Soft smoke.
Ozone after a lightning strike.
Him.
The stranger from the post office. The one with pink hair like mine, with eyes like spring leaves, with hands that caught me when I fell and didn't let go immediately.
The one who said I smelled like cotton candy.
I didn't want to think about him.
Have been activelynotthinking about him all day, shoving the memory into a box labeled "Things That Will Only Hurt You If You Examine Them Too Closely."
But his scent is still on my skin.
Faint now, almost gone, but there.
Like a brand.
Like a claiming mark I didn't consent to.
Stop, I tell myself firmly.You don't know him. He was just a random Alpha at the post office. He probably doesn't even remember you.
But my traitorous body remembers him.
Remembers the way my pulse raced when our eyes met.
Remembers the heat of his arm around my waist.
Remembers the way Iblushed, like some virginal maiden instead of a killer with a body count.
He smells like vanilla, I think, and the yearning that accompanies the thought is so intense it makes my chest ache.
I've never caught a scent like that.
Never felt my body react so strongly to another person's presence.
Never wanted to lean into someone's space and justbreathe.
What does that mean?
Is it a biological thing? Omega instincts responding to a compatible Alpha?
Or is it something worse—something like hope, like connection, like the first trembling steps toward actually caring about another person?
Dangerous, I warn myself.Don't go there. You can't afford to want things you'll never have.
The outdoor recital hall comes into view.
It's one of the older structures on campus—an open-air stage surrounded by seating, designed for performances that benefit from natural acoustics and moonlight. The academy used it more in the early days, before violence became so constant that gathering crowds outdoors became a liability.
Now it's mostly abandoned.
Used for special rehearsals and the occasional punishment ritual.
I use my key card to access the gate—the beep of acceptance is loud in the quiet evening—and step through onto the familiar path.
Gravel crunches under my ballet shoes. The mist is heavier now, clinging to my skin, making my hair curl at the temples. My tulle skirt is starting to dampen, the fabric growing heavy with moisture.
