"Yeah? What happens if you blink?"
"They quantum-lock you into the past and feed off your potential temporal energy."
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. "So... they eat your time?"
"Essentially, yes."
"Cool." And he means it, which is... unexpected. "Okay, so. You ready to practice your presentation?"
My stomach immediately tries to crawl up my throat. "Sure. Yes. Obviously."
He settles into a front-row seat again, notebook ready. The empty seats behind him seem to multiply, row after row of potential judgment. My hands are already sweating.
"So what's the topic again?"
"Neuroplasticity in addiction recovery." I pull out my note cards, trying to ignore how they shake slightly. "Seven minutes."
"Got it. Whenever you're ready."
I clear my throat. Look down at my cards. Look up at the empty seats.Four hundred capacity, according to the fire code sign. Four hundred people who could be staring at me, judging me, thinking I'm?—
"The brain's capacity for..." My voice cracks. I clear my throat again. "The brain's capacity for reorganization..."
The words on my cards blur. My chest feels tight. This is stupid. I know this material. I've researched it for months. But all I can think about is standing here during interviews, fumbling, looking like an idiot who doesn't deserve…
"You okay up there?"
"I'm fine." It comes out sharp. Defensive. "The brain's capacity for reorganization following substance abuse represents a critical area of neuroscience research."
I sound like a fucking robot. A malfunctioning robot. My voice echoes in the space, and I can practically see it filled with people. Professors. Admissions committees. All of them wondering why they're wasting their time on someone who can't even?—
"The prefrontal cortex..." The words stick. My throat's closing up. Heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "The prefrontal..."
"Doc,"
"I said I'm fine!" But I'm not. Can't breathe properly. The auditorium's too big and too small at the same time. My skin feels too tight, and why is it so fucking hot in here?
I hear movement, but I'm staring at my cards, trying to force the words to make sense. Then warmth, in front of me. Not touching, just... there.
"Hey." Gavin's voice is different. Softer. "Look at me for a sec."
"I need to?—"
"I know. Just for a second."
I look up. He's closer than expected, those brown eyes steady and calm. No judgment there. Just... concern?
"The angels got you," he says, mouth quirking. "You blinked."
Despite everything, I huff out an almost-laugh. "That's not how it works."
"No? Then explain it to me." He shifts slightly closer. "How do they work?"
"You can't be serious."
"Deadly serious. These angel things sound terrifying."
He's doing something. I know he's doing something. But my brain's too scrambled to figure out what. "They're... they're quantum-locked. They literally cease to exist when observed."
