Syril wanted to fade away; nothing would please him more than to disappear into a lifeless void of inky blackness, never to be seen again. But simply vanishing into thin air was outside his current skill set; instead, he was trapped on the cold tiled floor of the Academy’s hallway, just meters from the classroom, under the strictest instructions not to move.

His once pristine white shirt was stained in a mix of blood and sweat; the source of the blood a mystery to Syril; he wasn’t injured and had never touched Seabright’s body. He gently placed his hand into his pocket, examining the gold watch he had stored there moments before being dragged into the hallway; it was warm to the touch, almost hot. He had an overwhelming urge to pull it out, examine it, figure out what the hell it was and why Seabright was so desperate to keep it away from his brother.

Still, a nagging voice in the back of his mind was telling him to keep it hidden.

Everything felt wrong, as if he were stuck at the bottom of a dark ocean, the people around him just shapeless figures that moved with no purpose or reason. The sounds of the world around him, chatter, and grief blended into a smothering yet dreary hum, tears filled his eyes, and he again buried his head into its perch within his knees.

His body was drained, and exhaustion tingled every cell of his body. He gripped the watch so tight it began to hurt, a part of him hoped it would take away his grief, but it just served as a bleak reminder of the night’s events.

Blinking away the pain, he looked around the hallway; the guard that had escorted him out of the classroom stood still at the door; the detectives who’d instructed him to remain seated had vanished. Faculty and students were gathered at the end of the hall, held back from the classroom by an unseen wall the guard had erected an hour prior.

Syril made a point to avoid eye contact with the crowd; he couldn’t stomach their hushed whispers and condemning looks; He knew they suspected he’d killed the professor; Syril had heard the quiet chatter after leaving the classroom. Little did anyone know how close they would be to the truth.

Not for the first time that evening, Syril tried to replay the meeting with his brother; Every detail, every expression, every word, he knew there must have been a clue – some amalgamation of words that would provide a transparent and explainable reason as to why.

Why Seabright now lay cold on the floor of the Worlds History classroom.

Why Davion killed him.

And why this godsdamn watch was now in his pocket.

But it was no use; his brain had been hijacked, and any memory was instead replaced by the last waves of panic that Seabright experienced.

Or maybe it was his own panic? He wasn’t sure; every time he tried to reason the night’s events, to apply an inkling of logic to anything that had happened, he found the answer slipping further and further away; like a piece of paper on the wind, it always seemed to be out of reach.

Syril’s fingers brushed his stomach; the dagger’s sting and death’s chill plagued the back of his mind. He felt the shadow of the blade pierce through his flesh again, his breath quickened, and his body shook; the room was spinning faster and faster; he opened his mouth, his body was drowning on dry land, and he was desperate to gulp in the air around him, but nothing was satiating his lungs.

He was breathing faster now, the blood rushing to his head pounded like a drum of war, his vision now grey and uneasy, and above it all, the watch ticked its melody.

Tik

Tok

Tik…

A gentle hand gripped his shoulder, and just as suddenly as it had started, his panic ceased; the watch went quiet, and an overwhelming calmness enveloped him.

Syril turned to find the spectacled brown eyes of his uncle, dressed in a neatly ironed brown tweed suit with a pink undershirt; he met Syril’s gaze with a thin smile before gently placing his briefcase against the wall and sliding down to sit beside him.

He silently placed his arm around Syril’s shoulder and pulled him in for an uncharacteristic hug.

“Are you ok?” his uncle muttered, still not releasing him from the awkward embrace.

He wasn’t. His world had just crumbled before him; his brother had killed someone, and Syril had received the ultimate first-hand perspective.

“I’m fine, just a little shaken, you know?” Syril lied, his mouth dry and throat hoarse, “I just want to get home.”

His uncle stared at him, his eyes curious, a deep frown etched into his aged face, “When was the last time you had water? Why didn’t you call me?”

Syril shook his head; truth be told, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed from the murder until now, but he was confident that his flask had emptied long before sunset, “I don’t know, and they told me they’d give you a call, my phone was confiscated.”

His uncle raised his eyebrows, “Why did they take your phone?”

Syril blinked, confused, “I think…um.”

He stammered over his words; he couldn’t think of any way of saying, “I’m a suspect in the professor’s murder…” without causing his uncle to burst a blood vessel.

“They think I did it.”

His uncle blinked, “they…” his face contorted from confusion to anger and then back to confusion; he took a breath and closed his eyes.

“They think you killed Seabright?” His voice was deliberately calm and measured, yet there were unmistakable nervous undertones.

Syril nodded; angry tears stung his eyes again; he should have expected this reaction; it makes sense; his uncle was a man of pride and impartiality, no small part because of his position within the government. Of course, he’d find this situation suspicious; who wouldn’t; Syril was the obvious suspect.

“Well, did you?”