My stress levels multiply exponentially as the days go on. I am still forced to erase people, despite my protests. Marge was adamant that I continue doing my work.

“They’re going to know something’s up if you stop finishing tasks,” she told me adamantly. “You have to keep working.”

The faces of the people I erased haunt me at night. I imagine their bodies sprawled out on operating tables on Floor 38, as faceless surgeons extract their eyeballs and siphon out their blood. Now I understand why Marge barely sleeps- how could she, when she knows all these secrets and more? Her terrible smoking habits are a way to numb the pain. A distraction. They harm her physically while assuaging the pain mentally. The amount of rest I get slips from 6 hours to 5 hours to 3 hours. It’s a constant struggle dragging myself out of bed every morning.

In my spare time, I look through old records of Camille Rosenquist, Jaemi Kim, Kyle Johnson, Mark Davidson, and Haley Salinas’ work. There is not much information that isn’t redacted- only brief mentions of their names in articles and lengthy research papers written by the 5 of them. Their work is confusing and clearly meant for expert readers. What the hell are “EC2 cloud computing services for data containment”? Who can even understand this scholarly jargon? I need Cliff’s Notes for these essays, goddammit.

Or better yet, I need Baekhyun to finish his stupid data mining or whatever and tell me what happened to Camille Rosenquist. I’m going to see him at the Christmas Ball this Saturday. I swear I’ll beat him up if he doesn’t give me answers.

And top of everything, hell week is fast approaching- midterm exam time at Brookhaven High. Our teachers are piling on work, as well as giving us huge packets of information to study for our tests. “Remember, y’all, your midterms count for 20% of your overall average!” my history teacher reminds us in a sickly sweet voice. She grins at me. “If you want to keep up your exceptional grades in my class, you better study!”

The rest of the Anime Club are all exhibiting the same signs of fatigue and exhaustion. Lina looks sickly all the time, and Anna’s smiles are all forced. It’s even gotten to the point where Preet is too tired to talk. Preet.

And Jungkook?

We haven’t even looked at each other since our confrontation a few weeks ago. I don’t care. I don’t have time to deal with him. I need to focus.

I have to focus.

It’s 7th period. It’s Friday. The week is almost over, and I still feel like flinging myself in a trashcan.

I check my phone for the millionth time that day. Still no news from Baekhyun. Damn.

The bell is about to ring. I stumble to the back of the room, not completely certain I know where I’m going. Everything’s a little hazy. Like I’m in a dream. My body feels limp. My shoulder slams into someone, and I nearly topple to the ground.

“Sorry,” I say faintly, ducking out of the way.

The person catches my arm before I can take another step forward. “Ami,” he murmurs in a low voice.

I blink. Jungkook.

My stomach sinks.

“I said sorry,” I say, forcing hostility into my voice.

Namjoon comes up behind Jungkook, peering at me concernedly. “Ami, are you okay?” he questions. “You look...,”

“Like ? Yeah, I know.”

Hoseok strides into the room, whistling an amiable tune- until he sees me. “Hey, hey, hey.” He pokes my forehead. “Ami. Let's play 20 Questions. Number 1: when’s the last time you ate? Number 2: how late have you been staying up working? Number 3: do you want me to kidnap Marge so you can have a day of rest?”

I chuckle. “If I answer those questions, you’re going to yell at me.”

“He’s being serious,” Jungkook says, stepping towards me. His expression is brooding, unreadable. The smile slides off my face.  

Right at that moment, Emma Carter flounces into the room. “Jungkook!” she trills in her obnoxiously high-pitched voice, flipping her straight brown hair behind her shoulder. When she sees him standing next to me, however, her lip curls in disdain. “Aww, Ami, trying to beg him to come back to you?”

I ignore her, and instead take this opportunity to swerve around Jungkook and sit down in my seat. Namjoon and Hoseok exchange a look.

Emma tenderly Jungkook’s arm as he stares at me.

“She looks like trash,” she giggles loudly. “She must really be pining after you.”

And in the next moment, Namjoon and Hoseok literally shove Jungkook and Emma out of their way and drag me out of my chair.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Wringer!” Hoseok announces in a terrible stilted voice. “Aemin Hwang has collapsed! We must carry her to the nurse’s office!”

Mrs. Wringer narrows her eyes. “You 3 little hooligans are aware that exams are in a week, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Namjoon says, flashing her his pearly whites.

Mrs. Wringer rolls her eyes, and finally shooes us out of the classroom.

“Where are you guys taking me?” I whine as we march towards the door.

“To a bed,” Namjoon says. He suddenly freezes. “Whoa, that sounds really wrong.”

Suddenly, Jungkook stands up and blocks our path. “What are you doing?” he utters in a low voice.

Hoseok jovially claps a hand on Jungkook’s back and draws him close. “We’re helping Ami out, because you’re too much of a coward to do so,” he murmurs in a cheerful voice. “Maybe if you’d get your head out of your and stopped being so selfish, you’d get your priorities straight.”

Jungkook jolts back, like he’s been hit with an electric shock. Hoseok gives him a cheeky grin, and then continues pulling me out of the classroom. I stare at him in awe.

“Damn,” I whistle. “You’re scary as hell, Hoseok, did you know that?”

He cackles loudly. “Of course I know. They call me... uhh... they call me calculus.”

“And... you lost it.”

In the end, the boys take me all the way to Floor 21, where they simply ask Marge where my room is (she confusedly leads them down the hallway) and then dump me on the bed.

“Don’t let her near her computer, Marge!” Namjoon calls as the two of them leave. “Chop her hands off if she touches her keyboard!”

“Wait! Namjoon! Hoseok! Come here!” I yell. The two of them walk back into my room.

“Do you want us to join you?” Hoseok jokes, winking exaggeratedly. I fling a pillow at him.

“No, you . I just wanted to say thanks. You two are great.” I hold up my hands for high-fives.

Namjoon studies me.

“Hey, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks Hoseok.

“Does it involve tackling her?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, hell no,” I say, but it’s too late- my voice is muffled by Hoseok and Namjoon’s bodies as they fling themselves at me.

“Marge, help!” I shriek as they start tickling me. “They’re violating me!”

“You ,” Marge snarls, flicking my ear. “If they didn’t have to pull you out of school because you weren’t taking proper care of yourself, then you wouldn’t be in this position!”

I try to stifle my laughter. “Fine, fine! Okay, get off, you guys. Stop! I’m going to die!”

“Get some rest!” Hoseok commands as he follows Namjoon out the door. “I’ll see you at the ball!”

“Ami’s going to dress up for me,” Namjoon informs Hoseok.

I scoff. “Like hell I am!”

When I wake up, bright sunlight is streaming from the curtains, casting the room in a soft white glow. The sound of honking horns from the streets is audible from here.

And then it hits me.

“!” I swear, shooting up. “What time is it? What day is it? Oh my god, I’m going to be so late for school!”

“You are not going to school,” Marge snaps, bursting into my room. “First of all, it's Saturday. Second of all, you need a day to relax.”

“Relax? Marge, midterms are in a week! I have to finish the work you assigned me on Monday! I need to call Chanyeol and ask for an update on his intel! I’m so behind, oh my god-,”

“Ami! Stop!”

I clamp my mouth shut.

“I totally forgot to tell you,” she sighs. “We actually do have official Yohan business to conduct today. It’s really important; it actually takes precedence over everything we’ve been assigned.”

I exhale. “Okay, sure. What is it?”

“Hang on. I need to make a few phone calls.”

I hurriedly get dressed as Marge speaks in a low voice to someone on the other line.

“Let’s go,” she says seriously, grabbing her purse. She leads me to her car, and within a few moments we’re speeding down the highway

“Seriously? This is our ‘super important Yohan business’?” I mutter as we pull up in front of Lush Spa and Salon.

“In case you’ve forgotten, the Christmas Ball is today, and we need to look amazing,” Marge informs me in a matter-of-fact voice. “This place is the best. I swear it takes 10 years off your body.”

“That would make me 6 years old, Marge.”

“Oh, you get the point.”

Apparently, the phone calls Marge had made were to book suites in this place. Holy , Lush Spa is fancy as hell. 100% silk sheets, two enormous jacuzzis with automatic bubble bath dispensers, complimentary milk baths... who even has enough money to go here?

I bring this up while Marge and I are getting deep tissue massages. She snickers.

“You’re forgetting that we work for a billion-dollar company,” she says. “These are just some perks of being important employees- oh my god, Helena, that’s the spot. I’m so tense up there.”

I roll my eyes and- despite the pessimist inside of me- proceed to fully relish my massage.

It’s been 4 hours, and I’ve been treated to everything from aromatherapy to a cucumber pomegranate facial to an ocean salt body scrub. Despite a few painful ordeals- leg waxing almost made me start bawling- I feel like a ton of weight has been lifted off each of my shoulders. For once, I don’t feel like a hacker who’s struggling to survive in high school and an enormous crime syndicate. I just feel like a normal girl. I even nod eagerly when one of the spa technicians tells me it’s time for my hair and makeup application.

“So he tries passing me the salt, but he ends up knocking over his glass and spilling an entire cup of water on his pants,” Marge says, explaining the story of a hilarious first date. We are both sitting on stools, separated by a thin white divider. “And then he runs to the bathroom so he can use the hand dryer to dry his pants!”

I giggle. “Let me guess, he didn’t get a second date.”

Marge laughs. “Actually, we dated for a while.”

“Whoa, seriously? Are you two still together now?”

She pauses for a moment, her smile fading. “No, we’re not. Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Who do you have the hots for, my little high school child?”

My mind instantly jumps to Jungkook. Cocky, frustrating, selfish, scary Jungkook. I want to kill him, but I also want to kiss him. Our relationship has swerved into the deep “enemies” zone again. I hate him more than ever.

Why the hell am I even thinking about him? I hastily shake him out of my thoughts. “I don’t like anyone," I tell Marge instead.

“You’re cute, though,” Marge says. “Maybe you should find a hookup buddy. You know, friends with benefits?”

“No way! I’m not going to be Emma Carter!”

“Who’s Emma Carter?”

I purse my lips. “This annoying girl in my grade. I don’t even want to talk about her.”

“Sheesh, okay then.”

Helena the spa attendant emerges from the other side of the divider. "We're all done!" she trills, and slides back the divider separating Marge and I.

“Ami, look at yourself!” Marge squeals, shoving me in front of a mirror. I nearly choke on my own saliva.

Holy . I look amazing. My skin no longer looks ragged and weary; instead, it is perfectly smooth. Gone are the dark circles under my eyes; instead, coal black eyeliner rims my eyelids and waterline, perfectly complimented by dark mascara. A deep red color has been applied to my lips, while light pink tinges my cheekbones. I am glowing.

And my hair! Normally wavy and barely manageable, it has somehow been shaped into voluminous ringlets. What kind of sorcery is this? What did these women sacrifice to make me look so good? Holy , they must be magical witches or something!

Marge looks even better than I do. With her tall, willowy frame and exquisite facial features, she could be a supermodel... if she wasn’t stuck to her laptop 24/7 like I am.

“I picked out the perfect dresses for us, too,” she says excitedly. “Helena, I think I had them sent over here. Can you get them, please?”

“Of course,” Helena smiles. She returns a few minutes later, carrying two blue boxes wrapped in paper.

“Go change in there,” Marge tells me, pointing to the bathroom. I comply, curiosuly wondering how my dress looks like. Will it be red? Or pink? Or-

My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

“What the hell, Marge!” I screech, stomping out of the bathroom in anger. “I look like- like a e! This dress is not age appropriate!”

“Ami, it goes all the way down to the floor.”

“Yeah, but it’s slit down to my sternum! I’m exposing too much cleavage!”

Marge rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You look elegant. Doesn’t she look elegant, Helena?”

“She does, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Helena. Anyway, if you don’t want to wear your dress, you can wear mine.”

“Alright. How does it look like?”

    Marge pulls a silky red thing out of her box.

I stare at it blankly.

    “Marge... is that a dress or an apron?” I ask weakly.

    She smirks. “So you want to stick to your dress?”

    I look at myself in the mirror. Despite the extremely low cut of the gown, it is quite beautiful; silver at the top, with blue and gold embroidery around the blouse, and a deep royal blue at the bottom. It is slightly cinched at the waist, accentuated my toned figure- the only good thing to come out of 2 weeks of rigorous Training.

    “Fine,” I pout. “But next time, I’m picking out my clothes.”

    Marge gives me a catlike smile. “Trust me, honey, you’ll be thanking me by the end of the evening.”