The bass throbbed a slow, insistent pulse against Janice’s chest, even from this distance. Greek Row. She hated the sound of it, the way it clung to the humid August air, thick with the smell of cheap beer and desperation. Her boots crunched on the gravel path that skirted the manicured lawns of the fraternity houses, each one a monument to excess. Flags with crests she didn't bother to identify hung limp in the still air, and groups of students, indistinguishable in their branded t-shirts, spilled out of open doors. Janice pulled a stray strand of her vivid green hair away from her face, the color a defiant splash against the muted campus evening. A week. It had only been a week since Maya left. Dropped out. Gone. The words still tasted like ash in Janice’s mouth. Maya, her best friend, bright and full of a future that had somehow evaporated inside one of these very houses, swallowed by the relentless party scene and the pressure to belong. Janice’s jaw ached from clenching. She pictured Maya’s hopeful face just a few months ago, talking about sisterhood and community, the promises that had lured her in. Now, that same face was drawn, shadowed, haunted by late nights and a vacant stare. Janice had seen the change, had tried to pull her back, but the current had been too strong. She remembered the fight, sharp and bitter, right before Maya packed her single duffel bag. “It’s not just white Greek Life, Janice,” Maya had said, her voice tight with a pain Janice still couldn't fully untangle. “Even the Divine Nine… it’s all the same game, just different players. It’s all about fitting in, about what you can *get*.” Janice hadn't wanted to hear it then, still held a flicker of hope for the Black Greek organizations, but Maya’s words echoed now, cold and true. Every laugh that spilled from the open windows, every shout of drunken camaraderie, felt like a fresh cut. Janice had warned her. Had told her not to trust these places, not to trust the easy smiles and the free drinks. But Maya, ever the optimist, had believed in the idea of belonging. Janice shoved her hands into the pockets of her worn denim shorts, her fingers curling into fists. She walked faster, Nye Hall, her own sanctuary, feeling miles away. She just wanted to be home, away from the glittering, predatory promise of this place. --- Then she saw him. He leaned against the stone archway that marked the official entrance to Greek Row, a sprawling, red-brick monstrosity covered in ivy. Bryce, his face flushed and glistening under the streetlamp, reeked of cheap bourbon from where Janice stood twenty feet away. He was a Gamma Sigma Delta, the kind of guy who thought his last name, Sterling, made him royalty. Janice had seen him around campus, always flanked by other frat boys, always loud, always entitled. His target was a small, timid-looking freshman, her curly hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her shoulders hunched. She clutched a textbook to her chest like a shield, her eyes wide with fear as Bryce caged her against the cool stone. His voice was a low rumble, too close, too invasive. Janice couldn't make out the words, but she didn’t need to. The freshman’s desperate attempts to shrink further into herself, the way she kept glancing around for an escape, told the whole story. A fresh wave of heat, hot and instant, flooded Janice’s veins. It was the same look Maya had worn sometimes, that helpless, cornered animal fear, before she learned to hide it behind a forced smile and another shot glass. Janice’s breath hitched. Her own guilt, a constant dull ache since Maya left, sharpened into a sudden, piercing rage. She felt her body tense, every muscle coiling tight. She saw the freshman’s lips moving, a barely audible The bass throbbed a slow, insistent pulse against Janice’s chest, even from this distance. Greek Row. She hated the sound of it, the way it clung to the humid August air, thick with the smell of cheap beer and desperation. Her boots crunched on the gravel path that skirted the manicured lawns of the fraternity houses, each one a monument to excess. Flags with crests she didn't bother to identify hung limp in the still air, and groups of students, indistinguishable in their branded t-shirts, spilled out of open doors. Janice pulled a stray strand of her vivid green hair away from her face, the color a defiant splash against the muted campus evening. A week. It had only been a week since Maya left. Dropped out. Gone. The words still tasted like ash in Janice’s mouth. Maya, her best friend, bright and full of a future that had somehow evaporated inside one of these very houses, swallowed by the relentless party scene and the pressure to belong. Janice’s jaw ached from clenching. She pictured Maya’s hopeful face just a few months ago, talking about sisterhood and community, the promises that had lured her in. Now, that same face was drawn, shadowed, haunted by late nights and a vacant stare. Janice had seen the change, had tried to pull her back, but the current had been too strong. She remembered the fight, sharp and bitter, right before Maya packed her single duffel bag. “It’s not just white Greek Life, Janice,” Maya had said, her voice tight with a pain Janice still couldn't fully untangle. “Even the Divine Nine… it’s all the same game, just different players. It’s all about fitting in, about what you can *get*.” Janice hadn't wanted to hear it then, still held a flicker of hope for the Black Greek organizations, but Maya’s words echoed now, cold and true. Every laugh that spilled from the open windows, every shout of drunken camaraderie, felt like a fresh cut. Janice had warned her. Had told her not to trust these places, not to trust the easy smiles and the free drinks. But Maya, ever the optimist, had believed in the idea of belonging. Janice shoved her hands into the pockets of her worn denim shorts, her fingers curling into fists. She walked faster, Nye Hall, her own sanctuary, feeling miles away. She just wanted to be home, away from the glittering, predatory promise of this place.---Then she saw him. He leaned against the stone archway that marked the official entrance to Greek Row, a sprawling, red-brick monstrosity covered in ivy. Bryce, his face flushed and glistening under the streetlamp, reeked of cheap bourbon from where Janice stood twenty feet away. He was a Gamma Sigma Delta, the kind of guy who thought his last name, Sterling, made him royalty. Janice had seen him around campus, always flanked by other frat boys, always loud, always entitled. His target was a small, timid-looking freshman, her curly hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her shoulders hunched. She clutched a textbook to her chest like a shield, her eyes wide with fear as Bryce caged her against the cool stone. His voice was a low rumble, too close, too invasive. Janice couldn't make out the words, but she didn’t need to. The freshman’s desperate attempts to shrink further into herself, the way she kept glancing around for an escape, told the whole story. A fresh wave of heat, hot and instant, flooded Janice’s veins. It was the same look Maya had worn sometimes, that helpless, cornered animal fear, before she learned to hide it behind a forced smile and another shot glass. Janice’s breath hitched. Her own guilt, a constant dull ache since Maya left, sharpened into a sudden, piercing rage. She felt her body tense, every muscle coiling tight. She saw the freshman’s lips moving, a barely audible plea escaping her throat. It was a single, whispered word:

Chapter 1: Green Hair, Red Flag