"Yes, you are correct, Drake," I replied to him, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet, dawn-lit room.
The morning sun of Heroine Island was filtered through the heavy curtains of the Hendrix guest wing, casting long, amber slats across the polished mahogany floor. I had woken up in a bed that felt like a cloud, a stark contrast to the stiff couch where I had originally fallen asleep.
"How are you related to Mark? Because I can sense that you are important to him," Drake asked me. He was sitting on the edge of the velvet couch, his white suit jacket discarded, his eyes fixed on the window with that restless, "snappy" intensity.
"Mark is the first person I met in the university," I explained, pulling the silk duvet up to my chin. "He saved me from the garbage cans on my very first day—quite literally. Since then, he's been the one who translates this strange world for me. We became friends because he sees past the 'sluggish' exterior, and I see past the 'handicap.'"
"I see," Drake said, his jaw tightening slightly. "That is why you are important to him. Mark doesn't give his trust easily. He's a researcher of souls, Francine. If he's kept you close, it's because he thinks you're a rare specimen."
As he looked at me, the silence between us stretched. I saw his eyes soften for a fraction of a second—a glitch in his arrogant programming—before he turned away. I wanted to say something, to tell him that I saw the weight he was carrying, but the exhaustion of the "Series" and the trauma of the shooting finally caught up to me. My eyelids fluttered shut, and I drifted back into a dreamless sleep.
"I am talking to no one. What a pity," Drake jested to himself, his voice sounding oddly hollow.
While I slept, I didn't feel him move. I didn't feel the strength of his arms as he carefully lifted me from the bed to ensure I was positioned comfortably, or the way he adjusted the pillows to support my wounded side. He was a man of high-speed action, but in that moment, he moved with a deliberate, slow-motion care that would have shocked the entire Army Management department.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
The sound of the island's tropical birds and the direct heat of the sun hitting my face woke me. I sat up, blinking against the brightness. "It's a brand-new day, Francine. Smile," I greeted myself, falling back into the comfort of my morning ritual.
Then, the memory of where I was hit me. I wasn't in my apartment. I was in the Hendrix Manor. And sitting on the couch, still wearing the same clothes from the night before, was Drake. He was asleep, his head tilted back, his "snappy" brain finally silenced by exhaustion.
I slid out of bed, moving as quietly as my sluggish nature allowed. I walked over to him, my breath catching in my throat. Even in sleep, he looked like a statue carved from granite—perfect, masculine, and deeply troubled. I noticed a small speck of dirt on his cheek, likely from our trek through the tunnels.
I leaned in closer, my face only inches from his. I wanted to blow the dirt away, to touch the skin that usually felt so cold and distant.
"You are really handsome," I whispered to myself, lost in the geography of his features.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. The "snappy" processing was back in an instant.
"What do you think you are doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I bolted backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. "I... I am sorry, Drake! I was just trying to get the dirt off your face!"
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "In order to do that, is it necessary for your face to be so close to mine?"
"I was trying to blow it off!" I stuttered, my face heating up until I felt like a ripe tomato. "My sluggishness makes my hands shake sometimes, so I thought blowing was more precise!"
He stared at me for a long beat, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "You are an absurd creature, Francine Scott. Go get dressed. We have to get back to the university. The 'Search for Ms. Universal Star' starts today, and the Board expects every department to be represented."
The university was transformed. The central plaza had been turned into a sprawling amphitheater, draped in the colors of the various departments. But the air wasn't just filled with excitement; it was thick with the scent of high-stakes competition.
As we walked through the halls, we were intercepted by the "Sovereigns." Tiffany Carr stood at the center, her Tourism department sash draped over her shoulder. She looked like a goddess of ice, but her eyes burned when she saw Drake's hand on my elbow.
"Who do you think you are to talk to Drake like that, you psycho man!" Jesah Coogan shouted, stepping in front of Tiffany.
Tiffany held up a hand, silencing Jesah. She looked at Drake, her expression shifting from cold to pleading. "Drake, you're late for the Army Management rehearsal. I've been waiting for you."
"I don't do rehearsals, Tiffany," Drake said, his voice clipped. "And Francine and I have a class to attend. We're in the middle of the 'Series' tie-breakers, in case you forgot that this is a school and not a beauty pageant."
Tiffany's fake smile didn't falter, but her grip on her silk purse tightened until her knuckles turned white. "It's okay, Drake. You can go ahead. I'll see you at the production number."
As we walked away, Drake didn't let go of my hand. I could feel the heat of his palm, the steady pulse of a man who moved too fast for the rest of the world. My heart began to pound in a rhythmic, frantic beat that had nothing to do with medical tachycardia.
"Drake," I whispered as we reached the door to Room 143. "You can let go now. We're safe."
"Oh. I am sorry," he replied, his face flushing a rare shade of pink. He let go as if my skin had suddenly turned to hot coals and ducked into the classroom.
While the rest of the university was preparing for the pageant, a storm was brewing in the Tourism department. Monique Strange, the daughter of the most feared mafia boss in the underworld, was staring into a mirror.
Monique was perfect—from the neck down. She had a body that made Tiffany Carr look like an amateur, but her face was a tragedy of biology. Born without a nose due to a rare genetic mutation, she had spent her life as a pariah. Universal University was supposed to be her sanctuary, but Tiffany Carr had turned it into a prison of popularity.
"She thinks she can win because her father owns the land?" Monique hissed, her voice a nasal, buzzing sound. "She thinks she can take the crown because she has a nose?"
"What is the plan, Monique?" one of her followers asked.
"Sabotage," Monique replied, her eyes narrowing. "If I cannot be the Ms. Universal Star, then no one will. We ruin the production number. We ruin the gowns. And when the stage collapses, we ensure that Tiffany Carr is the one at the center of the debris."
(One day before the pageant)
The search for the representative of each department had been fierce. In the Doctor's Department, the choice was clear. Despite my sluggishness, my perfect scores and my "heroic" act at the cab stand had made me a campus celebrity.
"Francine, you have to do it!" Irish pleaded, her twenty fingers busy sewing a sequin onto a scrap of fabric. "You represent the 'Peculiar' who actually do things! You're the Public Peculiar!"
"I don't know, Irish," I said, looking at the high-heeled shoes Aunt Brennan had sent over. "I can barely walk in flats without tripping. High heels are a death sentence."
"I'll help you," a voice said.
I turned to see Meriam Burgin. She stood tall on her artificial legs, her balance perfect. "If I can learn to walk on titanium and carbon fiber, you can learn to walk on four inches of plastic. Do it for the department, Francine. Show them that a heart surgeon doesn't have to be 'normal' to be beautiful."
As the pageant day arrived, the atmosphere was electric. The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the search for Ms. Universal Star 2020!"
The first exposure was the production number. Each candidate wore their department uniform, modified for the stage. I stood in the wings, wearing a tailored medical lab coat over a shimmering silver bodysuit, my thick glasses replaced by contact lenses that made the world look terrifyingly sharp.
I looked across the stage and saw Tiffany Carr. She was glowing, her aura a confident, aggressive red. But in the shadows behind the curtains, I saw something else. I saw Monique Strange, her face hidden by a porcelain mask, holding a pair of industrial shears near the tension cables of the stage lights.
The "Public Peculiar" was about to face a test that no exam could prepare her for.