The curtains had been pulled back—or rather, the smart-paneled screen had shifted aside, letting pale, deliberate light spill into the room. Someone had activated it.
Isadora blinked at the ceiling. Her body felt stiff, but not exhausted—today was the first day, no lingering weekend fog, just the quiet pressure of new beginnings.
And then she saw her.
Not Nell, Nell's bed was rumpled but empty.
The girl by the mirror wasn't Nell
She moved like a dancer, each motion measured, polished—combing through long silver-blonde hair with fingers that never rushed. Her robe was ivory silk with pale green embroidery. Ridiculous for a student dorm, but it looked like it belonged on her.
She didn't acknowledge Isadora at all.
"Um… hi," Isadora said softly, clearing her throat.
The girl turned just slightly, enough to show her profile. Sharp jaw. Refined nose. Pale blue-grey eyes like frosted glass. Then back to her reflection—still silent, still meticulous.
"I'm Isadora. I don't think we've met—"
Nothing. Her hands moved steadily, dabbing something onto her cheek.
Isadora glanced down at herself. Her curls were a frizzy halo, socks mismatched, robe half-fallen from her shoulder. She tugged it into place.
The girl—Rosier, their third roommate, a legacy student—tied her ribbon tie with a motion so precise it could have been choreographed. Still no greeting. Still no glance. Just a faint scent of something expensive, floral and old-money.
"She's posh," Isadora muttered under her breath.
Nell came in then, brown paper sachet of tea in one hand and a cup of hot water in the other, eyebrows raised. Her eyes flicked between them, noting the silent stranger and Isadora's awkward stance.
Rosier didn't glance at them. She started applying lip balm, as if Isadora and Nell were nothing more than furniture in the background.
"I guess we're invisible now," Nell whispered, smirking, taking a sip of her tea . "Third roommate?"
"Apparently," Isadora whispered back.
"I feel like she looks at us and sees… peasants."
"Social climbers," Isadora muttered. "In her mind, we probably all want to be her."
Nell shrugged. "Babe, she already knows we know who she is."
Rosier slipped into her uniform like she was being dressed for a Vogue shoot. Then she glided past them with barely a sound, not a word, not a single backward glance. Only the faint click of the door confirmed she'd ever been there at all.
Isadora exhaled and sagged onto her bed.
"I've never felt more like background noise in my life."
Nell laughed softly. "This is going to be a long term."
****
The faint scent of floral mist lingered in the air long after the door had clicked shut. Isadora let out a slow breath, leaning back against her bed for a moment, the quiet of the room settling around her.
Nell, perched on the edge of her bed, stretched and yawned. "Well," she said, eyes glinting in the soft morning light, "time to make an entrance."
Isadora smiled faintly and rose, brushing through her curls as she smoothed the fabric of her robe. The mirror caught every detail—the slightly frizzy halo of hair, the way the robe draped over her shoulder—but she didn't rush. Each movement was measured, deliberate, small adjustments made with quiet care.
Nell followed suit, tugging her uniform into place, straightening her socks, and tying her ribbon tie with meticulous precision. They didn't need to talk about it. The careful gestures, the alignment of collars, the neat folds of fabric—it was enough.
Finally ready, they stood side by side before the mirror. Polished, composed, effortlessly put together, even if it had taken extra time.
When they stepped into the hallway, the effect was immediate. Heads turned, some subtly, some not. Whispers trailed in their wake, soft enough to be curious, loud enough to make their pulses quicken. First day. First impressions. Already, they were being noticed.
Nell fell into step beside Isadora, smirking. Isadora allowed herself a small smile, shoulders straightening. Today was just the beginning—but she could handle it
****
While eating breakfast, Isadora stared at her plate for a moment before lifting her fork. Everything looked perfect. But something in her chest still felt… off.
She wasn't exactly upset about Rosier Just… disoriented. There was something about that girl — the way she carried herself, the way she never even looked at them — that made Isadora feel strangely childish. Like a kid pretending to be part of something she wasn't invited to.
She forced herself to eat. One bite at a time. Soft egg, sweet mango, the faint char of tomato skin. Her stomach didn't complain. The food wasn't the problem.
Nell sat across from her, fork twirling through her beef like she was composing music with it. "Did we wake up in a Chanel ad or was that just me?"
Isadora smiled faintly. "You saw the balm."
"I smelled the balm."
They didn't speak much after that.
****
After breakfast, Isadora and Nell went their separate ways for class , Maybe it was Rosier's icy presence. Maybe it was just the off feeling about the school. She didn't want to go to class yet. Not immediately.
Her Skystream card buzzed softly at her wrist, a reminder of her schedule, but she ignored it for a few seconds longer. Then her mind did what it often did in moments like this — it brought him up.
Malakai.
She hadn't seen him since the weekend. Not properly. Not since… everything.
And now, on a Monday morning, before the rest of the day began, she just wanted a little bit of light. So she decided to walk towards The Innovation Hall wandering through the corridor ,the school was vast, a mix of old stone halls and sleek tech spaces.
It was an Innovation Hall in every sense.
Machines hummed softly, holographic screens flickered, and the air carried that subtle, focused energy she imagined he would gravitate toward. It felt like the kind of place he might be.
She didn't see him at first. The corridors were unusually quiet, except for the soft whir of machinery and the muted clack of shoes. Then, just past a doorway lined with displays, she caught a laugh—soft, easy, and somehow exactly the way she pictured him.
"Malakai?" she called, her voice uncertain at first—then firmer.
He turned, and for a moment, her chest skipped. That smile—crooked, warm, surprised—spread across his face.
Dora?"
A warmth flooded her chest before she could brace herself.
He walked over, slow like he hadn't expected her but was glad all the same. "It's been a while. You good?"
She said, "I've been… overwhelmed."
He nodded, understanding without needing details. "Yeah. First week feels like three."
Her eyes drifted—first to his hands, then to the soft golden undertones of his skin catching the sun. Eyes a little surprised—no, stunned. And then: warm. Too warm.
He blinked, and his gaze did a slow, unmistakable sweep—from her hair, her cheeks, the soft blush of her lips, the neat collar, the way her hips shifted just slightly as she adjusted her satchel.
She caught him.
His mouth parted like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn't quite remember language.
She smiled without meaning to.
And in that moment, she saw it:
Pink bubbles.
Tiny, gleaming, translucent, flickering like a filter only she could see. Softness. Awkward sweetness. Something blooming.
He scratched the back of his neck.
"You look—uh. Yeah. You look like you belong here."
Her ears flushed.
"Thanks," she murmured, eyes dropping. "I was… just trying to clear my head before class."
He gave a breathy laugh. "Well, I'm glad you did."
They stood there, a little too quiet. The bubbles didn't pop. They just shimmered gently between them.
"Malakai," a voice cut in, delicate and velvet-like.
At the sudden voice, both of them turned instinctively, their eyes scanning for its source."
From the far end of the hallway came the soft click of deliberate footsteps. A girl — dark auburn hair falling in smooth waves, skin pale but luminous, with a face so elegant it looked sculpted ,drifted toward them like she'd been painted into the scene. Her blazer fit like it had been tailored just for her. Every strand of her hair sat exactly where it should.
She moved with the grace of someone who had been watched all her life , and knew it.She smiled politely at Isadora, though her eyes remained cool and calculating.
Isadora felt the pink bubbles freeze mid-air. Then pop, one by one.
"Oh," Malakai said, shifting slightly. "Dora, this is Lutris Ora."
Lutris Ora. The name suited her. Like a rare gem or a whisper of perfume.
Isadora managed a smile. "Hi."
Lutris tilted her head, gaze flicking between them like she was calculating something.
"Are you two dating?" she asked suddenly, too casually.
Isadora's breath caught, but she forced a laugh. "No, we're just friends."
Something flickered across Malakai's face — too fast, too quiet. But it looked like disappointment.
Lutris's soft smile didn't budge. "Ah. You seemed… close."
She turned to Malakai then, slipping her hand gently through his arm like she'd done it a hundred times before. "We should go, shouldn't we? Class starts soon."
As they began walking away, Isadora stood frozen. Watching.
Lutris glanced back once. That same poised smile. No malice. But definitely intention.
And in that moment, Isadora knew — she didn't like her.
As she watched them go
The ache hit suddenly and hard.
But it wasn't just that. The fact that Malakai had walked away, hand in hand with her, without even looking back—especially with that faint look of disappointment in his eyes tore her apart. Why had he reacted like that? He hadn't disagreed, had he? He didn't have the right to be upset. And that girl… who was she, really? These questions raced through her mind, each one hitting like a slam to the gut.
To her, the words she'd spoken—that they could only ever be friends—hung between them, heavy and final. They tore at her core. And he hadn't even turned back, not once, to look at her. That hurt… more than she could say out loud.
She took a deep breath, letting the hurt quickly shift first into anger, then into quiet acceptance.
The last of her thoughts blurred into the low hum of the corridor. Whatever weight had followed her since morning, she folded it quietly, tucked it somewhere she could reach later.
There wasn't time for that now.
A final ping from her bracelet cut through her daze. NEURO-LIT 201 – 09:00 | Hall 7C.
Right.
Scholarship students didn't have the luxury of being late.
She inhaled, tapped her wristband, and the soft voice of her AI assistant flickered to life.
"Reactivating Lyra. Syncing schedule. Emotional output stabilized at seventy-one percent."
"Don't start," she muttered, though her tone held no real irritation.
"Noted. No emotional analysis for now."
The hall itself was sleek and functional, a mix of soft lighting and smooth surfaces that hummed faintly with unseen currents. Desks were pod-like, curved around neural pads that glimmered faintly, and styluses rested at the ready. Hints of glass and muted metal gave the place an air of precise calm — neither sterile nor intimidating, just… purposeful.
The door shimmered open, and a hush rippled across the room.
As each student stepped in, a thin wave of translucent light scanned their form from head to heel. Isadora tensed slightly, unfamiliar with the pulse of the classroom's biometric sync system. It wasn't just for security—it was for calibration. The sync ensured neural pads responded to individual energy rhythms, cognitive patterns, and emotional pulses. A kind of… techno-empathy.
A light click followed her scan.
"Neural pad syncing… complete," came Lyra's voice in her ear. "Calibration: 84% match. Slight emotional interference detected. Shall I adjust sensitivity?"
"No. Leave it," Isadora whispered.
"Very well. Welcome to Pulse Pen Protocol."
She stepped forward. Her seat curved into a pod-like desk, minimalist but warm. Atop it lay a stylus slim, obsidian, humming faintly and a neural pad already glowing with her name.
Just as she settled, the lights adjusted.
Professor Elleven stepped into focus.
She wore a slate-grey dress that moved like glassy water. Her holographic glasses shimmered like morning dew, throwing pale spectrums across her cheekbones. Young enough to pass as a postgraduate, she nonetheless radiated a kind of quiet command. It wasn't loud, it was absolute.
Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but sculpted.
Professor Elleven's holographic glasses shimmered as she scanned the room.
"Let's begin properly."
A low hum vibrated through the classroom floor as the entry scan completed. Blue light swept over each student, syncing neural pads, adjusting chair temperature, and calibrating each stylus to individual biofeedback.
Isadora blinked at her desk. Her stylus pulsed—then hummed low and warm in her hand.
Her wristband chimed once — a soft pink glow pulsing beneath her sleeve. Lyra's message shimmered across the band's surface.
Class mode active . Voice muted. Switching to silent text relay.
During lectures, the AI wasn't allowed to speak aloud. Instead, she sent short holographic messages — quiet, private, efficient.
A second message followed, scrolling across in neat pink lines:
"Pulse Pen calibrated. Neural pad syncing at 71% resonance. Hm. Little jagged. You okay?"
Isadora ignored her.
Professor Elleven continued.
"Most of you were told this was a writing class. That is incorrect. This is a course in cognitive-emotive engineering."
"Words are not just tools for poetry. They are code—linguistic software for the human brain."
A few students looked confused.
"Think of the world today: Mental health apps that talk you down from panic attacks.
Medical bots that explain death gently to patients. Storylines written for AI-generated simulations.
In all these, the emotional effect of language is critical."
She gestured. A floating sentence appeared:
"Language is not just memory. It's manipulation, encryption, and architecture."
"You will learn how tone affects data retention.
How metaphors act like emotional compression files.
How a well-placed pause can regulate neural rhythms—the same way sound therapy does."
Students stared, wide-eyed. One of them scribbled nervously.
"Each of you has a neural pad linked to your biosignals. As you write, it monitors the impact of your words—on yourself, and on calibrated AI empathy modules. That's how we know when a sentence hits."
A small animation appeared on-screen: a sentence causing a visual spike in brain activity, heart rhythm, tear duct stimulation, etc.
Professor Elleven walked slowly between desks.
"This is not just about making people cry. It's about control. Influence. Precision.
One of you in this room will write code for the next therapeutic VR game.
Another will create the first story that teaches compassion to a robot."
A student raised her hand. "But what if we're not sad enough to write things that matter?"
Elleven turned.
"Then don't be sad. Be honest. Write what you've touched. What you've survived."
A pause. Then, her fingers flicked, and the first exercise blinked into view:
"He left and never returned."
"Rewrite it to make someone cry. Not because it's sad. Because it's felt."
Isadora hesitated.
Her hand hovered.
The room was so still, it sounded like a secret.
Something in her chest burned. A familiar ache. The weight of goodbyes that never sounded final… of someone who promised to stay.
She didn't even realize she was writing.
"He closed the door so gently, I thought he'd come back. But silence is a cruel promise."
A low chime.
Her pad glowed blue. Bright.
Onscreen: EMOTIONAL HIT: 73% — Ache / Nostalgia / Grief
Professor Elleven turned, surprised.
"Seventy-three. That's… unexpected for a first-timer."
She tapped her bracelet. "Isadora Rules?"
Isadora flinched.
Lyra: "Oooooh. Top of the leaderboard already."
Elleven studied her.
"Would you read it aloud?"
Isadora swallowed.
She read.
"He closed the door so gently, I thought he'd come back. But silence is a cruel promise."
The words felt heavy leaving her. Like they remembered something she'd buried.
Professor Elleven's face didn't soften, but her voice did.
"This line is efficient. Weighted. It simmers, not screams. Which means it will linger."
She turned to the rest.
"This is what we mean by neuro-resonant writing. Whether or not she knows it, Miss Wren just converted pain into architecture."
Isadora blinked. She hadn't meant to impress. She had only written the truth.
Lyra : "Yeah. That's going to get noticed."
Professor Elleven paced once more before stopping near the center of the room.
"Let's talk about emotion in syntax. Most of you write sadness by describing events—deaths, departures, broken things. That's surface. In here, we're after what we call sub-emotive triggers—syntax patterns that whisper pain even before the reader understands why."
A quiet murmur moved through the class.
Isadora's stylus hovered mid-air, translating notes directly into neural recall cues. Each key phrase pulsed faintly—sub-emotive trigger, dopaminergic patterning, lexical pacing.
"Your assignment this week," Elleven continued, "is to choose a feeling you've never personally felt—but one you think machines need to understand. Write it. Map it.
Make your AI assistant respond
emotionally, not logically.""For this week's work, you'll be using the Assignment Hub.
Each Focus Well adapts to your energy and lets you work privately on your tasks. Your credit points will update automatically once you submit your work
A screen lit up with emotional spectrums:
Bittersweetness
Yearning
Suspicion
Survivor's Guilt
Quiet Joy
Isadora's chest tightened. The idea of writing what she hadn't felt… she wasn't sure if that was freeing or terrifying.
Before they were dismissed, Elleven spoke once more, quieter now.
"You'll notice your pads react to your inner state. The more honest your emotion, the more responsive your tools will be. You cannot lie to the system and still write something real. Trust me—we'll know."
A low shiver passed through Isadora. Her stylus felt warmer than before.
As the class ended and the students began to disperse, the excitement of being praised in front of everyone still buzzed in her chest. She couldn't wait to tell someone.
Malakai's name surfaced in her mind — as usual. She shook it off quickly. No. Not him.
Nell… or maybe Elian. Anyone but Mal.
She glanced at her wristband. Next: Neuro-Literature. The name alone made her groan softly. Still, she gathered her things and headed out.
The hallway was bright, humming with chatter. And yet, somewhere beneath it all, the memory of Malakai walking away — hand in hand with that girl — flickered again. The ache was sharp, fresh.
Focus, she told herself. It's just another class.