The bell rang—a sharp, metallic chime that echoed down the hallways and signalled the start of tutor. A wave of students began to break, dispersing from the crowded hallways toward their designated form rooms. Most shuffled along with a weary air, their voices a low hum of chatter, bags slung haphazardly over their shoulders. Lucien and Arleigh, however, moved against the tide, their destination elsewhere.
Their shoes padded softly down the quieter corridor near the west stairwell, past the admin offices and storage rooms, heading toward an unassuming side door labelled, "Student Council – Authorized Only."
Without pause, Arleigh pushed the door open and slipped inside. Lucien followed at a more leisurely pace, his hand lingering on the cool metal of the doorknob as he shut the door with a quiet click.
"Right then," he announced with exaggerated cheer, turning to face her with a wide, playful grin. "Where do you want me? Should I alphabetize the inventory logs, or are we colour-coding spreadsheets first?"
Arleigh sighed. "Spare me the theatrics, Lucien."
Lucien raised a brow, feigning confusion. "Theatrics? Whatever do you mean?"
She finally turned, her gaze a glacial force, piercing through his carefully constructed façade. "There's no council work. You know I made that up when I asked for your help."
A low chuckle escaped Lucien, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his blazer. "Oh really~? Taking the initiative? Were you craving some quality alone time with me? I'm flattered, Arleigh, but alas, we're on school grounds."
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of undisguised revulsion hardening her features. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd genuinely rather eat glass"
With a dramatic sigh, he sauntered over to a chair by the window, propping his feet up on the coffee table's edge. "Brutal, but fair, I suppose. Now, tell me," he drawled, a playful glint in his eyes, "what's this really about?"
She stood firm, her arms crossed tightly. "Why are you hanging around Violet?"
Lucien tilted his head, a spark of amusement flickering across his face. "Violet? My, my, is someone perhaps...jealous?"
Her jaw visibly clenched, a muscle ticking. "Don't even start," she warned, her voice tight.
He grinned, clearly relishing her reaction.
"Seriously," she stated, her voice gaining a sharp edge, "If you're only buttering her up to squeeze information about Ivy out of her—just stop it. Whatever game you think you're playing, you're wasting everyone's time. Violet doesn't owe you shit. And neither do I."
Lucien leaned back in the chair, rocking it back and forth with a soft creak. "You make it sound so seedy," he protested. "Can't I just be friendly with her? No ulterior motives?"
"No. You can't." she said in an accusing tone. "You're only ever friendly when there's something in it for you, and we both know it." She stepped closer now, arms still crossed, voice low. "So if this is just another way for you to worm your way closer to Ivy—to get your twisted little story about what happened between us—it won't work."
Lucien's face shifted slightly, his playful sparkle replaced by a more thoughtful look. He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, before speaking in a measured tone.
"...Maybe if you told me the truth," he said, his words dripping with a slow, deliberate cadence, "I wouldn't have to ask Violet." The suggestion hung in the air, like a challenge, or a thinly veiled threat
Arleigh's reaction was immediate and visceral. She scoffed, her face twisting in distaste, and stepped back. "And why the hell would I do that?" she shot back, her voice laced with hostility.
She finally took a seat opposite him, the coffee table stretching between them like a tangible barrier. "You think I'd just hand over my history because you're nosy and persistent? Why do you even care, Lucien? What's in it for you? Are you just collecting gossip, or is there some twisted prize you're waiting for at the end of this?"
"Maybe I just want to get to know you better." The statement was innocuous, but Arleigh's gaze remained narrowed, as if searching for the hidden motive behind his claim.
She retorted sharply, "Obviously. That's the problem."
His smile returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You wound me."
Arleigh's response was swift. "Oh shut it," she snapped. "You aren't a victim. You just deflect until people get tired and walk away."
Lucien stretched his legs, brushing invisible lint off his trousers. "If you're not going to give me anything, I'll just keep asking around. Eventually, someone will talk."
Arleigh's eyes flared, a spark of anger igniting within them. "And you think Violet's the answer? Don't be stupid. For all you know, Ivy hasn't even told her. She's not the kind of person who confides in others—she'd rather take it to the grave than talk."
Lucien merely shrugged, his expression unruffled. "Then I'll find another angle."
"You're wasting your time." Her voice was sharp now. "Even if you did get something, what then? What do you stand to gain?"
Lucien's gaze shifted towards Arleigh, his expression becoming slightly more guarded as he hesitated to respond.
"...Besides," Arleigh added, her voice laced with a hint of scepticism, "you're not exactly trustworthy. You can barely keep your own secrets." Her words hung in the air, a challenge to Lucien's integrity, and he felt a spark of defensiveness ignite within him.
Lucien's brow twitched, a subtle sign of his growing unease, as he asked, "And what secret do you think I'm hiding?
Arleigh's response was a tight, humourless smile. "The rugby accident, Lucien? That's the best you could come up with?" Her words were laced with disdain, and Lucien's face stilled, his expression freezing as he struggled to maintain his composure.
"It was a rugby accident," he said coolly. "But if you don't believe me, that's your problem."
"I'd believe you," she said, "if you weren't a known liar."
Lucien didn't answer, instead choosing to stand up, brushing the front of his blazer as he glanced towards the door. "Is our little heart-to-heart over then?" he asked, his tone light, but his eyes gleaming with a hint of anger. "Tutor'll end soon. Wouldn't want to miss actual learning time."
Arleigh remained seated, her eyes fixed intently on Lucien.
"…Fine," she muttered finally.
Lucien's hand was already on the doorknob, but he turned slightly over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know," he said, his voice low and smooth, "I'm still not giving up on you. This little spat changes nothing."
His words were a challenge, a promise, and a warning, all rolled into one, and Arleigh's response was immediate.
She raised her middle finger, a gesture of disdain and dismissal, but Lucien just laughed, the sound echoing softly as he slipped out the door and let it swing shut behind him.
Left alone, Arleigh let out a sharp sigh, her hands dragging down her face as she felt the weight of the conversation settle upon her.
She didn't trust Lucien. She never had.
But what unsettled her most… was how much he already knew, despite how little she'd said.
⋯
Ivy stirred awake, her thoughts still shrouded in the remnants of a dream. For a second, she wasn't sure where she was. The cool air brushed against her arms, and a dull ache settled in her shoulders—it all felt unfamiliar until her eyes adjusted to the soft grey light bleeding through the curtains.
She was on her mattress, not the hard, creaky chair she remembered using to barricade the door. A frown creased her brow as she pushed herself upright. The last memory she could clearly recall was her legs curled beneath her on that chair, eyes heavy, muscles clenched, waiting. Waiting for footsteps that, thankfully, never came.
And now… she was here?
Her lips parted slightly, and as the haze of confusion cleared, everything started to make sense.
Violet.
A slow, amused smile crept across Ivy's face. She could picture it now—Violet, struggling with the awkward task of moving her unconscious form from the chair to the bed, their differing heights making the effort a comical display. The thought coaxed out a small, genuine chuckle that laced through the otherwise quiet room.
Dragging her legs over the edge of the mattress, Ivy stretched. Her muscles protested, but there was no urgency in her movements. The house, as ever, exuded a peculiar tranquillity, as if it were perpetually poised for a moment that would shatter its silence.
One by one, she moved the makeshift barricade back to its rightful spots. The dresser, the nightstand still knocked over from the scramble last night, even the bed frame itself. Once the space looked normal again—whatever that meant in this house—she stripped out of yesterday's clothes and tugged on a fresh graphic tee and soft sweatpants. She changed quickly, tied her hair back into a messy bun, and opened her bedroom door.
Ivy took only a few steps into the hallway before a voice, shrill and instantly recognizable, pierced the quiet.
"Well, well," it chirped, dripping with a familiar, irritating sarcasm. "Sleeping Beauty finally decided to rise from the dead."
Ivy let out a quiet, exasperated sigh. It was Diane, of course.
Ivy didn't even flinch. Diane's voice always hit that annoying pitch—taunting but not entirely cruel, like a cat batting at a bug just to watch it twitch.
"Didn't peg you for the sleeping-in type," Diane continued. "Must be losing your edge, sweetheart."
Ivy didn't even bother turning her head. "It's still morning," she replied flatly.
"It's nearly noon," Diane countered.
"Still morning," Ivy muttered, continuing her slow shuffle towards the kitchen.
The kitchen and living room were basically conjoined, no walls between them—just a tattered rug that vaguely separated the sofa area from the linoleum flooring. Diane was sprawled dramatically across the couch, one arm slung over her eyes like a woman clinging to life. Her pink dressing gown gaped at one side, revealing wrinkled pyjamas and pale legs marked with faint bruises. She looked like a caricature of a woman recovering from a long night out, which was depressingly close to the truth.
Her eyes were glassy, her skin even paler than usual—sickly yellow beneath the white. She looked… off. More so than usual.
Ivy silently reached for the loaf of bread, popping two slices into the toaster.
"Rough night?" she asked dryly.
"Ugh. Don't start." Diane groaned. "I'm dying."
"You're hungover." Ivy stated, her voice matter-of-fact.
"Same difference."
The toaster popped, announcing the completion of its task. Ivy spread butter on the warm bread, each movement slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to Diane's restless shifting on the worn couch. She was a picture of discomfort, trying unsuccessfully to find a position that didn't send jolts of pain through her.
"Hey," Diane said abruptly, her voice startling Ivy slightly. "That goddess you mentioned yesterday… What was her name again?"
Ivy raised a sceptical eyebrow, her gaze still fixed on her toast. "Amritkala."
Diane's head lolled onto one elbow, her eyes half-closed. "So… this Amritkala… is she real?" The question hung in the air, laced with a mixture of curiosity and doubt.
Ivy's expression shifted. This was unexpected. "What do you mean, 'is she real'?" she asked, finally turning her attention to Diane. "You don't believe me?"
Diane sat up a little straighter, wincing at the movement. "I don't disbelieve you, exactly. It's just… look, I want to know if you gleaned anything useful, you know about your powers?"
Ivy narrowed her eyes. "Since when do you care?"
Diane's response came out too quickly, a little too defensively. "I don't!" She rolled her eyes. "I mean… maybe. I don't know. Just humour me, okay?"
Ivy scoffed. "She confirmed that I have two abilities. She called them Paralysis Shock and Emotional Drain."
Diane blinked. "Paralysis Shock and Emotional Drain, huh...? Was Emotional Drain the one you used on me?"
Ivy nodded hesitantly.
Diane leaned forward, her eyes sharpening with genuine interest. "So what exactly do they do?"
Ivy, still clutching her toast, crossed her arms defensively. "Paralysis Shock stops people dead in their tracks and makes them see their worst fears. Emotional Drain... it's like... I take a feeling from someone? Suck it out of them. It then feeds me and gives me a temporary boost."
Diane squinted at her. "You feed on feelings. Like a therapy leech?"
"Not quite," Ivy said flatly.
"Sounds like it," Diane retorted, a smirk playing on her lips.
Ivy sighed, leaning back against the counter, the weight of the conversation settling on her. "Do you actually care?"
Diane leaned back with a scoff. "Well, duh, ya cheeky git! Maybe if you'd given me a heads-up about your freaky powers, I wouldn't have nearly shat myself the first time, ya know? And after all I did for you last night, laying my ass on the line, I reckon I'm owed some damn answers. So spill!"
Ivy grimaced. "Yeah. I didn't ask..."
"Too bad," Diane leaned over, voice dropping. "You do realize Clive was this close to bustin' down that door last night, right? Seriously. You actually think he wouldn't have laid a hand on you if I hadn't stepped in?"*
Ivy let out a deep sigh of frustration. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time, alright? Seriously, give it a rest."
"C'mon, don't be such a prude, Ivy. You're old enough to hear this crap, and frankly, I need someone to offload on. Your uncle? Total ass. But the good news is, he's also a gullible fool. A little booze, a little somethin' to keep him busy, and bam, problem solved. After puttin' up with all that, I'd appreciate it if you could just answer me without the sass, alright?"
Ivy averted her gaze in disgust.
Diane's smirk was sharp, bitter. "Hey, you're fucking welcome," she spat, the words laced with sarcasm.
A heavy silence settled between them, thick and tense. Finally, Ivy let out a long, weary sigh. "Thanks," she mumbled, the words barely audible. "I guess."
Diane perked up slightly. "So? Anymore goddess wisdom?"
Ivy rolled her eyes, the gesture betraying her reluctance, but she conceded. "She said… she said my powers aren't a gift, not really. She said they're a reflection of all the awful shit I went through before… before I died and became this… Semi-Immortal thing. And… there are limits. If I push them too hard… I could cause a lot of harm…"
Diane frowned. "You got all that from a dream?"
"It wasn't just a dream," Ivy muttered.
After a few minutes, Ivy shifted to the couch, perching on the edge as if she were pressed against the armrest. Meanwhile, Diane bombarded her with a flurry of questions—some pertinent, but many just echoes of what had already been asked—and Ivy's tolerance began to fray. Finally, she snapped, "Are you still drunk?"
Diane looked offended. "Of course not."
"Then why are you acting like a toddler with short-term memory loss?" Ivy challenged, her frustration evident.
Diane threw her hands up in a dramatic gesture, letting out a long sigh. "Maybe because I'm tired, Ivy," she mumbled, her voice strained. "And everything hurts. And I can't take anything for it unless I want to kill my liver before breakfast."
With a dramatic slump, Diane collapsed onto the couch, unceremoniously hoisting her legs onto Ivy's lap without a word of warning. Ivy stiffened, her body tensing at the unexpected gesture.
"Seriously?"
"I'm sore," Diane mumbled, her eyes half-closed.
"You're sore because you drank. Again."
Diane scoffed, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "Oh please," she said, "Don't start lecturing me like some miniature therapist. You're one panic spiral away from scrubbing your skin off in the shower."
The air in the room shifted—heavy, tired. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Ivy stared at Diane's ankle bone, pale and sharp against her lap. Then an idea itched at the edge of her mind.
What if I used it now?
She studied Diane's face—hollow, miserable, twitching in discomfort. The pain wasn't new; Ivy had witnessed it before. This time, she might be able to help out, even if it's just for a little while. It would be an experiment, a test, a controlled application of her… ability. And given Diane's obvious suffering, perhaps it could offer some solace.
Ivy hesitated. Then, quietly, she asked "Do you want me to try it again?"
Diane blinked. "What?"
"Emotional Drain," Ivy explained. "I could try it properly, this time. Not by accident."
Diane squinted. "You mean... now?"
"Yes, now."
Diane's lips parted to voice an objection, but Ivy's unwavering gaze, calm and intensely focused, held her captive.
"I just want to see if I can do it intentionally," Ivy said, her voice low and steady. "And maybe… help. Consider it a thank you for what you did last night…"
Diane stared for a long second, then sighed. "Fine. But if you give me a seizure or something—"
"I won't...promise."
Ivy's hand reached out, gently touching Diane's wrist. She didn't focus on the physical contact, but on the emotional undercurrents – the crushing weight of Diane's burdens, the raw exhaustion, the searing pain, the simmering frustration. All of it, a palpable presence pressing against her own senses.
She felt it stir, like a soft warmth enveloping her arm.
Diane gasped, a sharp intake of breath followed by a breathless, "What the hell—"
"It's okay," Ivy said gently. "Just breathe."
Then, stillness. The tension visibly drained from Diane's body.
Diane slumped against the couch, her limbs weightless. Her eyes fluttered open. "Ivy?" she whispered, her voice thin.
"How do you feel?" Ivy asked, her gaze watchful.
"Like I got hit by a truck," Diane muttered, a faint smile playing on her lips, "But... lighter. Weirdly."
Ivy observed her carefully, a silent assessment playing out in her mind. Diane was pale, exhausted, yet a profound calm settled over her features, replacing the earlier tension.
"Do you feel sick?" Ivy asked.
"No. Just... really, really tired."
Ivy nodded, the gears in her mind turning. Was this notable fatigue a side effect of the ability itself, or merely a consequence of Diane's already fragile health? The truth was still unclear.
Gently, she lifted Diane's legs off her lap, helped shift her into a more comfortable position, and pulled a blanket over her.
A barely audible murmur escaped Diane's lips as sleep claimed her.
Ivy lingered in quiet contemplation for a moment, observing her before she pivoted back to the kitchen, where the toast lay forgotten and cold on the counter. She tidied up the crumbs, polished the surface, and turned on the tap, letting the sound break the stillness.
She washed the butter knife in the sink and dried it slowly, eyes unfocused.
What now?
Homework? What a waste of time. Given her suspension, the assignments hold no significance. Maybe she should focus on cleaning her room? Or maybe a trip to the grocery store would be better..?
Honestly, she would prefer to do anything rather than stay idle.
With that, she began collecting the dishes, softly tidying up the small mess she had created along with the leftover plates from her uncle and Diane's dinner the previous night.
Diane's gentle breaths gradually disappeared into the stillness of the home, and for a change, it felt as though the entire house wasn't on the verge of crumbling.