But today, Sarah isn’t the first one through the door.
At exactly 8:00 AM, the lab door swings open.
And there he is.
West Monroe.
He’s dressed in a crisp white lab coat over a dark t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp, as if he’s just showered. He carries a stack of papers and a confident, almost predatory ease. He doesn’t even glance at the room full of stunned students. He walks directly to the front, sets his papers down, and turns to face us.
My breath hitches, and my meticulously arranged lab equipment suddenly feels like a flimsy shield as my heart hammers against my ribs; a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating silence in the room. My mind twists into a suffocating anxiety, making every sound too loud, every light too bright. My senses are overloaded, and he is the epicenter of the storm.
He looks directly at me. His eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, hold mine for a fraction of a second. There’s a little smirk, a challenge. A deep, knowing glint. A silent message:I told you I wasn’t leaving you alone.
Then he sweeps his gaze over the rest of the class, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the stunned silence. “My name is West Monroe. I’ll be your TA for this lab section, effective immediately.”
A ripple of murmurs goes through the room, and a few of the girls from the hockey game, the “Thirsty” ones, actually squeal. I just sit there, frozen, the blood draining from my face. My thoughts, already racing, accelerate into a dizzying spiral.He did it, he actually did it. He knew, he always knows.
West didn't just ignore my boundary, he annihilated it. He didn't just step over the line, he moved the entire damn fence.
West knew I would be here. He knew my schedule. He knew I would be trapped in this room for the next three hours, under his direct supervision. My emergency anxiety meds, the smallbottle of clonazepam I keep for moments exactly like this are sitting in my desk drawer, useless. The feeling of powerlessness is overwhelming, threatening to tip me from the buzzing edge of paranoia into a dark, suffocating wave of despair. I can feel the shift, the precarious balance of my mind starting to waver.
He’s not just playing chess. He’s playing three-dimensional chess, and I’m a pawn he’s moving across the board without my consent.
My hands clench under the lab bench, my nails digging into my palms. The fear is there, a cold knot in my stomach but beneath it, a familiar heat begins to simmer. White-hot fury. It’s a desperate attempt to fend off the encroaching darkness. No. Not here. Not now.
He thinks he’s won, he thinks he’s cornered me.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with. I will not break, I will not yield. The mantra repeats in my head, a desperate shield against the chaos.
I will watch him. I will learn his game and I will find a way to burn his entire board to the ground, even if it burns me too.
Twelve
West
The lab is a symphony of controlled chaos. Beakers clink, Bunsen burners hiss, and the low murmur of students fills the air. I move through it all with practiced ease, observing, correcting, occasionally offering a sharp, precise instruction. My white lab coat feels like a uniform, a symbol of authority I wield with quiet satisfaction.
My eyes, however, are constantly drawn to workstation 14. Kinsley Fischer.
She’s a study in rigid control. Her movements are precise, almost surgical as she measures reagents. Her back is ramrod straight, her dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail. She hasn’t looked at me once since I walked in. Not directly, anyway but I feel her awareness of me, a palpable tension in the air around her. It’s a challenge, a silent defiance that only makes her more compelling.
I watch her for a full fifteen minutes, letting the pressure build. I see the subtle clenching of her jaw, the way her grip on the pipette is just a fraction too tight. She’s fighting an internal battle, and I’m the invisible opponent.
Finally, I make my move. I walk slowly, deliberately toward her workstation. I stop a few feet away, observing her work. She’s synthesizing aspirin, a standard first-year organic chemistry lab. Her setup is flawless. Her measurements are exact.
“Fischer,” I say, my voice low, just loud enough to cut through the surrounding noise without drawing undue attention.
Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t turn. She continues to stir her solution, her gaze fixed on the swirling liquid.
“Your reflux condenser is set up correctly,” I continue, stepping closer. I lean against the adjacent bench, crossing my arms. My presence is a physical weight, a barrier she can’t ignore. “But your heating mantle is a little high. You’re going to get too much solvent loss if you don’t adjust it.”
She pauses, her stirring rod still. Her head is still bowed, but I can see the muscle in her jaw working.
“It’s within the acceptable temperature range, Mr. Monroe,” she says, her voice tight, barely audible.
“Acceptable isn’t optimal, Fischer,” I counter, my voice even. “We’re aiming for optimal here. Especially with a yield calculation coming up.”
