Dorian swallowed. “This is insane,” he muttered, voice swallowed by the void. “This has to be some kind of lucid nightmare.” But his heart didn’t believe that. Nightmares didn’t explain themselves this clearly. He scrolled back up. Rogue. The description didn’t promise safety. It didn’t offer power without consequence. It didn’t pretend he would be protected. It assumed he would be alone. That he would strike first or not at all. That if he was seen, he would probably die. Dorian felt his hand tremble. A memory flickered unbidden. Steel in his grip. The weight of a bat. The sound of bone giving way. He touched his face, grounding himself. Calm down. He forced a breath in. Out. “I’ve always had quick reflexes,” he whispered. “I know how to stay quiet.” He tapped the Rogue icon. The screen dimmed for a fraction of a second. Then confirmed.

[CLASS SELECTED: ROGUE]
[PRIMARY ATTRIBUTES CONFIRMED]
[STARTER EQUIPMENT REGISTERED]

A final line appeared beneath it, stark and unforgiving.

[PREPARE FOR BATTLE]
[Oh I hope you are ready!]

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Battle?” he breathed. “Oh shit.” The darkness around him began to fracture. Light seeped back in, thin and cold. And somewhere, very close, something was already hunting. Darkness did not lift all at once. It thinned. Sound returned first, distant and warped, like Dorian’s head was underwater.
A scream cut through the black, then another. Panic bled back into the world in broken pieces, overlapping voices and sharp, animal fear. Light followed slowly, dim and wrong, as if dusk had been poured over reality and left there to congeal. The courtyard snapped back into existence. Dorian staggered, boots scraping against stone.
His balance corrected automatically, knees bending just enough to keep him upright. His heart was hammering, each beat heavy and fast, like it was trying to outrun whatever rule had just rewritten the world. Helena was there. Alive. Right behind him. She grabbed the back of his hoodie with shaking fingers, her breath shallow and uneven. “Dorian,” she whispered, his name breaking. “What… what just happened?” He didn’t answer. He stepped forward instead, placing himself between her and the open courtyard without thinking. It wasn’t a decision. It was reflex, old and ingrained. His body had learned long ago where it belonged when danger surfaced. All around them, students were scattered across the stone plaza. Some were crying openly, curled in on themselves. Others stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at nothing. A few shouted questions into the air, demanding explanations from a sky that no longer cared enough to answer.
Dorian’s gaze swept the crowd, cataloging movement, spacing, exits. The dorm doors behind them were sealed, the glass dark and unresponsive. The paths leading away from the courtyard blurred at their edges, like distance itself had become uncertain. And directly in front of him, no more than twenty feet away, stood the three from earlier. The two guys and the girl. Recognition struck them all at once. The girl’s face drained of color when she saw him. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, an apology or an insult or a joke to make this less real. Nothing came out. The guy in the jersey swallowed hard.
The other one, the one who had puffed out his chest and talked about kicking Dorian’s ass, looked suddenly very small. The temperature dropped. Not gradually. Abruptly. Dorian felt it on his skin, a cold that cut through fabric and settled into muscle. The courtyard lights flickered overhead, one by one, buzzing before going dark. Shadows pooled along the edges of the space, thickening, stretching. A sound rolled through the night. Low. Resonant. Not quite a growl. Not quite a howl. Something older. From the darkness beyond the courtyard, shapes began to move. At first, Dorian thought they were shadows slipping free of the walls. Then they stepped into the dying light, and the truth settled like lead in his gut. Wolves. Too large. Too lean.
Their fur was blank and inky, not black so much as empty, like it swallowed the light around it. Their bodies seemed half-formed at the edges, outlines blurring as if reality itself didn’t quite agree they should exist. Their eyes were wrong. Pale. Hollow. They moved in silence, paws striking stone without sound. One after another, they emerged from the dark, forming a loose crescent around the courtyard. A pack. At the front, the largest wolf lowered its head.
The pack leader. Its breath fogged the air, each exhale slow and deliberate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry in the way animals were hungry. It was assessing. Someone screamed. Then another. Panic detonated. Students bolted in every direction, some slipping on the stone, others colliding and dragging each other down. A few froze entirely, minds snapping under the weight of disbelief. The three in front of Dorian hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. The pack leader charged. It crossed the distance in a blur of motion, too fast, too fluid. Mr. Lacrosse reacted on pure instinct. He shoved the girl. Hard.
She stumbled forward, arms windmilling, a short, strangled sound tearing from her throat as she fell directly into the wolf’s path. “No,” the other guy screamed, reaching for her too late. The wolf leapt. Its jaws closed around her neck with a wet, cracking sound. Blood sprayed across the stone, hot and bright against the dark. The girl’s scream cut off instantly, her body jerking as the wolf tore into her, shaking its head violently. Flesh ripped. Bone snapped. The pack surged forward. They descended on her in a frenzy of teeth and claws, ripping her apart in seconds.  What remained of her was unrecognizable. Flesh and fabric lay scattered across the courtyard, torn apart so completely that Dorian couldn’t tell where one piece ended and another began. Blood steamed in the cold air, dark rivulets running between the cracks in the stone like veins opened to the night. The two guys broke. One turned and ran, screaming, feet slipping on gore as he bolted blindly into the dark. A shape detached from the shadows to his left. Another wolf. Its jaws snapped shut around his torso, lifting him clean off the ground as his scream cut short in a wet crunch. The other dropped to his knees. The one in the lacrosse jersey. He sobbed openly now, hands slick with blood that wasn’t his, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at what he’d done. “I didn’t mean to,” he choked, rocking back and forth. “I didn’t mean to.” The world did not care. A translucent screen flashed into existence in front of him, visible to everyone nearby.

[KILL CONFIRMED]

CONTRIBUTION: ASSIST (FORCED DISPLACEMENT)

TARGET: PLAYER – FEMALE

CAUSE OF DEATH: MONSTER (WOLF)

XP AWARDED: 50%

LEVEL UP!

The jersey guy froze. His sob caught halfway through, eyes snapping to the screen. The panic on his face twisted, confusion bleeding into something else. Something sharper. His chest rose and fell hard as the notification faded. Dorian saw it happen.
Saw the moment the fear didn’t disappear, but changed shape. The jersey guy’s hands clenched slowly, fingers curling as if around an invisible prize. His breathing steadied, just a little. He looked down at the blood on his palms, then up at the wolves tearing into the remains of the girl. And he smiled. Just for a second. Dorian felt something cold settle in his gut. The System had spoken. It had rewarded him. Not for killing her. For using her. And somewhere in the darkness of the courtyard, something far worse than the wolves had just been born. Dorian didn’t look away.
Helena made a broken sound behind him, half sob, half gasp, her fingers digging into his hoodie like she might tear through the fabric. He felt her shaking against his back. He stayed still. Watched. Learned. Something shifted in him, cold and precise, the same mental space he’d entered the night he broke open the basement door. Fear was there, sharp and real, but it didn’t control him. It sharpened his focus instead. He reached behind his hip. His hand closed around something solid. Dorian’s breath caught for a split second. He pulled it free. A dagger. Short. Dark. The blade caught the faint light and drank it in. The grip fit his palm perfectly, textured in a way that anchored his hold. Balanced. Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.
This had not been there before. His fingers tightened around it anyway. “Dorian,” Helena whispered again, voice cracking. “What do we do?” He didn’t answer her either. He stepped forward. Just one step, placing himself fully between her and the pack. His knees bent, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. His shoulders relaxed. The dagger came up naturally, held low and ready. His body settled into a stance he did not remember learning. But it felt right. Natural. Necessary. The pack leader lifted its head from the carnage.
Blood dripped from its muzzle, thick and dark, splattering onto the stone between them. Its pale eyes locked onto Dorian Black. The wolf’s lips peeled back, exposing teeth stained red. Dorian tightened his grip on the dagger. And waited.