The lecture hall was crowded, but Ara felt unbearably alone.
She sat near the back, notebook open, pen unmoving. Words flowed from the professor's mouth, but none of them reached her.
She kept replaying the empty space in her mind.
Names vanished.
Details blurred.
Each death took something.
"You died differently last night."
Ara froze.
The voice came from the seat beside her.
She turned slowly.
The boy was staring straight ahead, elbows resting casually on the desk. Dark hair, sharp eyes, expression unreadable.
Her heart skipped.
"What did you say?" she asked.
He finally looked at her.
"Ceiling shadow," he said calmly. "Crushed your lungs. Took longer than usual."
Ara's pen slipped from her fingers.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The boy's eyes softened—just slightly.
"Kael," he replied. "And I've watched you die forty‑three times.