I am not one of you anymore, Yanna thought, looking at the students around her. I am property.
And god help her, she missed the cage already.
She followed Ria up the concrete steps of Palma Hall. The familiar rhythm of the university—the slap of sandals on stone, the rustle of photocopy paper, the oppressive, humid weight of the un-airconditioned corridor—felt alien. It was a sensory assault, but not the clean, sharp assault of the penthouse. This was messy. It smelled of floor wax, dried sweat, and cheap fried food from the canteen. It smelled of poverty and potential, the two scents she used to live by.
Now, she only breathed musk and antiseptic.
"Room 204," Ria said, checking her phone. "Professor Dimalanta. Social Stratification."
Social Stratification. Yanna almost laughed. It was a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. She swallowed it down, tasting the lingering copper from her split lip.
