[The Girl Who Is Not Seen]
No one truly sees Lilith Arden. Not because she is skilled at hiding, but because people rarely look at what they consider unimportant. Eyes always choose what stands out—the beautiful, the loud, the confident. The rest are merely background. Shadows that exist, yet are never remembered.
Lilith walked along the corridors of Grimvale Campus with small, measured steps. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as if the world were too heavy for her slender frame to carry. A worn crossbody bag hung low at her side, its strap frayed in several places. Her black hair fell without shape, partially covering her face, obscuring lines that might otherwise have drawn attention.
Thick-framed glasses sat on her nose. Clear lenses, nearly useless except to create an impression of fragility. That, too, was deliberate. Everything about her was deliberate.
She stopped in front of the faculty notice board, staring at rows of papers pinned unevenly. Class schedules, seminar announcements, private tutoring ads. She had memorized them all since last week, yet she still stood there, pretending to read.
Behind her, laughter broke out. A group of students passed by, their shoulders brushing one another. Someone bumped into Lilith's bag, shifting it slightly.
There was no apology.
Lilith did not turn around.
She was not offended. Nor was she angry. Emotions like that required engagement, and Lilith had never truly engaged with small things. She stored them elsewhere, archived them all as data.
Grimvale Campus was the perfect place for someone like her. Old gray-walled buildings stood tightly packed, long hallways smelling of floor cleaner and damp paper. Hundreds of faces passed by every day, too busy with their own lives to notice one quiet girl who always kept her head down.
Here, Lilith learned one important thing from the very first day: being invisible is a form of power.
She entered the classroom a few seconds before the lecturer arrived. Not too early, not too late. The seat she chose was in the middle row—safe from attention, close enough to observe. She opened her notebook calmly. Its pages were empty, clean, as if waiting for something worthy to be written.
Her hand trembled slightly as she held the pen. Not from nervousness, but from memory.
The sound of the classroom door closing was too loud. For a moment, Lilith's body tensed. Images flashed without warning—the door of her old house half-open, the strange glow of the living room light, dark stains on the floor that were not shadows.
She drew a slow breath.
One…
Two…
Three…
The memory retreated, slipping back into the corner of her mind like a wild animal that knew when to hide.
The lecturer began speaking about medical ethics. His voice was flat, filled with academic terms that sounded important. Lilith took notes in small, neat handwriting, though she did not truly need them. The words passed through her, never settling.
In the front row, a male student sat with his back straight, as if the chair had been made specifically for him. His hair was neat, his clothes simple but unmistakably expensive. He did not write anything. Nor did he check his phone. He simply listened.
Calm.
Focused.
Like a predator with no need to rush.
The name surfaced in Lilith's mind with almost clinical clarity.
Raven Hale.
He knew how to occupy space without asking for it. Other students occasionally glanced in his direction, not out of admiration, but because there was something about Raven that made people want to confirm his position. A subtle threat. Like a knife placed on a table—still, unmoving, yet everyone aware of its purpose.
Lilith lowered her head, hiding the faint smile that almost formed.
She had not come to this campus to study. She had come to observe. And Raven Hale was the reason she chose Grimvale.
The class ended. Chairs scraped, bags were opened, fragments of conversation emerged. Lilith waited a few seconds before standing. She always did. Being the last to leave gave her time to ensure a clear path, to make sure no attention lingered on her.
As she stepped into the corridor, Raven Hale passed by her. The distance between them was less than a meter. Lilith caught the scent of expensive soap and something sharper beneath it—antiseptic, perhaps. Or merely her own association.
Raven did not turn.
Did not glance.
Did not notice her existence.
Perfect.
Lilith stopped in front of a vending machine. Her hand reached into her pocket, pulling out coins one by one, deliberately slowing her movements. She watched faint reflections in the machine's glass—passing faces, incomplete silhouettes.
She chose mineral water. Always the safest option.
Outside the building, the Grimvale sky hung low. Gray clouds pressed down, making the city feel cramped. Cold wind slipped beneath her clothes, brushing her skin. Lilith liked the sensation. Cold helped keep her mind clear.
She walked toward the bus stop with steady steps. In her head, today's list was neatly arranged—observing Raven Hale's habits, noting his routes, ensuring no new variables appeared.
The bus arrived seven minutes late. Lilith noted it without writing it down. Inside the bus, she stood near the door, holding the pole with her left hand. She disliked sitting on public transportation. Too many blind spots.
Raven boarded at the next stop.
This time, Lilith did not need to look. She felt the subtle shift in the air—the way some passengers unconsciously adjusted their positions, making space. Raven stood two steps away from her. Their reflections met in the window glass.
For a moment, Lilith felt as though she were looking into the wrong mirror.
Raven's eyes were calm. Not empty—controlled. As if everything inside him was precisely where it belonged.
The bus stopped, and Raven got off first. Lilith waited one second, then followed. Maintaining distance was everything.
She followed him to the intersection, then turned in the opposite direction. Not because she didn't want to know more today, but because patience is the quietest form of violence.
Lilith's apartment was on the third floor of an old building with peeling paint. The hallway was narrow, the lights flickering with exhaustion. No cameras. No neighbors who liked to ask questions.
Inside, the room was clean. Too clean for a student. No photographs. No decorations. Bare walls, a small table, one chair, and a bookshelf filled with titles more often read as references.
Lilith set down her bag, removed her shoes, then stood still in the center of the room.
Silence.
She washed her hands in the bathroom, her movements methodical. Water flowed, a sound both soothing and unsettling. She stared at her own reflection. Glasses, messy hair, an expressionless face like—
The girl who is not seen.
She removed the glasses and placed them on the sink. Her gaze changed—not her face, but the way she looked at herself.
She remembered her old house. A small kitchen with a wooden table, the smell of her mother's cooking, her father's voice calling her name. Everything stopped on one night that never truly ended.
Lilith closed her eyes.
She did not cry.
Instead, a cold calm filled her chest. Certainty.
She sat down, opened her notebook, and began to write:
RAVEN HALE
Calm. Orderly.
High control.
Potential threat.
She closed the notebook and locked it in the drawer.
Night fell over Grimvale. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows on wet asphalt. From her apartment window, Lilith watched the city breathe heavily, like a massive body that never truly slept.
Tomorrow, she would return as the same girl. Quiet. Unremarkable. Easily forgotten.
And Raven Hale would continue walking through a world he believed he controlled, unaware that every step he took had already been calculated.
Lilith smiled faintly.
In this city, the most dangerous ones are not those who are seen.
But those who are never seen at all.