Blair led Beatrix through the cafeteria with effortless confidence, Beatrix had long come to the conclusion that Blair and confidence were synonymous in nature, she didn't exactly hate that fact.
The space was filled with random conversation, bursts of laughter, and the occasional flash of power: a flick of water hanging midair, a chair pulling itself out, someone igniting the tips of their fingers just to show they could. The scent of toasted bread and something sweet lingered in the air.
Beatrix felt the weight of every gaze, some curious, others sharp with judgment, as they passed. Her bruises still throbbed faintly despite Trey's healing touch, but the sting of those stares burned deeper. She forced her eyes to stay forward, her grip tightening on her tray. Toast. Fries. A meal simple enough that no one could tease her for it.
Blair dropped into a seat at a corner table elevated just enough to remind everyone of its status. Her tray clattered with a deliberate ease, and she gestured lazily for Beatrix to sit beside her. Three other students lounged around the table, watching with varying degrees of interest.
The guy was the first to speak. He leaned forward, his dark eyes warm and his smile slow, the kind that came easily. "Poor thing," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over Beatrix's face. "Rough morning?"
Beatrix blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, he reached out, brushing two fingers lightly against her cheekbone. Warmth bloomed where his skin met hers, spreading through her face in a soothing wave. The ache vanished instantly.
"What—" Beatrix touched her cheek, eyes wide.
"Healing hands," he said with a grin. "Trey."
"Beatrix," she murmured, still feeling the ghost of warmth where her bruise had been.
Trey leaned back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Welcome to the club, Ginger."
Before Beatrix could scowl, Blair's hand shot out, curling around her wrist possessively. "She's mine, Trey."
Beatrix rolled her eyes. "I'm not yours."
"See how she pretends to be independent?" Blair's grin widened. "Cute."
Trey chuckled. "Sure you don't want to share?"
Blair arched a brow. "Touch her again, and I'll break your hands."
He held up both palms in mock surrender. "Message received."
The other two girls hadn't spoken yet, but they were watching. The one with a sleek bob and piercing green eyes tapped long, crimson nails against the table, her gaze sharp and assessing. The other girl, with wavy dark hair and rings on every finger, flicked her eyes over Beatrix as though cataloguing her flaws.
Neither smiled.
Beatrix fought the urge to fidget under their scrutiny. She grabbed a fry, pretending to care deeply about it, and tried to push away the tension curling in her stomach.
Then the vibrations started.
Phones buzzed around the table, the sound like a collective heartbeat, quick and relentless. Trey glanced at his screen, his easy demeanour faltering. Blair sighed as she pulled her phone from her pocket, her lips twitching into a frown.
Beatrix felt her own phone buzz against her leg. She froze, her pulse quickening. Slowly, with a sinking feeling in her chest, she slid it out and looked down at the screen.
WHISPER
What's that smell? Ah yes, the sweet scent of Cafeteria food, sweat and what—survival guilt. Meet Beatrix Tate—our newest first-year darling. Strong. Quiet. Haunted.
But did you know this fiery little Ginger has a tragic backstory that isn't quite what it seems?
A word of advice to her new friends: watch your backs. The last time Beatrix faced danger, she chose herself.
She had a choice, you see. A simple one: stay together or leave someone behind.
Guess which one she picked.
No hard feelings, Red. I'm sure anyone would have done what you did to survive even if it meant leaving their own sister to die.
Till next time... don't bleed too much.
The words hit like a fist to her chest. The letters swam on her screen, the lines breaking apart and reforming in her mind into shapes that didn't belong. Her breath caught, and suddenly her lungs weren't working right—weren't pulling in enough air. Her heart slammed faster, thudding too hard against her ribs.
The noise around her dulled, like she was underwater, her ears filling with a muffled hum. She blinked, but the light seemed too bright. Her hands trembled as she tightened her grip on the table, her fingers whitening as if holding on could anchor her.
It didn't.
She could feel it rising, sharp and bitter at the back of her throat—fear, guilt, memory.
"Run!"
The voice wasn't hers. It was sharp, shrill, full of panic.
"Don't let me go!"
A hand reaching—slipping, skin slick with sweat. Her fingers flexed instinctively, as if she could grasp it again, but there was nothing there.
"Bea, don't let go!"
The weight pulled her down. She gasped, the cafeteria blurring, the walls pressing in. Blood. Warmth. Screams—thin, desperate, real.
No one else heard them, but they echoed in her head, growing louder.
She shut her eyes, but the darkness was worse. She could feel her sister slipping, see her eyes, wide and terrified, burning into her memory as the fire consumed everything.
"Don't let me die!"
Beatrix staggered to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. She was dimly aware of the eyes on her, of the silence crashing down like a wave, but the only sound she could hear was her sister's voice, splitting her open from the inside out.
Her vision blurred.
"Beatrix?"
The voice was distant. Blair, maybe.
Her hands shook.
The room swayed.
She had to get out.
Now.
She pushed away from the table, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She stumbled, shoving past the stares and whispers, barely aware of anything but the need to run. To breathe.
Her heart raced. Her lungs burned.
The door slammed behind her, the cool air outside hitting her like a slap. She leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, fingers clawing at her sleeves as if she could rip herself free from her own skin.
Her sister's screams still echoed, soft now, fading but never gone.