you down without wrinkling my shirt.
Jimin, my brain supplies, unhelpfully.
The files I wasn’t supposed to see had a still image of him executing a takedown on a training mat. The grin is the same.
Another sits near the end of the table, half-turned toward a wall monitor, fingers moving over a tablet with lazy precision. Hair pushed back, eyes half-lidded, posture saying I’m bored—while the scrolling code on the screen behind him says I just cracked your entire security grid because I felt like it.
Min Yoongi.
Blackthorne’s resident hacker ghost and part-time rap-star cover, if the rumors are true.
Next to the far wall stands a tall boy with broad shoulders and an expression that would make most people forget their own name. His gaze flicks once over me, takes in everything, files it away. I can practically see him mapping the room, the exits, the quickest route to drag me out if I do something brilliant and stupid.
Kim Namjoon.
IQ off the charts. Command presence off the scale. Somehow still manages to look vaguely like he walked out of a library and straight into a war zone.
In the corner, half in shadow, another boy leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted like he’s listening to music only he can hear. His eyes are lazy, his mouth soft, but everything about him says coiled, not sleepy.
Taehyung.
Cover: jazz singer. Voice allegedly illegal in seventeen countries.
And then there’s the one closest to the door, the one who turned when I came in, eyes bright and sharp, smile breaking across his face like he’s been waiting all day for this.
Jeon Jungkook.
Golden boy. Master of everything. The kind of operative instructors mutter about in the staff lounge when they think we’re not listening.
Five Blackthorne boys.
One Gallagher girl.
One Clause.
Namjoon is the first to move. He pushes off the edge of the table, crosses the room with the kind of economy of motion that makes me want to adjust my stance without thinking about it, and nods once.
“Hart,” he says. “We’ve read your file.”
I straighten. “Hope it was flattering.”
Jimin laughs under his breath.
“Impressive,” Namjoon says. “And worrying.”
“Worrying?” I echo.
“You improvise. You disobey direct instructions when you think you’re right. You’ve pulled three simulations back from failure with unauthorized route changes.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
“And yet,” Yoongi drawls without looking up, “they still gave you lead potential on a joint team. Interesting choice.”
Taehyung shifts just enough that the light hits his face. “We’re here to test it, aren’t we?”
Jungkook’s grin widens. “Guess so.”
I look at them—at all of them—and think about the red folder upstairs. About the words Containment Clause: Provisional Asset printed under my name.
I think about the fact that this room holds more sheer skill than some war rooms.
And for the first time since Townsend slid that folder across the table, something in my chest loosens.
If these are the boys who are allowed to “contain” me…
I’m going to make damn sure they never have to.
“All right,” I say, stepping forward, squaring my shoulders. “You’ve read my file.”
I meet Namjoon’s eyes, then Yoongi’s, then Jungkook’s, Jimin’s, Taehyung’s in turn.
“Now let’s see if I live up to it.”
Somewhere behind me, the door seals shut with a soft hiss.
The Containment Clause is active.
The Blackthorne boys are watching.
And whether Townsend intended it or not, one thing is already clear:
If this is a test, I fully intend to pass.
[INTERLUDE FILE: CLASSIFIED]
GALLAGHER ACADEMY – INTERNAL INTELLIGENCE BRIEF
AUTHOR: Townsend, J
CLEARANCE: Level 7 / Blackthorne Liaison
SUBJECT: Meeting Notes — Containment Clause Activation
Attending:
– Kim Namjoon (Blackthorne)
– Min Yoongi (Blackthorne)
– Park Jimin (Blackthorne)
– Kim Taehyung (Blackthorne)
– Jeon Jungkook (Blackthorne)
– Townsend, J (Gallagher)
– Hart, Juliette (Gallagher) — not present
Summary:
Confirmation received:
A leak within Gallagher’s upper ranks has been selling containment window timestamps to hostile actors.
(Ref: Attack Attempt 11.08; Compromised Simulation Logs — redacted.)
Leak appears to be using student operations as testing ground.
Reason for Clause Activation:
– Hart’s adaptive decision-making curve is measurably higher than projected.
– Targeting risk is elevated.
– Her “containment window” value is classed as very high by hostile buyers.
– Placing her with Blackthorne team allows:
-
protection without raising suspicion
-
observation of leak behavior
-
controlled environment for any forced extraction
Directive to Blackthorne:
“Contain asset Hart by any means necessary if mission parameters degrade.
She is the key variable.
She must remain in play.”
Notes:
Yoongi questioned why Hart has been flagged as the primary asset.
Namjoon accepted rationale without comment.
Jungkook requested unfiltered intel — denied.
Jimin expressed concern regarding Hart’s reaction if she learns the truth.
Taehyung asked if she’s aware of the leak — answer: no.
Pending:
Next contact from the leak is anticipated within 1–3 missions.
Hart’s placement should draw the leak’s attention.
End report.
— T
I have memorized every security code, hacked every teacher’s password at least once (for training purposes, obviously), and can field-strip a SIG Sauer in thirty-two seconds flat. I know, I said that already.
What I have not survived?
Blackthorne boys.
And not just any Blackthorne boys. No. These were the tall, strong, way-too-smart-for-their-own-good senior Blackthorne boys who had arrived this semester like they owned the place. (And, honestly? Judging from the way they strode into the Hall of History like it was their living room… maybe they kind of did.)
I’d been hearing about them for years.
Rumors whispered in code between Gallagher girls after curfew. Files “accidentally” accessed in the CoveOps classroom. Stories about covert missions, impossible training regimens, and… okay, fine… the way their eyes could meet yours and make you forget your own name.
But I wasn’t prepared for Jimin. He smiled like a prince but moved like a predator, all quick hands and sharper reflexes. One minute I was demonstrating a disarm in Taekwondo; the next, I was flat on my back with him grinning down at me, his knee braced just enough to keep me there.
“Not bad,” he said. “For a Gallagher girl.”
And then there was Yoongi — quiet, eyes always half-lidded like he was bored, but somehow he could break through a Gallagher firewall in thirty seconds while maintaining an undercover persona as a broody rap star. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was low and edged with something that made me stand straighter without even thinking about it.
Namjoon?
Picture the brainiest Gallagher girl you’ve ever met. Now multiply her IQ by ten. Now imagine him knowing exactly how to use that against you. In Political Science, I tried to argue with him once. Once. By the time class was over, I was halfway convinced I’d volunteered to rewrite my own essay and bring him coffee.
Taehyung had this voice — deep, smoky, like he’d swallowed every jazz club secret in Paris. He could lean close, murmur something in that voice, and suddenly you weren’t entirely sure if you were supposed to be writing an intel report or confessing state secrets.
And Jungkook… well, Jungkook was Jungkook.
Weapons? Perfect.
Languages? Fluent in half a dozen.
Taekwondo? Don’t even bother.
And when he caught you in the sparring ring, when his shadow fell over you and you saw that smile — the one that was equal parts bunny-cute and I’m-about-to-win — you didn’t stand a chance.
Blackthorne boys didn’t just walk into a room. They took it.
And part of me — okay, maybe most of me — was dangerously close to letting them take me too.
It started like any other Friday.
Which meant it didn’t start like any other Friday at all.
For one thing, the halls were way too quiet. And I know what you’re thinking — Gallagher Academy quiet isn’t normal quiet. It’s “someone’s-about-to-rappel-through-the-ceiling” quiet.
So when I walked into the Sublevel Two briefing room and saw them all leaning against the wall like they’d been born there — Jimin’s lazy grin, Yoongi’s unreadable gaze, Namjoon’s raised eyebrow, Taehyung’s half-smile, Jungkook’s I’m-up-to-something smirk — I knew I was in trouble.
“Agent Hart,” Professor Townsend said, “today’s simulation will be… unconventional.”
Which, in Townsend-speak, means prepare for chaos and probably pain.
The mission was simple:
Retrieve the intel case from the north wing without getting tagged by enemy operatives.
The “enemy operatives” in question? Blackthorne. All of them.
Five minutes later, I was pressed against a cold stone wall, listening for footsteps. I heard them — slow, measured. And then…
“Boo,” Jimin whispered right behind me.
I spun, went for his arm — textbook Taekwondo — and still somehow ended up with my back to the wall, his hands trapping mine.
“You have to be faster,” he said, and winked before letting me go.
I barely had time to breathe before Yoongi appeared at the far end of the corridor, leaning casually against a doorframe.
“You’re predictable,” he said. And then he wasn’t there. By the time I reached the corner, my access card was gone from my pocket.
Namjoon caught me in the library.
“You really think coming here was smart?” he asked, one hand on the chair back beside me, blocking my exit. “Because you missed at least three better routes.” His voice was low, measured, like he was explaining math — except somehow I still found myself circling the long way around the stacks, exactly as he told me.
Taehyung was next. “Looking for something?” he murmured, stepping out of the shadows in the music room. That voice — seriously, I don’t know if they teach it at Blackthorne or if he was born with it — made me forget for a second that I was supposed to be running.
And then Jungkook.
Always last. Always everywhere.
He caught me outside the north wing’s entrance, one arm sliding around my waist in a move so quick I barely registered it before I was spun against him.
“You almost made it,” he said, that smile breaking over his face like he knew exactly how much it was throwing me off.
Almost.
And then he plucked the case out of my hands like it had never belonged to me in the first place.
When the simulation ended, they were all standing there, intel case in Namjoon’s hand, looking perfectly unruffled while I tried not to sound like I’d just run a marathon.
Townsend only said, “Better luck next time, Gallagher girl.”
The boys didn’t say a word.
But Jimin winked.
And Yoongi smirked.
And I realized something terrible.
I really wanted a next time.
The thing about Gallagher Academy is that every hallway, every vent, every hidden door feels like an extension of yourself.
At least, it did before the Blackthorne boys showed up.
“Okay,” I said, unrolling the floor plan on the desk in Sublevel Three’s briefing room. “This is our target building. I know the security system — I helped install it. Cameras on a three-second loop. West stairwell has a blind spot on the second landing. East hallway floorboards squeak like—”
“Like a Gallagher girl who thinks she’s running point?” Jimin leaned over my shoulder, all charm and perfectly straight teeth.
I gave him my best “I can and will throw you into a wall” look.
“This is my turf,” I reminded them. “If you want the objective, you need me calling the shots.”
Namjoon glanced at the map, his eyes scanning it once, twice, like he’d already memorized every pixel. “Noted,” he said. “We’ll take your intel… and adjust the plan.”
Adjust?
Translation: they were going to do exactly what they wanted.
The mission was simple on paper: break into the old east annex, recover the encrypted laptop before the ‘enemy agents’ got there. And by ‘enemy agents,’ Townsend meant… more Blackthorne boys. Which was the only way this could be worse.
We set out in two teams — me, Jimin, and Namjoon up front; Yoongi, Taehyung, and Jungkook covering the rear. Which was ridiculous because I should have been up front calling every move.
But two minutes in, Jimin had already signaled a detour I hadn’t called.
Three minutes in, Namjoon had rerouted us entirely.
And by the time we reached the annex, my so-called point position felt a lot like following orders I hadn’t agreed to.
We were halfway through the dark, narrow hall when I hissed, “You’re going the wrong way. The objective is north.”
Namjoon didn’t even look back. “It’s faster to flank south and cut through the atrium.”
“Not unless you have a death wish. The atrium’s—”
“Clear,” Jungkook’s voice came through the comm, smooth and infuriating. “We’re already there.”
My jaw clenched.
They’d taken my map, my knowledge, and somehow still managed to make me feel like the tagalong intern on her first op.
When we reached the atrium, Jungkook was leaning casually against the railing, laptop in hand. “You were right about the camera loops,” he said, smiling like it was a compliment. “Made this easy.”
Not you were right, so you should’ve been leading.
Just… easy.
And the worst part?
I still wanted to beat them next time.
Badly.