Page 8 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

I stop pacing, my jaw tightening. “If he thinks he can mess with me, he’s got another thing coming.”

Madison grins, her eyes lighting up. “Blackbird4VR?”

“Blackbird4VR,” I confirm, a smirk tugging at my lips. The thought of hitting back, of leaving my mark on his pristine, over-the-top office, makes my pulse quicken. “His office was in that article. The one with the stained glass windows. I can get in.”

“Climbing again?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“There’s a building next to it. Still under construction. Scaffolding up the side. It’s perfect.”

Madison leans back on the couch, her smirk widening. “Be careful, though. If he’s as shady as you think, he’s not gonna take kindly to someone tagging his space.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, heading to my room. My hands are already moving, gathering my gear—spray cans, gloves, my black hoodie. “I’ll make it quick. In and out.”

“Don’t get arrested,” she calls after me as I shove my supplies into a backpack. “I can’t afford to bail you out.”

“I won’t,” I say, pulling the hoodie over my head. The fabric settles over my shoulders, familiar and grounding. I grab mymask, black cotton, and tuck it into my pocket. “Blackbird doesn’t get caught.”

She laughs, but there’s a hint of worry in it. “Just… be smart, okay? I don’t want to have to explain to your mom why you’re in jail for vandalizing a billionaire’s office.”

“Smart is my middle name,” I shoot back, slipping the backpack over my shoulders. I head for the door, my hand hesitating on the knob. “See you in a bit.”

“Good luck,” she says, her voice softer now. “Kick his ass, Raven.”

I don’t reply, but the determined set of my shoulders says it all. As I step into the night, the cool air hits my face, sharp and bracing. The city hums around me, alive and indifferent. I pull my hood up, my hands brushing against the cans in my bag.

Blackbird4VR is back. And Kirk Stevens? He’s about to learn what happens when you mess with the wrong girl.

The night air hits my face as I hop onto the electric scooter, the hum of its motor vibrating through my body. I swipe the prepaid card, and the display flashes green. Let’s go.

New York at night is a different beast—a mix of neon lights and shadowed alleys, the kind of place where you can feel alive and terrified in the same breath. I weave through the streets, dodging late-night pedestrians and the occasional cab that doesn’t bother to signal. The city smells like roasted nuts and exhaust, and the wind carries the faint sound of a saxophone playing somewhere nearby. It’s beautiful in its chaotic way.

But my jaw tightens as I think about Kirk. That smug, too-perfect face. Thatkiss. He’d made me feel something, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. And then he’d turned around and orchestrated thatattack? What kind of sick bastard does that, just to play hero and get into my pants? My hands grip the scooter’s handlebars harder, the plastic biting into my palms.

I turn a corner, and there it is—Kirk’s brownstone. The bottom floors look like any other building on the block, blending into the city’s fabric like it’s trying not to be noticed. But the top two floors? Those are all him. The stained glass windows catch the streetlight, throwing colors onto the sidewalk below. It’s pretentious as hell, and it screamsmoney.

“Figures,” I mutter, parking the scooter in a shadowed corner. I sling my backpack over one shoulder and duck into the construction site next door. The fence is easy enough to climb, my boots finding purchase on the chain links. I drop down into the yard.

The skeleton of the skyscraper looms above me, its steel girders exposed and waiting. I’ve done this a hundred times, but tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the anger simmering in my veins, or maybe it’s the weight of the spray cans in my bag. Either way, I’m not backing down.

I start climbing, my hands gripping the cold metal, my movements steady and deliberate. Eight floors up, I pause, crouching on a beam to catch my breath. The city stretches out below me, a sea of lights and noise. Then I focus on the ledge of Kirk’s building, just a few feet away but a world apart.

I take a running start, my boots slamming against the steel before I leap. For a second, I’m weightless, the wind rushing past my ears. Then I hit the ledge, tucking into a roll to absorb the impact. My shoulder stings as I come to my feet, but I ignore it, crouching low to stay out of sight.

I unzip my bag, checking the cans. All intact. Good. Blackbird’s ready to leave her mark.

I crouch on the ledge, my boots barely making a sound against the concrete. The balcony doors ahead are massive, floor-to-ceiling glass with intricate metalwork framing them. No locks, no alarms, no fancy security. Guess when you’re ten stories up, you don’t expect intruders. Joke’s on you, Kirk.

I slip inside, the cool air of the office hitting my face. The monitors on his desk cast a faint glow, illuminating the space just enough to see. My eyes adjust, and I spot it—the perfect target. A full-sized portrait of Kirk Stevens on the cover ofTime Magazine, all smug and polished.Man of the Year.Yeah, right. More likeMan of the Houruntil I’m done with him.

I pull out my cans, shaking them with practiced ease. The hiss of the spray fills the quiet room as I go to work. Fangs, hollowed cheeks, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. I turn him into a vampire, greedily sucking money from the air around him. It’schef’s kissperfect. You can still tell it’s him, but now he’s a caricature of his own greed. Blackbird strikes again.

I step back to admire my work, a smirk tugging at my lips. But before I can bask in the glory, a deep, gravelly voice shatters the silence.

“What are you doing here?” it growls.

I freeze. The voice is familiar—lower, rougher, but that same commanding tone. Slowly, I turn around.

And then I see him.

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