Turn 3 of 12

Ask Wren if she is also a collector.

You shift your focus back to Wren, the weight of her previous warning still pressing against your thoughts. Her eyes remain fixed on you, a deep and unreadable shade that seems to absorb the dim light of the seminar room rather than reflect it. The air near her is unnaturally still, contrasting with the nervous energy radiating from the other students. You weigh your words carefully, aware that Halloran’s gaze is flickering toward your table with increasing frequency, his lecture on societal structures becoming a mere drone in the background.

"Are you a collector too?" you whisper, the question feeling heavy and loaded in the quiet space between you. You try to keep your tone light, aiming for the casual curiosity of a fellow student, but the intensity of your own heartbeat betrays you. The silence that follows is absolute, as if the room itself is holding its breath to hear her response. Wren tilts her head, a slow, deliberate movement that makes the light catch the sharp, clean line of her jaw.

She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze dropping to the key still resting in your palm, then back up to meet your eyes. There is no trace of the academic detachment the others display; instead, there is a singular, focused intensity that feels like being examined under a microscope. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just an inch from your sleeve, and you can feel the sudden, biting drop in temperature as she nears. It is not an aggressive gesture, but it is undeniably possessive, a claim staked in the cold air.

"I do not collect, and I certainly do not document," she murmurs, her voice dropping into a register that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. She draws her hand back, though the lingering chill remains, a phantom touch that refuses to fade.

"I am merely the caretaker of the things that require watching, and you, it seems, have become a part of that tally." Her smile is thin, unyielding, and entirely devoid of the warmth she offered only moments before when she handed over your room key.

Your breath hitches, the implication of her words settling into your stomach with the weight of cold iron. You are not a peer or a roommate in her eyes, but a subject of interest, a variable in an equation she has been balancing for a very long time. Before you can press her further, Tutor Halloran clears his throat sharply, the sound cracking through the room like a gavel. The spell of the conversation shatters, leaving you stranded in the sudden, harsh glare of academic normalcy, with no way to retreat from the new reality she has laid bare.