The words had barely left my lips before the ball of string jerked violently, nearly yanking itself free. I scrambled, catching the loose end just in time, and clutched it tight against my palm. The string unspooled rapidly, rolling down the hallway like it knew exactly where to go.

Gathering my things, I followed. Instead of dragging on the ground, the excess string vanished behind me, shortening as though the school itself was eating it. The hallways stretched on endlessly—turn after turn, corridor after corridor. It was like following a thread deeper into some living maze.

And maybe it was.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of magic from the glowing string. The halls were deserted. Either classes were still in session, or they had ended a while ago, and everyone had scattered. Without a clock, I couldn’t tell which was worse.

Athina’s voice cut into the quiet. “So, what exactly are you planning to say when you see the boy?”

I blinked. “I’m going to apologize to him. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, but how?” Her tone dripped with exasperation.

“Uh…sincerely?”

Athina let out a long, dramatic sigh, the kind only centuries of disappointment could perfect. “Kids these days. No idea how to do anything properly.”

Her muttering was sharp enough to sting, and I snapped back before I could stop myself. “Fine, then. How should I do it?”

She gave me a smug little scoff. “Well, I was going to tell you. But since you’re being so rude, I don’t think you deserve my advice.”

I bit down on the retort burning on my tongue about outdated apology methods and stuck to focusing on the glowing thread tugging me forward. The last thing I needed was to antagonize Athina more than I already had. She might have been irritating, but she was also the only one talking to me right now.

And soon enough, she wouldn’t be.

Because the golden string was pulling me straight toward Liam.

As I was on the verge of slipping into full boredom from wandering this hollow, echoing school, I finally caught up to the little ball of string. It had rolled to a stop in front of a door marked with the number 66. But what really caught my attention was the crude addition—someone had scrawled an extra six right next to the others, turning it into 666. And just beneath that, scratched into the wood as if meant to stain his existence, were the words:

The white-eyed devil’s room.

A chill rippled down my spine, and the weight of the insult lingered heavy in the air. My voice came out low, half-muttered, half-bitter.

“Well… now we know why he reacted the way he did to your words. His eyes must be ridiculed often.”

The moment it slipped out, guilt slammed into me—sharp, raw, unavoidable. I should’ve felt it earlier, maybe even kept my mouth shut, but now it burned deep in my chest. I dropped my bag on the dusty floor with a thud and crouched down, digging through it with frantic hands. Beneath the neatly stacked new things were the older pieces of my life—my worn notebook, a few tangled necklaces and bracelets, pens, scraps of loose paper, and my handful of secondhand clothes.

Fingers brushing fabric, I pulled out an old cloth and shook it out, determined. Without hesitation, I pressed it against the offensive writing and scrubbed hard. Luckily, my half-filled water bottle sat tucked in the side pocket of my bag. I twisted it open, pouring enough to dampen the rag, and set to work with even more resolve.

I didn’t care how strange I must’ve looked, kneeling in the middle of that deserted hallway with my hair slipping loose into my face, scrubbing away like I could erase the world’s cruelty with nothing but stubbornness and an old rag. The water from my bottle darkened the cloth as I worked, smearing faint streaks of black across my hands and knuckles. My knees ached against the hard floor, but I pressed harder, determined to scrub every trace of that insult away.

I knew I hadn’t said those exact words to him, hadn’t called him that, but I may as well have. My careless jab at his eyes had been close enough, slicing into a wound that was already raw and deep. I didn’t even know him well, but the guilt sat heavily in my chest. I knew how it felt to have your worst insecurities turned against you, how every careless comment from strangers or foster parents could cut like a blade. My file had always told them everything they needed to know about me, and they never failed to use it.

It took me more than five minutes just to scrub one six off, my arms burning as I rubbed in circles. The paint flaked and smeared stubbornly, but I kept going. I was about to start on the last bit when the doorknob turned. The door swung open, and I froze, rag still clutched in my wet hands.

There, leaning lazily against the doorframe, stood Liam—shirtless. For a second, my breath caught. He wasn’t just tall, he was really tall, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His chest was toned, the lean muscle standing out even against his pale skin, as though it had been sculpted more from instinct and survival than any gym.

We stared at each other, neither of us saying a word. And this time, I couldn’t stop myself from letting my eyes wander over him.

“May I ask why you’re kneeling in front of my dorm room, or are you planning to insult me again while you’re down there?”

His voice was sharp, laced with sarcasm, and I felt my stomach dip.

“I just didn’t want those things written on the door to my dorm room,” I answered quickly, refusing to admit it was guilt that had driven me to scrub like a madwoman.

For a second he was silent, his pale eyes unreadable, then he said flatly, “So you’re my new roommate. Oh, goody.”

Without another word, he turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open like a dare.

I hovered for a moment, torn between the urge to finish wiping the rest off and the knowledge that being caught mid-scrub once was humiliating enough. No way was I giving him more fuel. So I swallowed my pride, stood, and followed him in. The door shut quietly behind me.

“Aren’t you going to apologize to the boy?” Athina’s voice coiled around me before I could take in more than a few steps of the room.

“I will, just give me a second,” I whispered under my breath, praying Liam didn’t hear. People tended to edge away fast when they caught me talking to “myself.” And telling them I was chatting with a ghost? Yeah, that never went over well.

I scanned the dorm quickly. My side was barren—just a bed and a nightstand with a lamp, like a stripped-down stage waiting for someone to set the scene. His side, however, was cluttered, alive. Books stacked haphazardly, odd trinkets and weirdly detailed dolls scattered across shelves, their glass eyes glinting in the low light.

Liam was stretched out on his bed, shirtless still, his back turned deliberately toward me. It was the perfect nonverbal warning: he wasn’t in the mood to talk. And maybe that was my excuse to hold off on the apology—for now.

I crossed the room as quietly as I could, feeling more like an intruder than an actual roommate. My bag slid from my shoulder and thudded softly at the foot of the bed that was clearly mine—the untouched, bare side of the room. I lowered myself onto the mattress, and the moment I did, a wave of bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. It wasn’t surprising, not after the whirlwind of today, but the heaviness still caught me off guard.

Still, sleep wasn’t an option yet. My mind was too full, too restless. I leaned forward and tugged my bag closer, fingers brushing over the worn strap before pulling it open. I wasn’t reaching for clothes—there weren’t many to begin with—nor did I care to unpack. Instead, I dug out the one thing I always clung to: my notebook.

Flipping it open to the first blank page, I let the pen hover over the paper. Words and sketches both fought to pour out of me, demanding space, demanding release. After everything, I needed this—my way of stitching together the chaos, one scribbled thought, one messy drawing at a time.