Classroom 12B always smelled faintly of dust and cheap perfume, like a room trying too hard to hide how forgotten it really was. The windows rattled in their frames every time the wind hit them, and the fluorescent lights hummed like they were tired of being awake. Half the girls were here for the class. The other half were here for Dexter Reid.
Susan sat in the second row. Not too close to look desperate. Not too far to look uninterested. The perfect distance for observation — a quiet hunter disguised as a student.
The door clicked open at exactly 9:00 AM.
He walked in as if the clock obeyed him instead of the other way around. Never early. Never late. His shirt was a crisp white today, sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the veins on his forearms. A soft ripple of movement went through the room — girls straightening their backs, fixing their hair, adjusting their lip gloss. Even some of the boys subconsciously sat up straighter, as if wanting his approval without understanding why.
His footsteps were soft, but his presence hit like a wave.
Good morning, he said. The words should have been ordinary, but they weren't. His voice wasn't deep, but it carried authority. Calm. Balanced. Controlled. Too controlled. A person who took over a room that easily should have at least one visible crack — irritation, boredom, amusement — anything. But Dexter's face was blank. Not the emptiness of someone who felt nothing, but the restraint of someone who felt everything yet refused to show it.
Emily leaned toward Susan, whispering even quieter than gossip usually demands. He's either a saint or a psycho.
Susan pretended she didn't hear. But Dexter's head turned the slightest bit in their direction, as if he could detect whispers through walls. As if even unspoken thoughts reached him.
Turn to page 39.
Chairs moved instantly. Pens clicked. The air changed from curiosity to silent obedience.
Susan tried to focus on the paragraphs in front of her, but her mind kept drifting back to him. The way he stood — relaxed but fully aware. The way he watched the class without ever really looking at anyone. The way he didn't fidget or adjust his clothes or shift his posture. People always fidget. Nervous people. Confident people. Everyone. Except him.
Her hand shot up before her brain caught up.
She had no question. No confusion. No academic intention. It was a reflex — or instinct — or a reckless urge to poke the mystery.
Yes, Susan? he said immediately.
He didn't scan the room looking for her raised hand. It was like he already knew she was watching him, waiting for him, thinking of him.
I… I didn't get the part about— Her voice faltered. She didn't even have a fake question prepared.
Dexter walked toward her desk slowly.
Not intimidating. Not friendly. Just controlled. Like everything he did was practiced yet effortless.
Which part? he asked.
His voice was too close. His sentences too warm for someone who seemed incapable of smiling. Susan's heartbeat slammed in her ribs, but her face stayed perfectly neutral.
The example on page 40, she lied.
Dexter didn't look at the book.
He recited the entire paragraph from memory — each sentence, each pause, even the punctuation. The room fell silent. Pens stopped moving. Even the hum of the lights seemed quieter.
People remember ideas, concepts, vague outlines. Dexter remembered everything.
Did that answer your question?
Yes, she whispered, her breath unsteady.
He nodded once and walked away, but as he passed her desk, he leaned just slightly closer — enough that only she heard what he said.
Next time you test me, prepare something real.
No anger. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just a polite warning with a blade inside it.
And that was more frightening than any raised voice could have been.
The rest of class unfolded in a suffocating stillness. Not a single student dared stretch, whisper, or drop a pen. Everyone took notes like their lives depended on it.
When the bell finally rang, chairs screeched loudly as people rushed to escape. Susan remained seated, unable to trust her legs to move. Her body buzzed with adrenaline, confusion, and something dangerously close to fascination.
Dexter erased the board quietly. He didn't look back when he spoke.
You're observant.
She didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or a warning.
You notice details others overlook. That's rare.
Still no emotion. Still that cutting calmness.
But don't let curiosity put you in danger you can't understand.
Her throat tightened. Danger? From who?
For the first time, he looked at her directly. A faint smile tugged on the corner of his lips — not a warm one. It was a smile that belonged to someone who knew things he shouldn't. Someone who had seen things others would never survive.
From anyone who enjoys being watched.
Before she could ask what that meant — or whether it was a threat or a confession — he picked up his bag and walked out. Leaving the air heavy and her heartbeat unsteady.
Susan finally reached for her backpack. That was when she froze.
Under it lay a folded slip of paper. Not torn, not crumpled — placed with precision. Her name was written on the outside in small, neat handwriting.
She opened it.
If you want answers, meet me at 7 PM behind the old library. Come alone.
No signature. No instructions. No explanation. Just a command disguised as an invitation.
Her first instinct was fear — sharp and rational.
Her second instinct was excitement — sudden and reckless.
Her third instinct, the one that scared her most, was desire.
Desire for answers.
Desire for danger.
Desire for him.
She tried to think logically. It could be a prank. It could be a trap. It could be a test. It could be nothing. But deep down she knew the note wasn't a mistake, and it definitely wasn't random.
Because someone like Dexter didn't do anything without purpose.
She walked toward the exit in a daze. The hallway was full of students laughing, arguing, planning their weekends — living their harmless teenage lives. Susan felt separated from them, like she was walking through a world that no longer belonged to her. Like she had stepped through a door she couldn't close again.
She had only known Dexter Reid for a few days . Just a few days of silent observation, accidental interactions, and questions she never said aloud. And yet she already sensed something — something terrifying and magnetic. Something she should stay far away from.
But she also knew she wouldn't.
All afternoon, every routine movement — washing her hands, grabbing lunch, pretending to pay attention in other classes — felt irrelevant. Temporary. Like the world was just passing time until 7 PM.
By the time evening arrived, she had already made her decision. She stood in front of the mirror longer than she ever had, not to look good, but to look calm. To look capable. To look like someone who could handle whatever waited behind the old library.
Because she wasn't going there as a scared girl.
She was going there as someone who wanted answers.
Someone who wasn't afraid to be curious — even if curiosity could kill.
At 6:53 PM, she stepped outside. The sky was bruised with purple and fading gold. The air felt colder than usual, as if the night was holding its breath.
Every step toward the abandoned corner of campus felt like walking deeper into a story she wasn't supposed to be part of.
And yet, she kept going.
She knew something was wrong.
She knew something was dangerous.
And she knew she was going to follow it anyway.
Because some instincts don't listen to reason.
They listen to obsession.
And she was already too far in to walk away.