Ayla's Raine:
Dead things always smelled sweeter in the rain.
Not rotten. Not yet. Just damp and metallic, like the world had washed itself clean but forgotten to rinse away the blood.
Ravenwell University stood behind its iron gates like a warning nobody listened to until it was too late.
Dark stone towers clawed into the gray sky, their walls strangled with ivy thick enough to hide cracks beneath it. Fog curled around the buildings like cigarette smoke, clinging low to the ground, and the stained-glass windows reflected almost no light despite the hour.
Beautiful place.
Terrible vibes.
I tightened my coat around myself and stared up at the massive archway carved with Latin I absolutely pretended to understand.
Scientia Est Potentia.
Knowledge is power.
Subtle.
Rain drizzled through the courtyard, tapping against my hood as students moved between buildings with their heads lowered, black umbrellas drifting through the mist like ghosts too tired to haunt properly.
Ravenwell didn't feel like a university.
It felt like somewhere secrets came to rot.
Naturally, I loved it instantly.
My phone buzzed again in my pocket.
UNKNOWN SENDER.
REPORT TO THE FORENSIC SCIENCES OFFICE BEFORE 5:00 PM.
FAILURE TO REPORT WILL RESULT IN WITHDRAWAL OF ENROLLMENT.
No greeting.
No signature.
No explanation for why transfer paperwork apparently needed hostage-negotiation energy.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
My sister, Isla, would've told me not to come alone.
Then again, Isla also once told me:
"If your instincts say run, maybe don't walk toward the suspicious noise for once."
Clearly, genetics had failed us both.
The heavy front doors groaned open beneath my hands.
Warm air hit me first.
Old paper.
Disinfectant.
Dust.
Something chemical underneath.
Formaldehyde, maybe.
The lobby stretched high above me, lined with marble columns and portraits of dead academics who all looked deeply disappointed in humanity. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, one flickering every few seconds near the reception desk.
Long enough to notice.
Short enough to become irritating.
A woman sat behind the front counter typing with the lifeless determination of someone spiritually deceased since 2008.
"Name?" she asked without looking up.
"Ayla Raine."
Her fingers paused.
Tiny pause.
Most people wouldn't notice.
I did.
Then she smiled too quickly.
"Transfer student."
Not a question.
"Last time I checked."
Her eyes flicked toward my paperwork. "Forensic sciences."
"That obvious?"
"You have the look."
"That sounds mildly threatening."
She ignored that. Respectable choice.
"The elevator's out. Fourth floor." She slid a temporary visitor badge toward me. "Office 4B."
"Thanks."
"The east stairwell is faster."
Again:
not a suggestion.
Interesting.
I clipped the badge onto my coat and headed toward the staircase.
The deeper I moved into Ravenwell, the older the building felt.
Not historic-old.
Tired-old.
Like the walls had spent decades listening to things they shouldn't have heard.
Students passed occasionally, their conversations hushed without reason. A guy carrying anatomy textbooks nearly bumped into me before muttering an apology and disappearing around the corner.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead.
Somewhere distant, metal clanged.
The sound echoed too long.
Fourth floor finally appeared above the stairwell door in peeling silver letters.
The corridor beyond was nearly empty.
Tall windows filtered gray rainlight across cracked tile floors. Framed photographs lined the walls — graduating classes, faculty groups, award ceremonies — rows and rows of smiling faces frozen beneath layers of dust.
A memorial plaque hung beside the last classroom door.
IN MEMORY OF THOSE WE LOST.
No names beneath it.
Weird.
My boots clicked softly as I walked toward Office 4B.
Locked.
I frowned.
5:42 PM.
A strip of paper had been taped beneath the handle.
Miss Raine — report to East Wing Seminar Hall instead.
No university stamp.
No signature.
Just my name written in black ink.
Every intelligent survival instinct I possessed told me to leave.
Unfortunately, curiosity and self-preservation had never gotten along.
I folded the note into my pocket and followed the signs toward the east wing.
The air changed first.
Sharper.
Colder.
The polished marble disappeared, replaced by faded linoleum and old pipes running along the ceiling. Most of the lights here were dimmer, flickering faintly behind protective cages.
One door read:
SPECIMEN ARCHIVE — AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY
Another:
HISTORICAL FORENSICS LAB
The kind of place horror movies politely beg white women not to enter.
Naturally, I kept walking.
Then I heard it.
A thud.
Heavy.
Violent.
I stopped.
Silence followed.
Then a voice.
Male.
Low.
Furious.
"Look at me."
Another voice answered weakly.
"I said let go."
"Not until you tell me what they did."
My pulse slowed instead of speeding up.
Adrenaline always sharpened me first.
Fear came later.
I moved quietly toward the sound.
The hallway curved left and opened toward a narrow maintenance bridge connecting two sections of the building. Rain blew through broken side panels, misting the metal walkway silver beneath the emergency lights.
Two figures stood near the railing.
No.
One stood.
The other barely remained upright.
The injured guy had blond hair soaked dark with rain and blood running from his split lip down his chin. One side of his face was already bruising purple. His fingers trembled against the railing like they couldn't decide whether to hold on or let go.
The other guy gripped the front of his jacket.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark clothes soaked through with rain.
Blood stained his knuckles.
Not wild rage.
Worse.
Control.
The kind of control people have right before they break something beyond repair.
"You think dying fixes this?" he demanded.
The injured guy laughed weakly.
It sounded painful.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it."
"I can't."
The dark-haired guy shoved him against the railing hard enough to make metal groan.
"Three days, Noah," he snapped. "You disappeared for three days and suddenly you can't remember anything?"
Noah.
The name settled somewhere uncomfortable in my chest.
I slowly pulled my phone from my pocket.
No flash.
No sound.
Record.
Rain crackled softly through the speakers as the camera focused.
Evidence first.
Questions second.
Isla taught me that.
The dark-haired guy leaned closer.
"Tell me what they did to you."
Noah's breathing hitched.
Then he whispered something too quiet to hear.
"What?"
"They know," Noah said louder this time.
Every muscle in the other guy's body went still.
"Who knows?"
Noah lifted his eyes.
Past him.
Toward me.
Ice slid down my spine.
The dark-haired guy turned instantly.
I stepped back too fast.
Glass cracked beneath my boot.
The sound sliced through the bridge.
Silence.
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
Then he looked directly at me.
And God.
He was terrifying.
Sharp jawline streaked with rainwater and blood. Dark hair hanging damp across his forehead. Eyes so cold they didn't look human at first glance not emotionless, just dangerously focused.
He didn't look surprised to see me.
He looked calculating.
Like he was already deciding whether I was a witness or a threat.
My grip tightened around my phone.
His gaze flicked downward slightly.
To the recording.
Shit.
Noah's expression changed instantly.
Fear.
Not of him.
Of me.
"Don't trust the girl," Noah rasped.
The dark-haired guy's eyes narrowed.
Then, another movement behind them.
Someone else stood deeper in the shadows near the doorway across the bridge.
Watching.
My breath caught.
Tall figure.
Hood up.
Completely still.
I hadn't even noticed them before.
The dark-haired guy turned sharply toward the movement.
And I ran.
My boots slammed against tile as I bolted through the hallway, pulse roaring in my ears. Behind me, metal groaned violently and someone shouted
"Wait!"
Not angry.
Urgent.
That somehow made it worse.
I shoved through the stairwell door and stumbled downward too fast, nearly slipping on the wet steps.
Fourth floor.
Third.
Second.
My lungs burned by the time I burst back into the lobby.
The receptionist looked up immediately.
"Ayla?"
I didn't stop walking.
"Ayla, wait—"
Cold rain hit me as I pushed through the front doors into the courtyard.
Students crossed between buildings beneath umbrellas, completely unaware that something violent had just happened four floors above them.
Or pretending not to know.
My phone buzzed violently in my hand.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I stopped beneath the stone archway and opened the message.
DO NOT REPORT WHAT YOU SAW.
No punctuation.
No threat.
None needed.
Rainwater slid down my sleeves as I opened the video with numb fingers.
One minute and forty-two seconds.
Proof.
I pressed play.
The footage began normally.
Rain.
Bridge.
Blood.
Noah.
The dark-haired boy.
Then static tore across the screen.
Once.
Twice.
The exact moment he turned toward me, the video distorted violently.
Audio cut out completely.
My stomach tightened.
I replayed it.
This time I noticed something else.
A reflection in the broken bridge window behind them.
A third figure standing motionless in the shadows.
Watching all of us.
And when the static flickered again
The figure was gone.