AN: Check out my new novel Whispers Of The Lost ^^

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Leaves rarely fall alone; in this way, we are not so different from them.

Asher Moretti had recently finished his studies at Hearth University and secured a research fellowship, a position he landed largely thanks to his connections. He was ecstatic about it—particularly since he owed much of it to his relationship with Professor Gilbert Hofsberg. What had started as a standard student-teacher dynamic had evolved over the past four years, culminating in this new chapter of Asher's career.

To help Asher expand his network, Professor Hofsberg had invited him to a ball. The venue was neither pretentious nor gaudy; the ballroom was tastefully decorated. A grand piano in the main leisure area provided a soft melody, creating a relaxed yet refined atmosphere. Above the dance floor, the balconies of the second floor offered couples a more private space to enjoy the evening.

"Good evening, sir. Would you like a drink?" A waiter appeared beside him, drawing Asher's attention away from the piano.

"Champagne, please. Thank you," Asher replied with a polite nod.

The waiter smiled and presented a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Asher glanced at the bite-sized snacks, but they were unfamiliar to him. One, in particular, caught his attention—a gelatin creation shaped to resemble a human eye, complete with a carved olive at its center. Another was a thin slice of meat, blood-red, wrapped around a piece of cheese.

"The chef has too much time on his hands," Asher muttered, waving the tray away. He couldn't imagine eating something that looked like that.

As the waiter moved on to other guests, Asher noticed the tray was empty by the time he returned to the bar.

"People actually eat those? Weirdos."

"Ah, our youngest colleague! Good evening, Asher," came a familiar voice.

Asher turned to see Professor Hofsberg approaching with a grin. "The ball has certainly become more enjoyable now," Hofsberg said.

Asher chuckled. "Professor, I didn't expect you to attend something like this. Are you being blackmailed? Because if so, I can throw a decent punch when needed!"

The professor, though in his 50s, radiated youthful energy. His grey hair was the only sign of his age, while his eyes sparkled with life.

"Shh! They'll hear you, you fool," Hofsberg said, laughing. "No, it's much worse than blackmail—it's funding. You'll understand one day when you become a professor. Nothing terrifies us more than that word. You'll find yourself at events like this, pretending to care about conversations just to secure the next grant. Earlier, we had a poker game in the history department, and I drew the short straw. Sadly, bluffing has never been my strength."

Asher laughed along with him. "I see. Well, I appreciate the invitation. It's rare that I get to indulge in something this lavish, given my current financial situation."

He grimaced for a moment, then added, "Speaking of funding, is there anyone here I should be networking with?"

Hofsberg waved a hand dismissively. "Leave that to me. Let the old guard handle the hard part. Just keep an eye out for eligible bachelorettes for me, will you? It's hard being so handsome, clever, and successful—sometimes I wonder if I intimidate them."

"Haha, will do, Professor. I'll be sure to put in a good word. But for now, I need to visit the washroom."

Asher smiled as he walked away. The professor had been a lifeline when Asher first arrived at university, just out of the orphanage. Though he had been too proud to accept help at first, Hofsberg's persistent kindness had won him over. The man had even snuck food out of the faculty cafeteria for Asher during his leanest times, filling a role that was almost fatherly. It had been a long time since Asher had felt that kind of support.

When Asher finally made it to the washroom, he joined the line and waited until a stall became free. Stepping inside, he unbuckled his belt, only to notice that the toilet was clogged.

"Great. No wonder the line was so long," he muttered. "Always the pipes in this city."

He considered getting back in line but realized he'd be there all night. The other stall was still occupied, and whoever was in it hadn't made a sound. Strange.

Resigning himself to the situation, Asher grabbed a nearby plunger and tackled the clog. A few minutes of grunting and elbow grease later, the blockage cleared. But as he reached to flush, he froze. In the bowl, tangled among the debris, was a bundle of human hair. There were fingernails, and if he wasn't mistaken—teeth.

"W-w-what the hell?" Asher stumbled back, his heart racing.

He glanced again, but now all he saw was a soggy mass of toilet paper.

"I've really got to stop staying up all night reading," he muttered, shaken. "I'm seeing things."

After finishing his business and washing his hands, Asher returned to the ballroom. The line outside had shortened—oddly, only nine people remained, down from the fifteen that had been there before. Had they found another washroom? And the man in the stall next to him… hadn't made a single noise the whole time.

Shrugging it off, Asher decided not to dwell on it. He had enough on his mind already. As he stepped back into the main hall, he noticed the music had changed. The piano that had once provided a light, pleasant melody now played a somber, oppressive tune.