Near midnight, just before twelve, Hester woke up alone from the soft bed.
Earlier that afternoon, around six o'clock, Mrs. Lavette, the dormitory manager, had brought her three packages—each about twenty-nine inches in size. One of them was a black suitcase containing everything from toiletries to a full set of clean clothes.
Mrs. Lavette, a kind and warm woman in her forties or fifties, had the same gentle temperament as Valentina. She had short, light-golden hair and had helped Hester send her very first email since arriving at the base.
After Lavette left, Hester hadn't unpacked. Exhausted, she had simply collapsed onto the bed and fallen into a deep sleep—until the sharp, piercing sound of something shattering in the living room startled her awake.
Hester slowly sat up and looked toward the sound. It seemed that the mirror she had carefully adjusted earlier that afternoon had finally fallen and broken after all.
From the living room came the sound of soft sobbing and murmured words of comfort. Hester listened quietly in the dark—the crying sounded familiar, almost exactly like the one she had heard earlier in the bathroom.
She stepped silently onto the floor. From the living room, faint, broken bits of conversation reached her ears. Though she wasn't sure if this was the right moment to reveal herself, her hand had already turned the doorknob.
To her surprise, just as she opened her door, the door across the hall swung open as well.
"Excuse me?" said a silver-haired girl, peeking her head out. "I have special training at seven tomorrow morning. Can you all keep it down a little?"
Turan's sobbing stopped instantly—but the sudden silence only made her breathing rougher, her shoulders trembling even harder.
"Thanks," the silver-haired girl muttered before closing her door again. In that brief instant, Hester's eyes met hers—clear blue eyes, sharp and cold. Three small metal piercings lined her left brow bone, and intricate tattoos spread across her bare shoulder.
Bang. The door shut, hiding the girl's face in shadow, leaving only a band poster on the door, its figures staring mockingly toward the living room, as if laughing at them.
The girl who had been gently comforting Turan turned around. "You're the new arrival, right?"
"Yes," Hester nodded.
"I'm Liz Fletcher," the girl said with a slightly weary smile. "Would you like to come to my room for a bit?"
---
A few minutes later, Hester sat in Liz Fletcher's room, holding a cup of hot cocoa. Liz had given her a thin blanket to wrap around her bare legs and feet, afraid she might be cold.
Liz had short, hazel-brown hair, a shade lighter than Turan's. A faint band of freckles crossed her cheeks and nose, and the faint tan lines around her eyes hinted at where her goggles usually sat. Her wrists showed pale lines where gloves had rubbed against her skin.
The index and middle fingers of Liz's left hand were wrapped in worn bandages, their edges peeling—signs that they hadn't been changed for several days. Hester could tell they were remnants from her last mission.
On the bedside table sat another cup of cocoa, untouched—the one Liz had made for Turan. The younger girl was curled up on the bed, her back to the room, quietly sobbing into the wall. Liz continued to stroke her back gently, murmuring soft reassurances.
Hester sipped her cocoa once. Its sweetness and bitterness were equally strong. After that, she set the cup down and didn't drink again.
She silently observed the room around her. Bookshelves of varying heights lined the walls, each one packed to the brim with books. Even so, piles of volumes still stacked beside the bed and under the desk. Liz had cut several gray-and-white checkered bedsheets to drape over them for dust protection.
On the wall above the bed hung a large picture frame—but instead of a painting, it displayed an old leather gun holster, its strap worn pale with age, dangling loosely from the middle.
At the foot of the bed hung a brown button accordion, its bellows spotless and clean—evidence that Liz played it often.
After a while, Hester set down her mug and let her eyes wander across the bookshelves beside her, scanning one row after another—until she spotted a copy of Edgar's Collection of Dark Tales. There, her gaze stopped.
"Your name is Jane Hester, right?" came Liz's voice from behind her.
Hester turned around to see that both Liz and Turan had shifted positions at some point—they were now lying on their sides, facing her.
Turan was resting her head on Liz's lap, her eyes and nose red from crying. She held a pillow tightly against her chest, her brown hair loosely tied in a ponytail that draped across Liz's knees.
"Yes," Hester replied softly. "This afternoon, Miss Valentina brought me here."
"I know," Liz smiled. "She also sent me your profile earlier today. From now until September, when I leave the training base, I'll be your assistant officer. Outside of classes and training hours, if you run into any problems, you can come to me—or Turan."
"I can't really help much," Turan muttered.
"Hey, what are you saying?" Liz laughed and lightly tapped Turan on the head.
Hester suddenly remembered the pair of icy blue eyes she had seen through the door crack earlier. "The girl next door—who is she?"
"Her name's Rika. She joined last year," Liz explained. "I'm a third-year, Turan's a second-year, and Rika's a first-year. Technically, all three of us are supposed to help you get used to things here. But Rika's a bit… special. If she ever says or does something that seems off, please don't take it personally—her mental state is still unstable, and she's under treatment."
"Unstable?"
"She's fine most of the time," Liz reassured her with a smile. "It's usually after group sequence training that she starts having trouble, but her day-to-day behavior is okay. Anyway—what were you just looking at?"
"Edgar's Collection of Dark Tales," Hester said, pointing to the spine. "Someone used to read this book to me."
"Really?" Liz's eyes lit up. "That book's quite popular in the First District! It took me forever to find the complete two-volume set. Who read it to you?"
Hester didn't answer. A moment of silence passed before she spoke softly, "It doesn't matter. The person who read it to me didn't read the horror stories anyway—just a few… parts about interior design."
"Interior design? Oh, then that person must've been an expert," Liz said, sounding genuinely intrigued. "I remember Edgar admired the western design styles of the Third District—he even wrote an essay called The Philosophy of Decoration."
"You like Edgar too?" Hester asked quietly.
Liz chuckled and shook her head. "Not really. I only bought this because I took a Gothic literature elective. Honestly, I only ever read the first story—The Black Cat. Haven't gone past that one. What about you? Which story's your favorite?"
Hester pulled down the second volume, her fingers flipping through the pages with practiced familiarity. After a few moments of searching, she found the passage she had both read and heard countless times before.
"Would you like me to read it to you, Miss Fletcher?"
"Just call me Liz," Liz said with a warm smile.
"Liz," Hester repeated softly.
"Well then… please, go ahead."
(End of Chapter)