Footsteps rained heavy as Zeke walked the empty halls, the long corridor amplifying each step until it sounded like a slow storm rolling through tile and glass. Word of the courtyard had moved faster than he could—most students had evaporated into classrooms and stairwells, making themselves scarce, lest they accidentally invite his wrath. The air held that aftershock hush you get when a bell stops ringing but the ears keep listening—thin, metallic, expectant.

He pushed into the infirmary. Beds stood in two neat rows, each separated by thin curtains that turned space into a grid of private cocoons. Antiseptic threaded the room's clean scent; sunlight fell through high windows in gauzy bands, catching on the chrome legs of IV stands and turning them into pale spears. At the nurse's station, a woman sat with quiet poise: light green summer dress beneath a white coat, dark hair braided with meticulous care and laid over one shoulder. Where the sun touched it, the braid took on a faint blue sheen, like dusk trapped in black silk. Pin glasses rested on her nose; when she looked up at Zeke, the motion was precise, economical.

"Are you here to see Keith?" she asked with a smile.

"Ah," Zeke stumbled. "Yes!"

"He's on the bed to the right," she said, extending a finger tipped with long, gold-painted nails.

"Thanks," Zeke murmured, waking toward the right.

"Sure thing!" the nurse smiled.

He paused mid-stride, that prickling sense of déjà vu rising like cold up the spine.

"Excuse me," he said, glancing back. "this might seem weird, but have we met?"

"No," she chuckled. "what makes you think so?"

"Something about you," Zeke said, thumb and forefinger at his chin. "I can't explain it, but it's eerily familiar."

"Perhaps we met in a previous life," the nurse smiled in an amused manner,

"Perhaps," Zeke replied, waking away.

But the feeling clung. It wasn't her face—it was the pressure in the room, the way the air around her felt stale and heavy, as if someone had shut a lid over a jar. It was the cool steadiness of her eyes, how they mirrored back a version of himself he despised—weak, cornered, small. The curtains barely stirred; somewhere, a monitor ticked a soft, indifferent rhythm, and the hairs on his arms would not lie flat.

He slipped into Keith's partition. There he was—alone—lying in bed with an IV of vita fluid threading into his arm, the bag catching sunlight and glowing faintly like bottled honey. A pair of scuffed boots sat under the bed; a folded blazer hung over the rail; someone had left a paper cup of water sweating rings onto the tray.

"Where are the others?" Zeke asked.

"I asked them to leave," Keith replied.

"Do you want me to leave as well?" Zeke smirked.

"No, I'm guessing you'll wanna scold me for using you to get out of this sticky situation," Keith laughed, grabbing on to his ribs, visibly in pain.

Zeke pulled the vinyl chair close and sat, elbows on knees. "On the contrary," he sighed. "I'm glad I got there before you got hurt more."

"This is nothing!" Keith smiled. "For a big fella like that he hits like a girl." He laughed again.

"Why did you do it?" Zeke asked, his expression turning serious, grim even.

"Why?" Keith coughed. "Because I swore that after what happened to you I would never stand idly again. And yet when I saw them dragging poor Ben outside I didn't do a thing. I just stood in wait. Waiting for what? I'm not sure myself. Maybe I was waiting for myself. But when I saw that giant man, I guess I knew the time had come." He explained.

"That guy, did you think he was strong?" Zeke asked.

"Yeah," Keith lowered his gaze.

"What about me? Did you think I was stronger than him?" Zeke wondered, with the same serious expression.

"I didn't know for sure," Keith murmured.

"So, why'd you call me over of all people? Wouldn't it be pointless if I had gotten beaten up along with you?" Zeke smirked.

"You know, I just thought of one person who would definitely fight for me, and immediately you came to mind. I just wanted you to fight for me, not win, just fight. I guess that's what you wanted too, right? You wanted someone to fight for you?" Keith asked with a guilty expression.

"I did," Zeke replied, standing back up.

"Where are you going?" Keith wondered.

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"I have to check something out," Zeke replied.

"Sure, leave me alone here to sulk," Keith smiled.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Zeke smiled in response. "Hey, Keith," he paused.

"What's up?" Keith replied.

"You're alright," Zeke smirked before waking away.

"Thanks, it means a lot coming from you," Keith whispered under his breath as he looked at the ceiling.

Zeke let the curtain fall back into place, its hem whispering across the linoleum. Outside, the nurse's braid still gleamed that odd, moonlit blue. The corridor felt longer than before, the light a shade dimmer—as if somewhere in the building, a door had opened that no one could see, and something cold had leaned in to listen.

Zeke charged out of the nurse's office without looking back, his pulse drumming in his temples. He cut through the cafeteria—a blur past tray stacks and flickering holos—then shouldered into the Library's cool hush. Upstairs, the reading room breathed lamplight and dust. He strode straight to Violet, startling her as he stopped at her table.

"Hello, Violet!" Zeke shouted.

"Oh hey," she jolted up. "Are you here to hang out?"

"Not this time," Zeke frowned. "Can I borrow your bodyguard for a little bit?" he asked.

Calvin looked up, confused, a statue only now remembering to move.

"Sure, I don't see why not," Violet replied with a concerned expression.

"Come here," Zeke gestured to follow him as he waked outside of the reading room.

They stepped into the corridor. Fluorescents hummed. The stacks whispered.

"I have a question," Zeke stated.

"Ask away," Calvin sighed. "I'll answer, if it's something I can answer that is."

"Be frank with me, from the time that you started this job, have you noticed anything strange happening around Violet?" Zeke wondered.

"Strange as in?" Calvin wondered.

"People following the two of you," Zeke explained.

"So, you noticed," Calvin sighed.

"I have," Zeke frowned. "Did you think of doing anything about it?"

"I contacted the faculty, they assured me that I must have been seeing things," Clavin explained.

"Seeing things," Zeke scoffed. "Has anyone tried bribing you?" he wondered.

"They have," Clavin nodded.

"What did you do?" Zeke asked.

"What else? I took the money and told them to fuck off," Calvin explained.

"Aright, thanks," Zeke said turning, and slowly waking away.

"Hey!" Calvin shouted. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to the faculty and figure out why they aren't dong anything about the Bud students being targeted," Zeke remarked in an aggravated tone, before leaving.

Calvin returned to the reading room with his hands in his pockets.

"What was that about?" Violet asked.

"Nothing much," Calvin sighed.

"Now you're making me even more worried," Violet remarked.

"You should be." Calvin paused. "That boy is about to get himself into a world of trouble," Calvin replied staring towards the door.

Zeke was already crossing into the faculty wing, his posture sharpened into something feral. The glass bridge sang under each heel-strike, vibrations running the length of the structure like plucked wire. He reached the end, shoved through the Dean's door without knocking.

Inside, the dean sat behind an expensive mahogany desk; Professor Orkal faced him in a visitor's chair. A wall of books rose behind the dean like a well-pruned hedge—law, administration, histories bound in quiet black.

"Zeke! What brings you here?" the professor asked with a smile. "You ought to knock before barging in like that."

"Are you aware that all of the bud student's are being harassed and targeted?!" Zeke asked, shouting at the Dean.

The dean looked late-sixties, hair slicked back with meticulous care. A black suit framed a black t-shirt, a harmony of money and indifference. He met Zeke's stare without blinking.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the dean scoffed, staring into Zeke's eyes.

"Maybe I should leave," the professor whispered.

"Nonsense!" the dean exclaimed. "I'll deal with this shortly and we can continued our conversation."

"Are you sure you don't know?" Zeke paused. "Because as far as I'm aware you have been trying to suppress all repercussions of things happening!" Zeke yelled.

"Who told you?" the Dean's expression changed.

Zeke's fingers curled; demonic energy prickled into his palms, hungry to shape itself.

"Stop, Zeke! Let the dean explain," the Professor shouted.

"While I certainly did try to suppress the news of the Bud students being harassed from leaking out. I did so out of necessity. The existence of the Bud program in itself is a point of contention for many and if the news come out that they are being targeted by pro contractor extremist groups we would have to abolish this rank all together," the principal sighed. "That being said, I must tell you that I have nothing to do with these people, and I wish all of our students nothing but success."

"So what?!" Zeke asked. "You're just going to idly let it keep happening?"

"It's for the good of the academy," the dean retorted.

"A bloom student was attacked today, is that also for the good of the academy?" Zeke asked.

"I'm aware, but it was also that student's choice to get involved," the dean crossed his arms.

"You know what?" Zeke paused. "FUCK YOU AND YOUR ACADEMY!" he shouted, his voice on the verge of tearing, before walking out of the office.

Professor Orkal ran after him.

"Wait! Zeke! Don't blame him for what happened!" he pleaded.

"Don't blame him!?" Zeke asked. "I see so you think he's right!" Zeke shouted.

"Well, he does have a point," Orkal meekly replied.

Zeke didn't answer. He heard his name thrown down the corridor a few more times, then nothing—only the bridge humming beneath his steps and the dull ache of his teeth from clenching too hard.

He cut across campus to the gardening club. The evening air smelled of damp soil and iron tools; somewhere a hose dripped into a tin bucket with patient plinks. Fredric was already inside the rectangle of half-dug earth, shovel biting into the foundation trench for the orangery.

"Were you aware that there are pro contractor extremists attacking Bud students?" Zeke asked.

"No," Fredric paused. "Should I be?" he asked.

"I went to the dean and he refused to do anything about it," Zeke said, pacing. "And your brother was there, and he agreed with him.'

"Yep seems like good old Garen. Submitting to authority like a spineless chump," Fredric sighed.

"So what do you want to do about it?" He asked.

"What can I do?!" Zeke shouted in desperation.

"Did you just forget?" Fredric paused. "You can do what ever you want." He smirked.

The words landed. Zeke's shoulders lowered a fraction; the rage cooled to a thin, controlled edge. His face went mask-calm, eyes turning distant—the tide pulling back before something larger moves.

"I have an idea," Zeke remarked in calm monotone. "I'm gonna need your help," he grabbed on to his chin.

"I'm listening," Fredric sighed.

"I'm gonna need you to go talk to Ian and his gang," Zeke explained.

"Yeah?" Fredric asked. "What do you want me to say to them? Talk about my day?"

"No," Zeke retorted. "You're gonna need to seduce them like a god damn snake."

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