Chapter XXXIII: Octavius Octave
The night settles over London like a wet shroud.
Rain falls in fine mist, enough to blur the edges of lamps and leave cobblestones slick with reflection. Somewhere in the city, Big Ben tolls, its resonance swallowed by the fog that drapes across the Thames like a veil.
Nathaniel Cross moves through the damp corridors of King's College, the echo of his boots sharp against stone. His satchel thuds lightly with every step, a reminder of the weight he has chosen to bear: books, equations, and the quiet ember that lives in his chest.
He has survived far darker nights. He tells himself this one is ordinary.
But nothing is ordinary anymore.
The morning begins with trusses and stress diagrams, Aldridge hammering formulas into the board with the fury of a general drawing battle lines. Nathaniel copies them, every stroke of his pen deliberate. His chest burns faintly with concentration, not pain.
For once, the symbols make sense. Forces balance. Vectors fall into order.
Progress.
But beneath the scrape of chalk and the tapping of laptops, Nathaniel hears it—another sound. Faint, like the whisper of paper folding itself.
He looks up.
Three rows back, Adolf van Giovanni watches. Notebook closed. Pen motionless. Grey-green eyes unblinking, sharp as razors under the fluorescent glare.
The rest of the class is a blur of motion. Adolf is stillness incarnate.
Nathaniel lowers his gaze, jaw tight. He will not let the other man cut through his focus. He forces himself to trace every equation, even as he feels the weight of that gaze drilling into him.
When the lecture ends, Adolf rises without haste, eyes lingering just a second longer before he disappears into the sea of students.
The silence he leaves behind is heavier than his presence.
The library is supposed to be sanctuary.
But tonight, it hums with unease. The lamps flicker faintly, their light caught in the sheen of rain-speckled windows. Nathaniel spreads his notes across the desk, equations unfolding in neat progression. He should be satisfied—each problem solved, each line stronger than the last.
And yet—he cannot shake the rhythm of footsteps in the aisles. Slow. Patient.
He pretends to read, eyes locked on a formula, but his hearing sharpens. The sound is deliberate. Shoes brushing against carpet. Turning, pausing, turning again.
Finally, he glances up.
A figure passes the far end of the row. Not close enough to confront, not far enough to forget. Pale hair catching lamplight. The same stillness in his gait.
Adolf.
Nathaniel exhales sharply through his nose, pen pressing too hard against the page. The ink bleeds. A fracture line across perfection.
He closes the notebook, packs his things, and leaves before the silence crushes him.
Theo finds him later in the cafeteria, hunched over a tray of untouched food. The place smells of grease and overcooked meat, voices bouncing in uneven harmony.
Theo drops into the seat opposite him with theatrical weight, nearly spilling his tea. "Mate, you're staring at your mash like it owes you money."
Nathaniel huffs a laugh despite himself. "Just tired."
"Liar. You've got that look." Theo leans closer, spectacles glinting. "The one where you're half here and half in whatever nightmare dimension you keep wandering off to."
Nathaniel smirks faintly, pushing peas around with his fork. "I'm fine."
Theo shakes his head. "You always say that right before you're not fine."
For a moment, Nathaniel considers telling him. About Adolf. About the eyes in the lecture hall, the footsteps in the library. But the words knot in his throat. If he speaks them aloud, they will solidify.
And he isn't ready. Not yet.
Instead, he forces a smile. "I'll manage."
Theo doesn't believe him, but he lets it go.
Progress, Nathaniel thinks. Even if it's only holding the mask a little longer.
That evening, the corridors of King's College are quiet, save for the faint hum of music spilling from the practice rooms. Notes of a violin drift through the stone, haunting and fragile, a melody straining against silence.
Nathaniel follows it unconsciously, feet moving without plan. He stops outside one of the smaller rehearsal rooms, door cracked just enough for the sound to escape.
Inside, Adolf van Giovanni plays.
The violin rests under his chin like a weapon disguised as art. His bow moves with sharp precision, drawing out tones that slice the air. The melody is neither classical nor modern, but something in between—fractured, unmoored, unresolved.
Nathaniel watches through the gap, transfixed.
The music isn't beautiful. It's unsettling. Every note feels like a question left unanswered, a path cut short. It pulls at something deep, something Nathaniel has tried to bury.
Then—silence.
Adolf lowers the violin, head tilting slightly. "Enjoying the performance, Cross?"
The words cut like a blade.
Nathaniel freezes. The crack in the door is too wide. He's been seen.
Slowly, Adolf turns, those grey-green eyes locking onto him. Calm. Cold. Expectant.
Nathaniel swallows, steps back. "Didn't mean to intrude."
"But you did." Adolf's voice is silk wrapped around iron. He sets the violin down with delicate care, then moves toward the door. Each step unhurried, inevitable.
The handle turns. The door opens fully.
Adolf stands there, taller up close, presence pressing like a weight against Nathaniel's chest.
"You've been running circles around yourself, Nathaniel," Adolf says softly, almost kindly. "Equations, books, friends. Anchors, yes. But anchors only hold you still."
Nathaniel's throat tightens. "And what would you know of anchors?"
Adolf smiles faintly, a sliver of moonlight through stormclouds. "Enough to cut the ropes."
For a moment, silence stretches between them, thick and charged. The ember in Nathaniel's chest stirs, warm, uncertain, listening.
Then Adolf leans closer, voice a whisper that tastes like challenge:
"Sooner or later, Cross, you'll stop pretending. And when you do—I'll be waiting."
And with that, he steps past, coat brushing lightly against Nathaniel's sleeve as he disappears into the corridor's shadows.
Nathaniel stands frozen, pulse hammering, the echo of Adolf's words clinging like smoke.
The music still lingers in the air, fractured and sharp.
The ember in his chest pulses once—hotter, sharper than before.
Not fear. Not warning. Something closer to recognition.
Progress, he thinks bitterly. But progress toward what?
As he walks back through the misted streets of London, the question burns brighter than the answers.
To be continued...