I was dreaming of storage closets again when the shouting started.At first, it blended into the nightmare—Carol Blake's voice cutting through my sleep, demanding I take out the trash and clean Dylan's car. But as consciousness crept in, I realized the voices were real, coming from somewhere in the building."—not asking you, I'm telling you!" A man's voice, rough and angry, echoed through the hallway outside my door."I said NO! I'm not doing it!" A woman's voice shot, younger, desperate but defiant.I sat up in bed, disoriented. The digital clock on my nightstand read 1:47 AM. I'd been living in the penthouse for a week now, and this was the first time I'd heard any noise from the other apartments. The building had seemed almost tomb-like in its silence."You think you have a choice?" The man's voice again, closer now. "You think you can just say no to me?""Watch me."A door slammed somewhere down the hall, followed by the sound of heels clicking rapidly on marble. Then silence.I s

Sunday was my favourite day of the week.It was on Sundays that I had the most rest as my former “Masters” were always out visiting friends and Dylan was out wasting his youth.This Sunday was different as I got to spend it all by myself doing whatever I wanted. The feeling was unlike anything I ever felt. I finally had some control of my life and I was loving it.The urge to sleep in was defeated by the intrinsic need to help Maya get home and back to her life as soon as possible.Maya had been caring, offering to tend to my wounds and apologizing profusely as if her “jerk boyfriend’s” gutter behaviour was her fault.Leading her through the lobby was a bit of a silent spectacle as eyes were on us as if saying “This lad obviously doesn't know how to be sophisticated just yet.” But it didn't matter to me, I did a good thing and I was proud of it. It was probably more good than any of them have done in their entire lives.“Make sure that jerk never steps foot in this building again”. I

Professor Hartley was already in the classroom when I entered, and the first thing I noticed was that he looked exactly like someone who would make students cry on a regular basis.He was maybe sixty, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a small ponytail that somehow looked dignified rather than ridiculous. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a hawkish nose, and he wore a rumpled tweed jacket over a black turtleneck—the uniform of someone who'd stopped caring about impressing people decades ago because he was too busy being brilliant.He stood at the front of the class, arms crossed, watching students file in with an expression that suggested he'd already judged every single one of us and found us wanting.I took a seat in the middle of the room—not so far back that I looked disengaged, not so close that I looked desperate for approval. The other students filled in around me, most of them looking like they'd stepped out of a catalog for expensive casual wear. There was a palpable tension in