When the clock on the wall reads 6:48, I gather my things and make my way to the classroom. The halls are even more crowded now, but the tension is the same. I pause in front of the lecture hall door. The wood is dark, probably mahogany, and the handle is polished to a mirror shine. I catch my reflection in it—hair slightly crooked, eyes too green, freckles flaring dark against my pale skin. I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push inside.
The room is already three-quarters full. The seats are arranged in ascending tiers, the better to observe and judge. I scan for an empty spot, but there is only one row that no one has occupied: front row. I sigh and decide to take the spot dead center. The seat of honor. Or the seat of execution.
I take a step forward. A girl sitting halfway down the stairs to the left shifts in her chair, sweeping her hair over one shoulder to reveal a string of pearls so bright it makes my eyes hurt. She’s texting with one hand, holding a designer bag in the other, her shoes propped on the metal crossbar of the chair. She’s notwatching me, not directly, but her peripheral vision is sharp. As I draw even with her, she lets her bag drop into the aisle.
It hits the floor with a thud, catching my foot. My body pitches forward, arms windmilling, bag slipping off my shoulder. The laughter is instant and sharp. I catch myself on the edge of a desk, knuckles rapping wood hard enough to sting. My face burns.
I kneel to pick up the girl’s bag. The zipper is gold, the leather white and flawless. I hand it to her without meeting her eyes.
She accepts it like I’m the help. “Careful,” she says, her nasally voice grinding my gears. “It’s custom.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not. My pulse is thundering in my ears. I keep my eyes on the floor and keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
As I slide into my seat, the voices start up again, not even bothering to be quiet.
“Do you think she showers?” This from a boy behind me, cologne so thick I can taste it.
“I heard she’s from a farm. Maybe that’s why she looks so… homely.” The word sticks, ugly and deliberate.
They want me to react. I don’t.
I keep my face neutral, but my heart is about to jump out of my damn chest. I set my bag on the desk, arrange my pens, and pull out the notebook. My hands refuse to stop shaking. I press them flat to the desk until the tremor subsides.
The seats around me remain empty. It’s a quarantine, not an accident.
At 6:59, the professor arrives. He is older than I expected, with silver hair and a suit so perfectly cut it must have been measured by laser. He does not acknowledge me. He doesn’t need to.
I wait for the others to settle, then open my notebook to a clean page. The lines are crisp and blue. I write the date, the class, the professor’s name. I am ready.
I am here.
“Welcome to Business and Banking 1001,” the prof says. “For those of you who are new, I am Spencer Leroux, but you may call me Spence. For those of you who are returning students, congratulations on surviving the culling process.”
A ripple of laughter rolls through the seats.
“Let’s begin,” he says.
He launches into a monologue about financial empires, about the duty of stewardship and the burden of legacy. He references names I recognize from the news, the kind of people who ownfootball teams and islands. He never once glances at the empty seats beside me, but his voice tightens whenever the topic turns to “outsider influence” or “unearned access.” I take notes anyway, because it’s the only weapon I have.
Ten minutes in, a slip of paper lands on my desk. The handwriting is precise, looping. It reads:You won’t last. You shouldn’t even try.
I crumple it into a tight ball and place it in the corner of my desk. I will not give them the satisfaction of reacting and that earns me a mocking laugh and an unintelligible whisper about being swine.
By the end of the hour, my hand hurts from writing. The professor closes his laptop, eyes sweeping the room as if hunting for stragglers. He calls on a few students by name—always the legacy kids, always the ones with perfect teeth and perfect hair. I know the answer to his last question, but I don’t raise my hand.
When the bell rings, the students pack up, chattering with each other as they leave.
I stay behind, letting the room empty. My hands are still shaking. I line up my pens in perfect parallel, cap the notebook, and slide everything into my bag. I move slow, making sure I don’t forget anything. It’s another way of controlling what I can.
The hallway is waiting for me. The sound out there is louder—laughter, shouts, the clatter of shoes on tile. I take a breath and step out.
There is no blood on the floor. Not yet. But I can feel the promise of it in the air.
Chapter 2: Colton
TheBusiness&Bankinglecture hall is tiered like an arena. I take the highest seat, far corner, back row, hoody pulled up over my face. From here, I see every seat, every face, every small betrayal. This morning, the whole class is here early, thirsty for blood or spectacle or both.
I’ve taken this course before, but I want to watchher.
