The message didn't come with a name.
It didn't need one.
We need to talk. Privately. About Rayan.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, waiting for instinct to catch up with reason. Unknown numbers were rarely coincidences. In situations like this, they were invitations—or threats.
I replied with one word.
Where?
The response came almost immediately.
The old library. Thirty minutes.
Neutral ground.
That made it worse.
The library was mostly empty at this hour, sunlight slanting through high windows, dust floating like suspended breath. I chose a table near the back, where the shadows gathered naturally.
She arrived without hesitation.
I recognized her instantly—though we had never spoken.
Anika.
Rayan's former project partner. Brilliant. Observant. And quietly sidelined when he rose faster than anyone expected.
She sat across from me, posture elegant, expression unreadable.
"You're calmer in person," she said.
"So are you," I replied.
Her lips curved slightly. "You know why I asked you here."
"Because you have something you want," I said.
"And you're the only one who can give it to me."
Straight to the point.
Good.
"They're preparing a formal inquiry," she said, folding her hands neatly. "Rayan is the center of it. But you're the axis."
I said nothing.
"You don't talk," she continued. "That's impressive. Dangerous. Silence makes people invent things."
"Is that what you're doing?" I asked.
She didn't flinch. "I'm interpreting patterns."
She slid her phone across the table.
A screenshot.
A timestamp.
A cropped message thread—carefully framed.
Not incriminating.
Suggestive.
"Nothing here is fake," she said. "But nothing here is complete either."
My pulse remained steady.
"You're threatening me," I said.
"I'm offering balance," she corrected. "If Rayan falls alone, the institution cleans itself quietly. If you're attached publicly, it becomes complicated."
"You want me visible," I said.
"I want clarity," she replied. "And control."
There it was.
"What do you want in return?" I asked.
She leaned back slightly. "A statement. Not a confession. Just acknowledgment. Something that ties you together in the narrative."
"That would ruin him," I said.
Her gaze sharpened. "No. It would ruin you."
The honesty was surgical.
"He's already unstable," she continued. "But you? You're the variable no one understands. You're composed, silent, unreadable. That makes you suspicious."
She leaned forward again.
"If you speak, the pressure shifts. Away from him. Onto you."
The room felt smaller.
"And you benefit how?" I asked.
She smiled. "When narratives reset, opportunities open."
I stood.
"I won't do it," I said.
Anika didn't stop me.
She didn't need to.
"You have until tonight," she said calmly. "After that, the screenshots circulate. Interpretations won't be kind."
I walked out without replying.
But the echo followed me.
Rayan called again.
I didn't answer.
I needed space to think.
That should have been my first warning.
By evening, messages had multiplied.
Are you okay?They're saying things.Please talk to me.
When I finally went to him, it was already dark.
He was sitting on the steps behind the building, head in his hands, like he'd been waiting for hours.
"You didn't come," he said when he saw me.
"I had to decide something," I replied.
He looked up sharply. "Decide what?"
I sat beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating off his body.
"Someone contacted me," I said.
His breath caught. "Who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said immediately. "Everything matters now."
I studied his face.
This was the moment.
Truth would bind us.
Silence would break him.
"They want me to speak," I said quietly.
His shoulders sagged. "I told you they would."
"They want me to take the pressure," I continued. "Publicly."
His head snapped toward me. "No."
"If I don't," I said, "they release fragments. Edited. Enough to twist everything."
He stared at me like I'd said something unthinkable.
"You can't," he said. "I won't let you."
"You don't get to decide that," I replied.
"I won't survive it if you do," he said hoarsely.
The words cut deep.
Not because they were dramatic.
Because they were true.
"Look at me," I said.
He did.
Really looked.
"I won't disappear," I said. "But I won't sacrifice myself blindly either."
"What are you saying?" he asked.
"I'm saying if I speak," I said slowly, "it will be on my terms."
He shook his head. "They won't allow that."
"They don't have to," I said.
Something in my voice made him go still.
"What are you planning?" he asked.
I met his gaze.
"Control," I said.
The word changed the air between us.
"You don't owe me this," he whispered.
"I know," I replied.
That was the problem.
I was choosing it anyway.
That night, I drafted the statement.
Not a confession.
Not denial.
A precision weapon.
Every word placed to imply connection without guilt. Proximity without blame. Mutual respect without wrongdoing.
I read it three times.
Then a fourth.
My phone buzzed.
Anika.
Have you decided?
I didn't reply.
Instead, I sent the statement to the dean's office.
Official.
Timestamped.
Unavoidable.
A declaration that forced interpretation—but on my terms.
Minutes later, my phone rang.
Rayan.
"What did you do?" he asked, voice shaking.
"I stepped forward," I said.
"For me?" he whispered.
I closed my eyes.
"For control," I replied.
Silence.
Then, very softly—
"You saved me."
The words tightened something inside my chest.
Because saving someone always cost something.
And I hadn't paid the price yet.
The next morning, the campus exploded.
My name was everywhere.
Not as victim.
Not as villain.
But as center.
And the worst part?
Rayan didn't look relieved.
He looked afraid.
Because now—
The story wasn't swallowing him anymore.
It was watching me.
And I had just taught it how.