Alam walked down the narrow hallway of the servants' building, dragging a rollaway suitcase behind him. The wheels clattered unevenly over the cracked tiles, each bump echoing off the low ceiling. The air felt stale, heavy with the scent of old mop water and dust that had settled into the walls over decades.
"Can't believe all the dean wanted was to remind me to move to the attic. She couldn't have just put that in the note?" Alam muttered, his voice bouncing faintly down the empty corridor.
He reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of a shabby wooden door. The paint was peeling in long, curled strips, revealing splintered wood beneath. A faint draft seeped from the cracks, brushing cool against his ankles.
"So this is it, huh?"
He pushed the door, and it creaked open with a long, complaining groan.
A wave of stench hit him instantly—sour, sulfurous, thick enough to taste.
"Eww. It smells like rotten eggs," Alam gagged, jerking his head back. The air felt oily in his throat. His vision wavered, the hallway bending and rippling like heat rising off asphalt. His knees wobbled.
"They say once you get used to a smell, you forget it's there, right?"
He forced himself to take a breath. The moment the air hit his lungs, he choked, doubling over as a violent cough tore out of him. His eyes watered. He gagged again, slapping a hand over his mouth as the sour stink clung to the back of his tongue.
A tremor ran through his fingers as he pressed his palms together, the stale, sulfur‑tainted air clinging to his skin like a film. His heartbeat thudded unevenly in his ears, loud enough to drown out the distant hum of the building. The rotten‑egg stench curled into his lungs, making his chest tighten.
"Please, Hanuman… give me strength," Alam prayed.
The words left his mouth in a shaky whisper, warm against the cold, stagnant air. For a moment, he felt the faintest heat bloom in his chest—like a spark trying to push back the suffocating smell, the dizziness, the dread pooling in his stomach.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, the dull throb behind his eyes pulsing with every heartbeat. The staircase loomed before him—narrow, steep, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb overhead. He placed one foot on the first step, then the next, beginning his slow, grinding ascent. His club foot dragged with every step, scraping against the wood in a rough, uneven rhythm that echoed up the stairwell. Each lift of his leg felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself thickened around him. The smell from the attic clung to the back of his throat, making the climb feel even longer, each step a small battle against dizziness and the sour sting in his lungs.
He finally reached the top of the steps, breath shallow and uneven, and found the room buried under a thick coat of dust. The air felt stale, untouched, as if no one had breathed it in years. Particles drifted lazily through the slanted light, swirling each time he moved.
"What the?" Alam whispered, eyes sweeping across the space.
Creepy, worn oil paintings leaned against the walls at odd angles, their cracked varnish catching the dim light. Faded faces stared back at him—some solemn, some distorted by age, all unsettling in their own way. In the far corner, a statue of Amun Sunborn stood half‑shrouded in shadow, its stone eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made the hairs on his arms rise.
A paper‑thin mattress lay at the opposite end of the room, sagging in the middle like it had given up long ago. Above it loomed a large window with a jagged crack slicing across the glass, letting in a faint draft that carried the scent of old wood and cold air.
Then he noticed the walls.
Words were scrawled everywhere—layered, overlapping, carved and written in frantic strokes:
War, Bloodlines, Darkness, Is, Soarborn, Love, Coming, Chinyama, Hate, Legends, Sunborn, Sunday, Needed, Monday, Alive, To, Dead, Fitz, Fight, Cindy, The, Dret.
The letters seemed to pulse in the dim light, as if the room itself remembered whoever wrote them.
"Did they have an insane person living here?" he muttered, voice low, the sound swallowed by the dusty air.
"At least there's a view," he said, forcing a weak laugh as he stared at the cracked window. A thin veil of fog pressed against the glass, blurring the world beyond into soft, shifting shapes. The sky stretched pale and distant, its colors washed out and bleeding into the mist that curled over the academy grounds. Buildings, trees, and pathways appeared only in fragments—half‑formed silhouettes swallowed and released by the drifting haze, as if the whole campus were breathing in slow, ghostly pulses.
He sighed, then dragged himself toward the pitiful mattress, each step stirring up little clouds of dust. When he finally lay down, the springs groaned beneath him, and the cold from the floor seeped straight through the thin fabric into his back. The room felt too quiet—like it was holding its breath, waiting.
"I should try to get some sleep," he murmured. He shifted on the brittle mattress, as dust puffed up around his shoulders.
Night crept in slowly. The fog outside thickened. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and something metallic he couldn't place.
At some point, exhaustion finally dragged him under.
After several hours, a sudden, violent gust slammed into the window with a sound like a gunshot.
Alam jerked awake, heart hammering, the mattress shuddering beneath him. Wind barreled through the crack with a shrill, whistling hiss, forcing its way inside. The pressure snapped a loose shard of glass free, punching a jagged hole through the pane. Tiny fragments skittered across the floor like scattered ice.
A rush of freezing air flooded the room, sweeping over his face and lifting the fine hairs on his arms. Fog spilled inward through the new opening, curling in slow, ghostly tendrils as the room exhaled its long‑held breath.
Alam clutched his chest, breath ragged, each inhale scraping against his throat like cold sand. His pulse thudded unevenly beneath his fingers, loud enough to drown out the wind still hissing through the broken window.
"Could this night get any worse?" he muttered.
"Alam…" a voice whispered.
The sound slid through the fog‑chilled air—soft, close.
"What?! Who's there?" Alam snapped, whipping his head around so fast his vision blurred. His eyes darted from corner to corner, searching the shadows, the cracked window, the dust‑coated floor.
Then the room shifted.
The statue's stone eyes glowed faintly, a sickly gold blooming from deep within the carved pupils. The old oil paintings sagged, their colors liquefying, dripping down their canvases like melting wax. And the scrawled words on the walls—War, Bloodlines, Darkness…—began to ripple, each letter peeling away from the wood and writhing as if stirred by an unseen hand.
The air thickened, humming with something he couldn't name.
"Alam…" the voice called again, threading through the cold air like a fingertip brushing the back of his neck.
"Ugh, I have a headache," Alam muttered, swaying slightly as he pressed his palm to his temple. A dull, throbbing pulse radiated behind his eyes, each beat sending a faint shimmer of pain down his jaw.
"I think I need some air," he said, though the room felt thick and unmoving, as if the fog outside had seeped into the walls.
"Alam…" the voice called again—closer this time, softer, almost coaxing.
He pushed himself upright, legs unsteady, and shuffled toward the window. The cold draft leaking through the broken pane brushed against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Outside, the fog shifted just enough to reveal a narrow break in the haze.
He leaned forward.
Down in the Academy courtyard, by the fountain's dark silhouette, stood a figure draped in black wearing a gold serval mask. Perfectly still. Perfectly centered. Staring straight up at him.
His breath caught. His eyes widened.
"It's her. I have to thank her for saving me," Alam whispered, a flicker of hope cutting through the ache in his skull.
He hurried to get dressed, fingers fumbling with buttons as he stumbled toward the stairs. His club foot dragged against each step, thudding in an uneven rhythm as he rushed down the floors of the building and out into the courtyard. The cold night air slapped against his face, sharp and frigid.
But when he reached the fountain, the courtyard was empty—silent except for the faint drip of water and the distant hum of wind.
"Please tell me I didn't miss her," Alam said, eyes darting, head shifting from shadow to shadow. His breath fogged in front of him, dissolving into the night.
"Alam…" the voice whispered again, brushing past his ear like a breath.
He spun around. Nothing.
Then—
A low growl rolled through the fog, deep enough to vibrate in his ribs. Thunderous footsteps followed, each one shaking the ground beneath his feet.
Red eyes ignited in the mist, glowing like coals in a furnace, piercing straight through the swirling haze.
"No, not again," Alam whispered, taking a shaky step back.
Boom‑boom. Boom‑boom.
One monstrous step after another, a Hyndie emerged from the fog—massive, hulking, its gaze locked onto him with predatory certainty.
"H-help…" Alam whispered, the sound barely escaping his throat. His voice trembled like a choking engine refusing to start.
The creature continued its advance, each step thudding against the stone courtyard with a deep, resonant weight. The fog curled around its legs, swallowing and revealing its silhouette in slow pulses.
"P-please, I don't want to die," Alam pleaded, his knees shaking so hard he could feel the vibrations in his teeth.
"Help!" Alam screamed, the cry ripping out of him raw and desperate.
"Someone help me!"
Lights flickered on one after another in the surrounding buildings, windows glowing like startled eyes opening in the dark.
"Who's that?" a voice called from above.
"Is someone screaming?" another asked from a different building.
"I think someone's in trouble," a third voice said, muffled by distance and fog.
The Hyndie came to a stop right in front of Alam, its massive form blotting out the faint courtyard lights. Its putrid breath washed over him in a hot, sour wave, making his stomach twist.
"Ugh, that's worse than the smell from the attic," Alam gagged, covering his nose.
The creature snarled at the insult, lips peeling back to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Its massive jaws opened wide, strings of saliva stretching between them.
"Wait, I'm sorry, I take it back!" Alam yelped, bracing himself for the attack.
Then—warmth.
A gentle hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him like an anchor dropped into stormy water.
"Are you alright, Alam?" Cindy asked.
"Huh?" Alam spun around so fast the world blurred.
"You were screaming," Cindy said, her brows knit with concern.
"Cause of that monster behind me," Alam said, one eye squeezed shut, the other cautiously peeking over his shoulder.
"What monster?" Cindy asked, confusion softening her voice.
Alam looked back.
Nothing.
Only fog drifting lazily across the empty courtyard.
"I swear, there was a monster behind me," Alam insisted, breath still shaky.
Cindy stepped closer, leaning in until her face was inches from his. Her eyes searched his with sharp, clinical focus. Alam's cheeks flushed; he turned away, but she gently grabbed his chin and guided his face back toward her.
"Your pupils are dilated, and the whites of your eyes are yellow," Cindy said, her tone shifting to something more serious.
"What?"
"Come on, I'm taking you to the Nurse's Office," Cindy said, her hand firm on his arm.
"Why?" Alam asked, bewildered.
"I need to run a quick test." She raised her voice. "It's alright, everyone! You can all go back to bed!"
"Oh, Cindy's taking care of it," someone called.
"Taken care of by Cinderella herself. Lucky dog," another voice teased.
One by one, the lights in the surrounding buildings blinked out, returning the courtyard to darkness.
Cindy and Alam arrived at the nurse's office, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
"Sit down and open your mouth," Cindy said, motioning to a chair in the corner.
"Why are we here?" Alam asked, still dazed.
"Open," Cindy repeated.
"Ahh," Alam said, opening his mouth.
Cindy swiped the inside of his cheek with a cotton swab, then slid it into a small machine that hummed to life.
"Yeah, just like I thought," Cindy said, watching the readout. "You've been poisoned."
"P-Poisoned?" Alam stammered. "Who would want to poison me?"
"Eat anything strange lately?" Cindy asked.
"No."
"Any weird smells around?"
"No— Wait. The attic?"
"The attic?" Cindy echoed, confused.
"Yeah… the dean had me move to the attic 'cause my stepmom wouldn't pay the tuition," Alam said, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"Yup, that'll do it," Cindy said casually.
"Huh?"
"That attic hasn't been cleaned since before I started here two years ago. Who knows how long it's actually been. Whatever poisoned you probably came from there."
"There was a weird smell coming from it."
"Yup, it was probably that."
"So what now?"
"Just drink plenty of water to flush your system, and don't go back there until I get someone to clean it."
"Where will I sleep?"
"Sleep here," Cindy said, glancing around the nurse's office.
"What if Nurse Bright catches me?"
"Leave before that happens," Cindy said with a grim look. "Unless you want to wake up to her gorgeous face in the morning," she teased.
An image of Nurse Bright flashed in Alam's mind. He shuddered.
"Cindy, what happened to you the other night in the woods?" Alam asked.
"Oh, you mean—"
Alam cut her off. "When you ditched me in the woods," he said, annoyed.
"Alam," she said gently, touching his arm. "I saw that person in the mask knock you out, and I ran to get help," she said with quiet sincerity. "Help came, didn't it?"
"Yeah, you're right. Sorry, I just wasn't sure what happened," Alam said awkwardly.
Cindy's phone buzzed. She pulled it out, eyes scanning the message.
"Gotta go, handsome," she said, already halfway out the door.
Alam blinked after her.
"Who's always texting her? And why are they texting her this late?" he muttered.