Turn 5 of 12

Try to get Dario's attention to see if he knows what she is.

You shift your weight, the wooden chair groaning under the movement, and cast a deliberate glance toward the window. Dario is still there, his focus entirely consumed by the strange, geometric patterns he is etching into the margins of his textbook. He looks like a man who has found a puzzle he is delighted to be unable to solve. You clear your throat, a sharp, artificial sound intended to cut through the hum of the room, and catch his eye. For a fleeting second, he looks up, his expression bright and inquisitive, a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating stillness that radiates from the seat beside you.

You tilt your head slightly toward Wren, hoping your expression conveys the frantic, silent question you cannot voice. You want to know if he sees the same thing you do—the way the light seems to bend around her, the way the air grows thin and cold in her proximity. Dario’s eyes flick to Wren, then back to you, and his smile falters, replaced by a look of sudden, sharp recognition. He doesn't speak, but he gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture that confirms he is well aware of exactly what sits at your side. It is not a nod of camaraderie, but one of wary, academic acknowledgment.

Wren doesn't turn, yet you feel her posture stiffen, a subtle tightening of her shoulders that suggests she is perfectly aware of your silent communication. She doesn't need to look at Dario to know he is watching, and she certainly doesn't need to look at you to know you are seeking an escape route. The air in the room seems to drop another few degrees, the scent of ozone intensifying until it tastes like metal on the back of your tongue. You feel like a piece of glass being held between two opposing forces, and the pressure is beginning to make your vision blur at the edges.

"He knows nothing that matters," Wren murmurs, her voice so low it barely registers as sound, yet it cuts through the room's ambient noise with the precision of a blade. She finally turns her head, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. There is a terrifying, possessive clarity in her gaze, a reminder that while Dario may be an observer, she is the one who holds the key to your room and, by extension, your immediate reality. She is not merely watching you; she is actively preventing you from finding an ally in the one person who might understand the nature of your cage.

You look back at your desk, your pulse thrumming in your ears like a frantic drumbeat. The lecture on the social contract has reached a crescendo, the tutor’s voice rising with a fervor that feels increasingly detached from the reality of the room. You are trapped in a space where the rules are not written in textbooks, and the person sitting next to you has no intention of letting you wander into the arms of someone else's curiosity. The realization is cold, absolute, and leaves you with the sinking feeling that your semester at Othermoor has only just begun to unravel.