The first time I realized I saw too much, I was eight years old.
It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. Mum was making breakfast in our sun-drenched kitchen, her black hair swept up in a perfect chignon, her nurse's uniform impeccably pressed. She was humming a tune I didn't recognize, a faint smile playing on her lips. To anyone else, Rebecca Chen was the picture of morning serenity.
But I saw something different.
I saw the way her fingers trembled imperceptibly as she poured the coffee. The way she avoided Dad's gaze when he entered the room. The almost invisible tension that tightened the muscles in her shoulders. And most of all, I saw that shadow in her eyes—a sadness so deep it seemed to want to swallow her from within.
"Livia, darling, you're going to be late," she'd said, placing a bowl of cereal before me.
Her voice was gentle, loving. Normal. But something in me, something I didn't yet understand, caught the false note. The effort she was making to appear happy.
"Mum, are you all right?" I'd asked, my small voice piercing the muffled silence of the kitchen.
She'd frozen. Dad had looked up from his newspaper. And in that suspended moment, I'd known I'd touched something I wasn't meant to see.
"Of course, darling. Why do you ask?"
But her hands were trembling openly now, and Dad was watching her with that expression I would later learn to identify as professional concern. Dr. Marcus Chen, renowned criminal profiler, analyzing his own wife as he would analyze a suspect.
Three months later, Mum was gone.
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Ten years have passed since that morning, and I'm still cursed with this gift I never asked for. The ability to see beyond the masks people wear, to decipher their lies, their fears, their darkest secrets with a single glance.
Right now, sitting in the third row of my literature class at Blackwood Academy, I'm watching Mrs. Harrison explain Hamlet's psychological motivations, and I see far more than she'd like.
"The Danish prince's hesitation to murder his uncle reveals the complexities of the human psyche," she says, her voice carrying that professorial assurance my classmates find so convincing.
But I see the way she grips her chalk a little too tightly. The imperceptible trembling of her lower lip when she pronounces the word "murder." The way her eyes instinctively turn toward the window each time she mentions violence.
Mrs. Harrison is afraid. Not of us, not of the class. She's afraid of something deeper, more personal. Something that resonates with the dark themes of the play she's teaching.
I scribble absently in my notebook, letting my gift automatically analyze my classmates. It's become a reflex, as natural as breathing, and just as involuntary.
Ashley Morrison, front row, third seat. Popular, captain of the volleyball team, official girlfriend of Brad Stevens. But I see the way she hides her arms under her jumper despite the September heat. The long sleeves aren't a fashion choice. She's concealing something. Bruises? Scars? Her perfect smile falters for a fraction of a second when Mrs. Harrison mentions dysfunctional family relationships in Hamlet.
Domestic violence, a part of my brain automatically diagnoses. Father or stepfather. Statistically, the father.
I look away, guilt-ridden by this involuntary intrusion into her private life.
Kevin Park, to my right, nervously scribbling mathematical formulas in the margin of his book. Science genius, future MIT if the rumors are accurate. But his calculations aren't revision exercises. They're a coping mechanism. He counts, calculates, structures to avoid thinking about something else. His parents are divorcing, and he's trying to quantify his anxiety to control it.
Behind me, Sophia Reyes silently taps out a message on her phone hidden beneath her desk. She smiles reading the response, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. A secret relationship. Someone she can't display publicly. Probably someone older. Or someone forbidden for other reasons.
And so on. Every student in this class carries their secrets, their fears, their lies. And I see them all, whether I want to or not.
It's exhausting.
"Miss Chen?"
Mrs. Harrison's voice makes me jump. The whole class is staring at me, and I realize I haven't heard the question.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Could you repeat that?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. She doesn't appreciate being ignored, but more than that, she doesn't like not understanding. She's trying to figure me out, to determine if my distraction is insolence or simple adolescent daydreaming.
"I was asking for your interpretation of Hamlet's hesitation. Do you think it reveals a weakness of character or a complex psychological depth?"
Trick question. She's expecting an ordinary sixth-form response, something formulaic, acceptable. But I can't help giving my true opinion.
"I think Hamlet doesn't hesitate from weakness, but from lucidity. He understands that revenge won't repair the harm that's been done. He knows that killing Claudius won't bring back his father, won't heal his mother of her blindness, won't restore order to the kingdom. His hesitation is that of someone who sees all the consequences of an act before committing it."
Silence settles over the classroom. Several students look at me in surprise. Brad Stevens raises an eyebrow, as if discovering me for the first time.
Mrs. Harrison stares at me intently, and I see something pass through her eyes. Recognition? Concern? She's just understood that I'm not an ordinary sixth-former.
"That's... a very mature interpretation, Livia. Almost... professional."
Her voice drags on that last word, and I feel my stomach contract. She knows. Somehow, she's guessed that I grew up in the shadow of a criminal profiler, that I absorbed his methods of analysis as other children absorb nursery rhymes.
The bell saves me from any deepening of this conversation. Students rise in a hubbub of chairs and conversations, but Mrs. Harrison continues to watch me.
"Livia, could you stay for a moment?"
My heart races. I slowly pack my things, letting the others leave. When we're alone, she approaches my desk.
"You have an unusual perspective on human nature for someone your age," she says softly. "Your father is Dr. Marcus Chen, isn't he?"
I nod cautiously.
"I've read his work. Brilliant profiler." She pauses, sizing me up. "You take after him a great deal, I imagine."
It's not a question. It's an observation, and it makes me profoundly uncomfortable.
"I need to... get to maths," I say, standing up.
"Of course. But Livia?" She places a hand on my arm, and I sense urgency in her gesture. "Be careful. That kind of... insight can be dangerous in an environment like this."
Before I can ask what she means by that, she returns to her desk, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The main corridor of Blackwood Academy buzzes with the usual energy between classes. Lockers slamming, conversations overlapping, teachers trying to maintain some semblance of order. For my classmates, it's a familiar setting, almost comforting.
For me, it's a sensory assault.
Every person I pass involuntarily becomes an open book. Their micro-expressions, their body language, their nervous tics—everything tells me a story I don't want to hear.
Emma Rodriguez is arguing in hushed tones with her boyfriend near the Year 12 lockers. Officially, Jake and she form Blackwood's perfect couple. He's captain of the football team, she's student council president. But I see the tension in her shoulders, the way she imperceptibly steps back when he leans toward her. And especially, I see the fear that briefly crosses her eyes when he grips her wrist a little too tightly.
Control. Possessiveness. Emotional violence likely to escalate physically.
I look away and quicken my pace.
Further along, Tyler Hassan lingers alone near his locker, ignored by the crowd of students passing by as if he were invisible. Greasy hair, oversized clothes, hunched posture—all the signs of a chronic outcast. But what strikes me is the intensity of his gaze when he observes others. Not shyness. Anger. A cold, calculating rage simmering beneath his victim façade.
Potential for repressed violence. Revenge fantasies probable.
I shiver and hurry on.
"Livia!"
I turn around. Zoe Park, my best friend since Year 7, is running toward me, her black hair floating behind her.
"You look odd," she says, reaching me. "Everything all right?"
Zoe is one of the few people my gift can't completely disturb. Perhaps because she's fundamentally honest, or perhaps because we've known each other so long I've learned to filter her signals. With her, I can almost relax.
"Just tired," I lie. "Mrs. Harrison kept me after class."
"Again?" Zoe frowns. "Has she got it in for you or something?"
"No, it's just... complicated."
We walk to our adjacent lockers. Zoe tells me about her morning—a failed chemistry test, an argument with her younger sister, the latest gossip about who's dating whom. Normal sixth-form concerns. I wish I could really care about them, but part of my mind continues automatically analyzing our environment.
That's when I see him.
Leaning against the far wall, near the stairs leading to the science rooms, a boy I've never seen before. Tall, probably eighteen, slightly tousled brown hair, dressed in black jeans and a simple but obviously expensive grey jumper. He's observing the crowd of students with an attention that seems familiar to me—the attention of a predator studying its prey.
But what disturbs me most is that when I try to "read" him as I automatically read everyone, I find... nothing.
It's as if my abilities hit a wall. No clues about his emotional state, his motivations, his thoughts. Just a troubling void where anyone's normal psychological signature should be.
"Zoe," I say, touching my friend's arm. "Do you know that bloke?"
She follows my gaze and widens her eyes.
"Oh, that's the new boy! Ezra something. He started this week. Rather mysterious, don't you think? Several girls have tried to talk to him, but he keeps to himself."
Ezra. The name vaguely rings a bell, but I can't place it.
"Do you know where he's from?"
"No idea. But according to Rachel Morrison, his school file is sealed. Transfer 'for personal reasons.'"
Sealed file. That could mean many things, and most of them aren't reassuring.
As if sensing our gaze, Ezra turns his head toward us. His eyes—a dark grey, almost black—meet mine, and something passes between us. Recognition? A challenge?
He smiles. Not a friendly adolescent smile, but something more mature, more calculated. A smile that says: "I know you're watching me, and I'm wondering why."
"He's looking at you," Zoe whispers with the characteristic excitement of a sixth-former faced with potential romantic drama.
But I feel no excitement. Just a dull, primitive worry, like an animal instinctively recognizing a predator.
Ezra detaches himself from the wall with fluid grace and heads toward us. Or rather, toward me. His gaze doesn't leave mine, and I feel my muscles tense involuntarily.
"Hello," he says when he reaches us. His voice is deep, measured, with a slight accent I can't identify. "I'm Ezra Blackwood."
Blackwood. The surname resonates like a bell in my head. Blackwood Academy. This school bears his family name.
"Livia Chen," I say cautiously. "And this is Zoe Park."
"Livia Chen." He repeats my name as if tasting it. "Daughter of the famous Dr. Marcus Chen, I imagine?"
The question catches me off guard. How does he know who my father is? And why does this information interest him?
"You... You know my father?"
"By reputation only. Remarkable criminal profiler. I've read several of his publications. Very... insightful."
His way of emphasizing that last word gives me goosebumps.
"You're interested in criminology?" Zoe asks with curiosity.
Ezra looks at her for the first time, and I see something change in his expression. As if he'd just noticed she existed.
"You could say that," he replies vaguely. Then, turning back to me: "I imagine you've inherited the family talent."
It's not a question. It's a statement, and it alarms me deeply.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
He smiles again, that troubling smile that seems to hide a thousand secrets.
"No, of course not." He steps back. "Pleased to have met you both. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."
He walks away with the same fluid grace, leaving us standing there, Zoe and I.
"Wow," Zoe says after a moment. "Intense. Did you see how he was looking at you?"
Yes, I saw. And that's exactly what worries me.
The rest of the morning passes in a fog of mathematical equations and literary analyses, but I can't concentrate. The image of Ezra Blackwood remains etched in my head, along with his enigmatic words.
How does he know about my father's abilities? And why does he assume I've inherited anything?
At lunchtime, I meet Zoe at our usual table in the canteen. She's already deep in conversation with our other friends—Rachel Morrison (no relation to Ashley), Derek Kim, and Maya Patel. All "good kids" from Blackwood, studious students from wealthy families conscientiously preparing their entrance to good universities.
Normally, their ordinary concerns soothe me. But today, my gift seems hypersensitive, and I pick up every nuance of stress, every hidden tension, every little social lie that greases the wheels of their daily interactions.
Rachel is worried about her sister Ashley and her violent boyfriend, but doesn't know how to broach the subject. Derek hides his doubts about his sexuality behind a façade of sporting machismo. Maya lies to her parents about her grades to avoid their reproaches, creating a cycle of stress that eats away at her from within.
"Livia? Are you listening?"
Zoe's voice brings me back to the present. Everyone is looking at me with curiosity.
"Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?"
"I was talking about Emma Rodriguez. Did you see her this morning? She looked really disturbed."
My stomach contracts. The image of Emma and her possessive boyfriend comes back to me.
"Disturbed how?"
"Nervous. Distracted. She even missed her history presentation, which isn't like her at all."
Rachel nods. "My sister says Emma and Jake are arguing a lot lately. Apparently, he's becoming more and more... demanding."
The euphemism doesn't fool me. "Demanding" is often code for "controlling" or "violent."
"Perhaps someone should talk to her," I say carefully.
"That's what I thought too," Maya says. "But Emma isn't really in our circle, you know? And anyway, what could we say to her? 'Hey, we've noticed your boyfriend's mistreating you'?"
"Why not?" The vehemence of my own voice surprises me. "If someone were in danger, wouldn't you want someone to help you?"
An uncomfortable silence settles around the table. My friends exchange worried glances.
"Livia," Zoe says softly, "are you all right? You've been... different lately. More intense."
Different. The word I dread most. Because being different at seventeen means being ostracized. And I already struggle enough to maintain the few normal friendships I have left.
"I'm fine. It's just that... forget what I said. You're right, it's none of our business."
But even as I say these words, I know I can't forget. Something in Emma's expression this morning marked me. The fear in her eyes was real, visceral. And my gift tells me that fear was only the beginning of something more serious.
The conversation drifts to lighter subjects—weekend homework, autumn holiday plans, the latest films at the cinema. But I can't shake the tension knotting my stomach.
That's when I spot him again.
Ezra Blackwood, sitting alone at a table near the windows, an open book before him. He's not eating, not socializing. He's observing. And when my gaze meets his, I realize with a shiver that he was watching me.
He raises his right hand in a small mocking salute, and something in that gesture—too calculated, too adult for a sixth-former—chills my blood.
"He really does affect you, doesn't he?" Zoe says, following my gaze.
"No, it's not that. It's just... there's something wrong with him."
"Wrong how?"
I can't explain to her. I can't say that my gift, this ability I've spent years hiding, doesn't work on him. That it's as if an essential part of his humanity is locked away, inaccessible.
"Forget it," I say. "I'm probably just paranoid."
But as we finish lunch, I feel Ezra's gaze on me. Constant, assessing, patient.
Like a predator who's chosen its prey.
The afternoon drags on slowly. Biology where I dissect a frog whilst thinking about the fragility of life. Contemporary history where we study the mass manipulation techniques used by totalitarian regimes. Chemistry where we learn that the most dangerous substances are often those that seem most harmless.
Everything seems to resonate with my dark mood of the day.
At half past three, I collect my things from my locker, eager to get home. Dad won't be there—he's away on a case in Connecticut—but our empty house suddenly seems more appealing than the oppressive corridors of Blackwood Academy.
"Livia."
I freeze. That deep voice, I recognize it now.
I turn slowly. Ezra Blackwood stands a few metres away, leaning against a row of lockers with that calculated nonchalance that seems to be his trademark.
"Have you got a minute?"
We're almost alone in the corridor. Most students have already left or are participating in extracurricular activities. The fluorescent lighting gives the scene a theatrical quality, almost unreal.
"What do you want?"
He pushes off and approaches slowly, as if not wanting to frighten me. But paradoxically, this very precaution makes me more nervous.
"To talk to you. To get to know you." He pauses, sizing me up. "To understand you."
"Understand me how?"
"You know very well what I'm talking about, Livia."
His way of pronouncing my name, with that misplaced familiarity, bristles me.
"No, I don't. And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop speaking in riddles."
He laughs softly, and the sound chills me more than explicit threats.
"Very well. Let's be direct." He moves closer still, and I smell a subtle scent of expensive cologne mixed with something more troubling—a metallic smell I can't identify. "You have a gift, don't you? Inherited from your father. The ability to see beyond appearances, to decipher people."
My heart races. How can he know? I've never spoken of it to anyone, not even Zoe. Dad and I keep this secret as if our lives depended on it.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do." His grey eyes fix on me intensely. "That's why you always look so tired. Constantly seeing people's secrets, their lies, their fears—it must be exhausting."
His words touch so close to the truth that I'm breathless.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
"Someone who understands. Someone who knows what it's like to carry too heavy a secret." He reaches his hand toward me, and I instinctively step back. "Someone who could help you."
"Help me how?"
"To control your gift. To use it instead of suffering it."
The offer is tempting, terribly tempting. For years, I've dreamed of meeting someone who could understand me, help me manage this curse that isolates me from the rest of the world.
But all my instincts are screaming at me to flee.
"I have to go," I say, grabbing my bag.
"Livia." His voice becomes softer, almost hypnotic. "You can't go on like this. Running from what you are. Sooner or later, you'll have to accept your nature."
I turn toward him, and for the first time today, I really try to read him. I ignore the wall I usually encounter and push harder, deeper.
For a fraction of a second, the mask cracks.
What I see terrifies me.
Absolute coldness. A total absence of empathy. And something else—a hunger. Not physical, but psychological. The need to possess, to control, to destroy.
I step back so abruptly I nearly stumble.
"Stay away from me," I say in a voice I don't recognize.
His smile widens, and this time, he no longer hides what he really is.
"Oh, Livia. You're beginning to understand, aren't you?" He leans forward slightly, as if sharing a secret. "That's exactly why we're made for each other."
I run.
I run down the corridor, my footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silence. Behind me, I hear his laughter, deep and amused, following me until I exit the building.
It's only in my car, doors locked, that I allow myself to tremble.
Ezra Blackwood isn't an ordinary sixth-former. He might not even be a sixth-former at all. He might be an adult.
And he knows far too much about me.
The drive home passes in a fog of anxiety. Every red light seems interminable, every car in my rearview mirror potentially suspicious. I keep checking whether Ezra is following me, but the familiar streets of our residential neighbourhood seem empty of threats.
Our house—a restored Victorian that Dad chose for its old-world charm and its numerous discreet security systems—appears as a haven of peace. I park in the attached garage, carefully close the automatic door behind me, and don't relax until I'm inside, alarm system activated.
The house is silent, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Dad won't be back until tomorrow evening, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Rodriguez, is only here in the mornings. I'm alone with my thoughts and my fears.
I go up to my room, throw my bag on the bed, and collapse in the armchair by the window. From here, I have a view of our perfectly maintained garden and the similar houses that line our quiet street. Nothing abnormal. Nothing threatening.
But the image of Ezra Blackwood refuses to leave my mind.