The gym still smelled faintly of sweat, polish, and the ghost of music that hadn't quite left the air.
Leina Moon balanced on one hand at the edge of the mat — legs in a perfect arc, breath tight but steady. The world flipped over itself — ceiling where the floor should be — and for a heartbeat, gravity forgot its job. She landed lightly, the soft slap of skin against the mat echoing in the hollow space. Her reflection shivered across the polished floor while rain traced the tall windows like veins of silver.
Her phone buzzed beside her water bottle. She caught it mid-stride, thumb flicking instinctively.
Tina: They're saying lockdown??
Coach: Stay in dorms. No practice tomorrow.
Tina: Leina where are you???
Leina: Still in gym. What lockdown?
The typing bubble blinked… then vanished.
"Great," she muttered, shoving the phone away. Something outside had shifted — not just the weather, something quieter, underneath it. The rain had a new weight to it, like it was falling through silence instead of sound.
She shouldered her backpack, slid her sketchbook inside. "Art stuff, then home," she told herself. "Easy."
Her voice didn't echo. It should've.
The corridor lights flickered as she stepped out. Her sneakers squeaked faintly — each step too sharp, too alone. She passed the trophy case, her reflection glinting between medals and grinning faces caught forever in glass. Her team — mid-jump, ribbons like streaks of sunlight. And there she was, right in the center.
Memory broke through uninvited: Coach shouting, "Again, Moon! You land like you're made of paper!"
And her laughing back, "That's why I never break!"
The echo dissolved as she reached the exit.
Half-lowered shutters. A broom on the floor. A vending machine tipped over — its glass cracked like thin ice.
"Hello?" she tried, crouching slightly, her voice barely above the rain's hush. "Anyone here?"
Something answered. Wet. Dragging.
Her stomach knotted.
From the dim hall's far end, a figure stumbled forward — a janitor, or something that had been. His uniform soaked dark, gait wrong, eyes filmed over. His mouth moved but made no sound.
"Sir—" she began, out of habit more than hope.
He lunged.
Instinct slammed in. She twisted, sprinted, hit the push bar so hard the side door flew open and rain came at her like thrown gravel.
The courtyard looked wrong — washed in half-light, half-shadow, movement everywhere. Screams sliced the air. A siren wailed, choked, and went silent.
Her breath went ragged. "No, no, no…"
She ran for the art building — her refuge. But before she got halfway, two more shapes lurched out from the library steps, heads snapping toward her, tracking the rhythm of her footsteps in the puddles.
They saw her.
Leina didn't think. She moved.
A sharp veer left — she vaulted the low wall, rolled through wet grass, came up running. Her coach's voice flickered through her head, somewhere between command and memory: "Jump like you trust yourself!"
So she did — because trusting anything else didn't seem like an option.
The figures behind her jerked after her — broken puppets in the stormlight.
At the courtyard's edge she caught the drainpipe, scrambling up, hands slipping once, heart ramming against her ribs. She pulled herself onto the first roof, crouched low. The rain silvered her skin; the city below swam with motion — students, teachers, silhouettes dissolving in chaos.
She forced herself to look away.
"Focus," she hissed. "Up. Forward."
Her feet slapped slick metal. She ran — roof to roof, breath to breath. Each leap a small betrayal of gravity, each landing a burst of pain. Palms burned, knees tore, lungs screamed. She didn't stop.
Then — the roof ended.
The alley gaped beneath, wind shrieking through it. Across the gap: another building, a faint orange glow through its windows.
"Okay, Leina," she murmured. "You've done dumber things."
Her pulse laughed at the lie.
She sprinted — jumped.
For a heartbeat she hung suspended in rain and light — arms out, the world breaking apart around her.
Then — impact. The ledge hit her ribs like a punch. She clawed her way up, lungs on fire, rolling onto the roof.
A small, shaky laugh escaped. "Still got it."
The art building rose ahead, her last lighthouse in the dark.
A window stood cracked open. She kicked it wider, slipped inside.
Linseed oil. Paint thinner. Charcoal. The air smelled human again. She slammed the window shut, dragged a plinth in front, and finally let herself breathe.
Outside, the storm screamed. Inside, her heartbeat was the only sound that stayed.
She slid down the wall, shaking hard now that she'd stopped. Shock arrived like an afterthought — late but merciless.
"You're okay," she whispered. "You're okay."
The words didn't feel true, but they gave her something to hold.
Her eyes found the canvas in the corner — the one she'd been working on for weeks. The Radcliffe Camera beneath a storm sky. A lone figure. A crimson umbrella.
She drifted toward it, slow, dazed.
The brush was still there in its jar, the water murky gray. She dipped, touched red to canvas.
Her hand trembled — then steadied.
Each stroke: a breath.
Each breath: a pulse.
She deepened shadows, brightened the umbrella's curve, pulled the sky down in darker streaks. Her pulse matched the brush's rhythm, a heartbeat painted in color.
Memory again — her mother beside her when she was small, paint and tea and quiet music.
"You can't control the storm, baby," her mother had said. "Just paint through it."
Leina smiled — barely — tears lost in the rain sliding from her hair. "Still painting, Mom."
Thunder rolled. The studio quivered.
She stepped back to look. The red glowed fierce and defiant against the gray.
Outside, something screamed again — too close this time — but she didn't move.
Her fingers rested on the paint, smearing vermilion across her skin. "If it all falls apart," she murmured, "I'll leave color behind."
Then she killed the lights.
Only the painting remained — that single red umbrella, burning quietly in the dark.