A ringing started in my ears.
Soft at first. Then sharp. Then unbearable.
Like something was scraping information out of my brain.
[SCANNING—]
The word dragged itself across my vision, stuttering, glitching.
[SCANNING—]
My breath stopped.
My heart forgot its job.
Pressure crushed the room — not physically, but meaningfully, like someone was weighing the cafeteria against an impossible scale.
Maya's lips were still moving.
The lasagna still steamed.
Sophia still stared.
But none of it belonged to time anymore.
A single point of violet light locked onto me like an eye narrowing.
Found me.
Recognized—
Denied me.
The pressure snapped backward.
The slit convulsed, like something on the other side recoiled.
[LOOP INTEGRITY—PROTECTED]
[USER—NOT DETECTED]
Cold air punched back into my lungs.
My vision blurred, then settled.
"Hey," she said again, louder this time, voice thin with rising panic. "Aiden. You're freaking me out. What's happening?"
I wanted to answer.
I couldn't move my tongue.
Because behind Maya's shoulder, Sophia Lindt had risen from her seat.
Her gaze cut across the cafeteria like a knife of its own—straight to me.
Not at Maya or the window.
At me.
Her eyes widened by a fraction.Recognition.
Like she felt the same pressure squeezing around us.
The same wrongness.
The same presence searching for something in the room.
My breath hitched.
The violet slit brightened—then snapped violently, convulsing with static. The scanning beam jittered, broke, doubled back on itself, and dissolved like corrupted data.
[UPDATE]
[IDENTIFICATION REFUSED]
[LOOP PROTECTED]
A jolt rippled through my skull, like someone plucked an invisible thread anchored deep inside my brain.
Pain flared behind my eyes, white-hot, blinding.
"Aiden!" Maya's voice cracked. She stood so fast her chair toppled. "Somebody get help—he's—he's not okay!"
Sophia's chair scraped against the floor.
She stepped forward.
Then stopped.
Watching me with an intensity that made my lungs seize.
The violet slit in the sky cinched shut in an instant, like a mouth sealing after tasting something foul.
The cafeteria lights flickered back to normal.
The world resumed.
Trays clattered.
Students talked.
Laughs burst across tables.
No one else saw.
No one else noticed.
Except Maya, still holding my wrist with both hands now.
And Sophia—still staring.
Like she'd witnessed something impossible.
My pulse hammered so violently I felt it in my teeth. My throat burned. Sweat trickled down my temple.
I forced a breath in.
Then another.
"I—" My voice came out hoarse. "I'm fine."
"No," Maya snapped. "Dude, that was not fine. You went pale. You weren't breathing. Your eyes—" She swallowed. "I thought you were gonna pass out."
Sophia's voice drifted over—soft, but sharp enough to cut.
"I suggest he go home."
Maya jumped slightly; she hadn't realized Sophia was right behind us.
Sophia didn't look at her.
Just me.
Like she was reading invisible data printed across my skin.
"Rest," she said quietly.
I couldn't respond.
And for some reason, her expression tightened when I didn't.
As if my silence confirmed something she'd suspected.
Maya hooked an arm under mine, trying to haul me up.
"You need to lie down. Seriously. You look like death."
I didn't fight her.
Because the truth was, I felt like death had just taken a second look at me.
***
I woke up with my cheek pressed into my pillow and my heart still racing like it hadn't gotten the memo that the danger was over.
My room was dim, the blinds half-drawn, the air stale with the smell of sleep and fear-sweat. For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Then the memory hit.
The cafeteria.
The violet slit in the sky.
The pressure.
The warning.
Maya's hands shaking my wrist.
Sophia's eyes fixed on me like she saw something the rest of the world didn't.
I sat up slowly, rubbing at my face. My fingers trembled just enough to annoy me.
"Get it together," I muttered. "It's over."
Was it?
No idea.
But lying here wasn't helping.
My shift started in an hour.
Quickmart—the closest thing I had to a break from thinking.
Mindless routine.
Crappy uniform.
Cheap lights.
Predictable customers.
I hesitated before reaching for the uniform, the green fabric crumpled in the corner like even it didn't want to be worn.
Right now, though?
Mind-numbing sounded like medicine.
I forced myself up, peeled off my clothes, and tugged the uniform on piece by piece. The shirt felt scratchier than usual. The nametag hung crooked no matter how I pinned it.
"Just one quiet shift," I whispered. "Please. No more weirdness tonight."
I grabbed my bag, shut the door behind me, and stepped outside.
If the sky wanted round two, it'd have to wait until after my shift.
***
Graveyard shifts were where time went to rot.
The gas station hummed beneath cheap, dirty lights, their flicker making the dented and scratched floor tiles look sicker than usual. Outside, the world was nothing but black—wide, heavy, uninviting—broken up only when a pair of headlights drifted by like ghosts who'd taken a wrong turn.
Inside, everything was lukewarm coffee, humming refrigerators, and aisles stuffed with things nobody really wanted but bought anyway. Jerky. Ancient candy bars. Melt-prone ice cream. A resting place for energy drink brands no one recognized.
Honestly… the stillness wasn't the worst thing.
I leaned on the counter, my itchy green uniform clinging to me like it wanted out of this job more than I did. I sighed quietly.
This isn't so bad, I lied to myself. Repetition makes truth, right?
The clock on the wall lumbered from 11:02 to 11:03 with all the energy of a dying snail. My eyes drifted from boredom to the faint text shimmering at the edge of my vision.
Name: Aiden Vale
STATS:
Level 3
Strength 5
Intelligence 1
Magic 1
Resistance 1
Mana 100/100
DEATH COUNT [1]
The numbers obscured my vision.
Like fingers tapping against glass, waiting for me to look back.
My stomach knotted. I squeezed my eyes shut until the screen dissolved. As if not seeing it would make it untrue.
No luck.
The door chime rang.
A woman stepped inside.
My first thought shot through me like ice: She doesn't belong here.
Gas stations at midnight were for truckers, drunks, overworked students, and people who'd given up on making good decisions. She was none of those.
Her coat was long, dark, buttoned to her throat. Silver hair spilled over the collar with a soft, fluid weight, catching faint hints of blue-black under the fluorescent lights.
No makeup. No jewelry. Just sharp eyes that swept over the store in one smooth, deliberate motion.
A cold chill slid down my spine.
"Welcome to Quickmart," I heard myself say.
She didn't answer. Not right away.
Instead, she walked the aisles, not browsing. Inspecting. The shelves, the corners, the ceiling, the exits. The way someone would check a room for weaknesses.
"You look exhausted," she said at last. No greeting. Just a diagnosis.
"…Yeah," I managed. "Night shift'll do that."
A small hum, thoughtful but not agreeing. More like she was evaluating the truth of my excuse.
"You work alone?"
"Most nights."
"That seems unsafe."
The way she said it—lightly, almost absentmindedly—made the hair on my arms stand up.
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Hm."
She approached the counter, pausing by the gum display. Her eyes drifted to the front windows again, sweeping the foggy lot as if waiting for something to crawl out.
Or someone.
Then her gaze returned to me—sharp, unblinking.
"You're a student, yes?" she asked, turning her head slightly in the direction of the campus. The windows were tinted, the fog thick, yet she looked as though she could see right through both. "Blackwell."
"…Yeah. I go there."
She nodded, slow and thoughtful.
"And what do you think of it?"
I shrugged. "It's… normal. Not prestigious or anything. Kind of messy. But fine."
"Fine." She tested the word, rolling it gently on her tongue. Her fingers brushed a shelf, then withdrew as if the cheap plastic offended her.
"And the students?" she continued. "Are they kind? Or at least tolerable?"
"Tolerable?" I blinked. "That's a weird way to put it."
Another soft hum. It didn't seem like denial or agreement. Something more like: noted.
"I'm only curious," she said lightly. "About the people who gather there. Their nature. Their temperament."
Her eyes returned to me.
"How do they treat each other?"
I hesitated. She asked like someone who expected truth, not niceties.
"Well… it depends," I said slowly. "There are groups. Cliques. People stick to their circles. Some are good. Some don't care about anyone outside them."
She absorbed that in silence.
"And you?" she asked. "How do they treat you?"
"…Most don't notice me," I said. "Which is fine."
Her head tilted.
"That is not what I asked."
My throat went dry. Somehow, it felt like if I spoke wrong, she'd see straight through to the parts of me I didn't look at myself.
"I get by," I said. "Some people are nicer than others."
Silence.
Her eyes narrowed faintly.
"Blackwell produces many kinds of young people," she murmured. "The ones who shine. The ones who struggle. The ones who fear their futures and pretend they don't."
Her gaze drifted toward the dark campus beyond the fog.
"It is a place that requires watching."
"…Watching?" I echoed.
"Indeed."
Another chill crawled through me. Her tone was soft—almost wistful—but something inside it irked me.
She looked back at the windows, then at me again.
"It has an energy," she added.
"Energy," I deadpanned. "It's broke students and vending machines."
A quiet laugh escaped her—light, almost elegant.
"A fair assessment."
She drew her coat tighter as she reached the door. Her hand paused on the handle, like something unsaid pushed at the edge of her restraint.
In the end, she settled for one sentence:
"Get some rest, Aiden. You look like you haven't in days."
She paused, as if regretting saying too much.
"Blackwell does that to people."
My breath caught.
I hadn't told her my name.
The door shut, and the hum of the gas station returned—too loud, too ordinary.
The stillness didn't feel comforting anymore. It felt like the moment after a predator leaves the clearing.
I checked the clock. 11:06.
Somehow those three minutes felt like an hour.
***
Midnight finally came. I clocked out, tossed on my hoodie, and stepped into the cold. My replacement looked at me with dead eyes. I saluted him like a fallen soldier.
The night bit harder than usual.
My breath steamed white.
Cold. Quiet. Lonely. Peaceful.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking.
Footsteps on wet pavement.
Distant cars.
My heartbeat, too loud.
The air outside didn't feel empty.
The quiet had a shape to it now, a presence that trailed behind me like a second set of footsteps. Every time I glanced back, nothing was there.
But whatever the woman stirred up hadn't settled.
Get some rest, Aiden.
"…She knew my name," I whispered.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
I kept walking.
***
Graybridge city at night was the same tired skeleton it always was. Dim streetlamps, the occasional rodent rustling in a dumpster, the wind whistling between old apartments.
Normal.
Dead, boring normal.
I clung to it.
But when Blackwell's campus came into view, the normal cracked.
On the bench near the courtyard entrance, sat Sophia Lindt.
Perfect posture even at 12:30 in the night. Blazer off, neatly folded beside her, white hair shining like spun glass.
She wasn't scrolling on her phone.
She wasn't reading.
She wasn't doing anything.
Just sitting.
My pace slowed.
Not many students wandered this late. Sophia wasn't known for parties or friends or lingering. But I'd seen her here before.
Late nights.
Odd hours.
Alone.
I swallowed and approached.
She looked up before I was even close. "You," she said softly.
"Me."
"Are you feeling better Aiden?"
"Yes. I am.", I lied.
"Good then. Now, is there something you needed?"
"I, uh… wanted to say thanks. For earlier. With Camden."
"You handled him yourself," she said. "I only intervened because that is my responsibility. I doubt you needed me."
"Still," I muttered. "Thanks."
Sophia looked past me, toward the dim path I'd walked from.
Her eyes narrowed, almost suspicious. Like she sensed the same wrongness I did.
"You've been out late," she observed. "Surprising for a shut-in."
Her tone was cold, precise — but her eyes weren't.
They scanned me the same way the woman's had:
looking for cracks instead of features.
And the worst part was how familiar that felt.
"Ouch."
She just gazed up at me, innocent and cold. "Am I wrong?"
"N-no." I admitted, my pride feeling a bit bruised.
And again — that faint prickle in the air. Like someone else was listening.
"Hmm."
Conversation died. I stood there, awkward and stiff.
"I-I've seen you out here before," I blurted. Smooth.
"Well, yes. I've seen you too," she said. Then, quieter, "this bench is where I sit when my mind refuses silence. Where the noise of the world feels distant enough that I can breathe."
"Even the student council president needs a break, huh?"
"I'm disciplined," she murmured. "Not perfect."
She paused, fingertips brushing her chin.
"People mistake outcomes for blessings. But your life is shaped by small choices—each one pushing you toward a path. And at any moment, you can choose differently. Redirect everything."
"Did someone tell you that?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Sophia blinked once.
"No," she answered, "but someone reminded me of it tonight."
She stood.
"Walk with me, Mr. Shut-In. You're a good listener."
"R-really? It's kinda late—"
Sophia was already moving.
Her steps were soft, controlled, certain. She didn't look back.
She simply walked like the world would follow.
And stupidly, I did.