"Good. Now help me understand this Tomlinson reading, because I'm pretty sure he assigned it specifically to torture us."
The shift was deliberate. Merciful. Ivy's way of sayingI'm here, but I won't push.
I grabbed my own copy of the reading and tried to focus on transformation narratives instead of the ache in my chest.
I left for dinner an hour later.
Ivy had a study group — something for her biology class that I wasn't part of — so I walked to the cafeteria alone. The evening had gone fully dark now, the campus lit by old-fashioned lamps that cast pools of yellow light across the pathways.
My breath fogged in the cold air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked faster.
I was halfway across the main courtyard when I felt it.
The sensation of being watched.
I slowed. Looked around.
Students moved in clusters, heading to dinner or the library or back to their dorms. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
Then I saw him.
Across the courtyard, near the administration building. Gray suit, perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back like he was posing for a portrait of academic authority.
Headmaster Twilson.
He wasn't moving. Wasn't speaking to anyone. Wasn't pretending to be on his way somewhere else.
He was just standing there.
Watching.
Me.
Our eyes met across the distance. His expression revealed nothing — no hostility, no warmth, no hint of what he was thinking. Just patient, measured attention. The kind of look a scientist gives a specimen. The kind that meant he was taking notes, cataloging details, building a picture he hadn't shared with anyone yet.
Building a case.
The moment stretched. I should have looked away first — should have pretended I hadn't noticed, kept walking, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled me.
I couldn't.
His gaze held mine, calm and steady and absolutely certain of something I wasn't privy to. He knew things. About me, about North, about the Healing Center and Rae's arrangements and the special exemptions that let me spend my nights in a restricted wing.
He knew. And he was waiting.
For what, I didn't know. A mistake. A slip. A reason to act.
I looked away first.
My heart was beating too fast as I turned and kept walking toward the cafeteria. I didn't run. Didn't let my pace change. But I felt his gaze on my back like a physical weight, pressing between my shoulder blades, following me all the way to the cafeteria doors.
When I finally stepped inside, into the warmth and noise and chaos of dinner rush, I let myself breathe.
Dinner was mechanical.
I found a seat in the corner, away from the main flow of traffic. Ate without tasting. Smiled at people who waved, answered questions I didn't hear, performed the motions of a normal student having a normal meal.
Inside, my skin crawled.
