The hallway smelled like dust and something sweet — old flowers maybe. Faint. Almost fake.
I dragged my feet until I found the door: 317. Faded numbers, scratched wood.
I pushed it open.
A single bed. A small desk. A window nailed shut. One drawer. One chair. One closet. No roommate.
This wasn't a school.
It was a cell with curtains.
I dropped my bag on the bed. Sat down.
And then I cried.
Not loud. Not messy. Just that kind of tired, hopeless cry you feel in your chest more than your throat.
I didn't know what I was. Why I was here. Why my skin tingled where Lucien had touched it.
Why I cared.
The door creaked.
I stood fast, wiping my eyes. "Hello?"
No one.
I stepped into the hall. Empty.
Then I saw it — a note pinned to my door.
"Don't trust the ones with hollow eyes."
No name. No handwriting I recognized.
I snatched it down. My heart was pounding.
Back inside, I locked the door.
And for the first time since waking up in this nightmare school, I felt real fear.
Not the kind that makes you scream.
The kind that makes you listen.
Because something — or someone — already knew who I was.
And they were watching.
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