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### **Chapter ten
**The Ones Who Watch the Fire**
The longer I stayed at Sterling University, the more I realized it was a place built on secrets. Everyone wore masks—some for survival, some for status, and others because they'd forgotten their real faces long ago.
I learned quickly how to blend in. How to disappear inside lecture halls. How to nod at the right professors and never ask the wrong questions. It wasn't fear. It was caution.
Because even in my silence, I could feel eyes on me.
Not because they knew who I was.
But because they didn't.
---
I sat in the second row of IRBS 301, notebook open, posture alert. The lecture was on behavioral control in authoritarian regimes, taught today by Dr. Halbridge — a guest lecturer with a breathy voice and long-winded metaphors. His voice washed over the room like fog.
"Pair projects will begin this week," he announced toward the end of the session, flipping through a roster. "You've been assigned randomly. Names are posted on the course board."
Groans rippled through the class.
I stood quickly, weaving through murmurs and rustling bags to reach the board just outside the hall. I scanned the list:
Zoey Carpenter – Miles Braxton
No.
No, no, no.
A pair project in the most scrutinized course in the department — with him?
I turned around and, of course, he was already there. Leaning casually against the pillar like he'd summoned the universe to do his bidding.
"Fate is clearly rooting for us," he said, voice velvet and smug.
"I'm transferring to a monastery," I muttered, brushing past him.
But he followed.
The library study rooms smelled of varnish and quiet. We booked the smallest one—glass walls, soft lighting, and just enough privacy for tension to ferment.
"Okay, this might sound insane," Miles said, dropping into the chair across from me in the library's west wing study room, "but what if we compared behavioral obedience in digital fandoms to Cold War propaganda networks?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "That's... oddly brilliant."
He grinned. "I have layers. Like psychological lasagna."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help smiling.
But he did something then — something unexpected.
He leaned forward" I'll do the field research. Interviews. You do the analysis"
My eyes narrowed. "You'll do it?"
"Let me guess," he said, softer now. "You think I'm all charm and no spine. But maybe I just don't wear my brain on a lanyard."
That shut me up for a second.
There was something behind his eyes — not arrogance this time, but something tired. Hidden. Maybe even bruised.
" That wasn't what l meant , l was just supposed to see you invested in this project " l said also leaving him with my goodbyes.
Over the last few days, Miles Braxton had proven to be more than the entitled flirt I thought he was. Underneath the smirks and swagger was a quick mind and a sharper tongue—when it came to debate, not flirtation. Though he still did that, too.
More than once, I caught him watching me—not in a predatory way, but with open curiosity, like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.
I didn't encourage it. I kept things neutral. Cordial. Friendly.
He was a good partner. A better acquaintance. But my heart wasn't in the room with him. It was somewhere else.
---
One night, after we wrapped a long study session, I returned to Ethan's townhouse, tension buzzing beneath my skin. The project was going well. Miles was manageable. The lie of normalcy was holding.
But something felt... off.
The air in the house had shifted. Stillness had a weight to it, and the lights in the hallway seemed dimmer than usual. I found myself drifting toward the study. The room he told me not to enter. The door had always been locked.
But this time—it was open. Just barely.
I paused in the hallway.
Then stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper. Everything was meticulously arranged. Shelves lined with texts on global intelligence, authoritarian regimes, social engineering, philosophy. A vintage chessboard stood at one side, half-played.
A black-and-white scanned document with a faded government seal sat on the table.
**Case File: Operation Oberlicht — Geneva, 2019**
**Subject: Ethan Marrow**
**Classification: Non-Disclosure Level Omega**
My hands froze, l shouldn't have opened it.
It wasn't about me. Not even close.
It was about **him**.
The file was redacted in parts, but I could gather enough. During his research fellowship in Geneva, Ethan had been recruited—unofficially—by an intelligence affiliate. He wasn't just studying behavioral manipulation.
He was **practicing it.**
Embedded in seminars. Gathering data. Profiling high-risk individuals. Helping prevent political upheaval before it could begin.
One section chilled me:
> "Subject demonstrates acute emotional disassociation. Highly intelligent. Cold under pressure. Shows no ethical hesitation when justified by outcome.
>
> Operates best in controlled environments.
> Dangerous if emotionally compromised."
I leaned back in the chair, pulse racing.
This wasn't about me. This wasn't some trap I'd walked into.
**This was who he already was.**
Long before I entered the story.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stood by the window of the townhouse in a silk robe Helena had gifted me, watching the rain bleed down the glass. My heart beat in quiet patterns, and I couldn't name what I felt.
I should have been scared.
But I wasn't.
What struck me more than anything was how **controlled** Ethan had to be to function like that. How lonely that must have been. How far someone must travel to become that precise. That cold.
And yet—he had been gentle with me. Careful, even. Reserved, yes. But not cruel.
I checked my phone on impulse.
No messages.
Then, as if summoned, a ping.
> **Ethan Marrow**
> 1:08 AM
>
> *You opened the document .*
My fingers hovered over the screen.
> **Zoey**
> *Yes.*
Another ping. Faster this time.
> *You're not frightened?*
I took a breath, heart pounding.
> **Zoey**
> *Should I be?*
Pause. Long.
Then:
> *I don't know. That depends on what you want from me.*
I swallowed.
And wrote back:
> *Clarity. And the truth. That's all.*
After a beat, he replied:
> *Then you're already in deeper than you realize.*
---
The next day, I met Miles on campus like nothing had changed.
He brought coffee and grinned when he saw me. "You look different. Like... you didn't sleep or you saw God."
"Neither," I said lightly. "Just insomnia."
He handed me a cup and let his fingers brush mine a second longer than necessary. "Well, if you ever want company when the nightmares hit... I'm practically insomnia personified."
I laughed, but gently pulled away. "Thanks, Miles. Really. But I'm fine."
His face fell for a second—so quick most people wouldn't notice. But I did.
Still, he smiled. "Acquaintance zone. Got it."
We got to work, and Miles never brought it up again. He teased. He leaned close. But I could see the lines shifting in his mind—he was beginning to realize I wasn't available. Not emotionally. Not mentally.
Because whether I wanted to admit it or not…
**My thoughts were tangled up with a man thousands of miles away.**
A man who knew how to dismantle nations without firing a single bullet.
A man who had studied war and human weakness and still brought me chamomile tea my first night in his house.
A man who shouldn't have fascinated me.
And yet—**I wanted to know everything about him.**
---
That night, I sent one more message.
> **Zoey**
> *You're not the monster they say you are.*
The reply came at once.
> \*No. But I am what they trained me to be.
>
> And that's worse, isn't it?\*
I stared at the message.
My fingers trembled as I typed:
> *I don't know yet.
> But I'm not walking away.*
He replied , " you don't get to walk away "
I trembled I'm fear yet felt thrilled by the rising tension.
---
To be continued.
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