The lecture hall hummed with the typical cacophony of a Monday morning—the screech of chair legs against linoleum, the rapid-fire tapping of keyboards, and the low, muffled gossip of students who had clearly spent more time on social media than their readings.Dimas stood at the back of the room, clutching his satchel like a shield. His gaze was locked on the third row, where Irina sat. She was currently looking at her phone, her expression a mask of indifference that made Dimas’s stomach perform a slow, sickening roll."Hey, don't just stand there staring like a creep, man," his friend Leo whispered, nudging Dimas in the ribs. "Just walk over there and say something. She’s literally right there."Dimas adjusted his glasses, his palms slick with cold sweat. "It’s not that simple, Leo. Look at her. She looks like she’s about to file a restraining order just because I’m breathing in her general direction."Leo rolled his eyes, shoving Dimas forward. "You’re overthinking it. Just go. It’

"Try me," Irina repeated, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made the tiny hairs on the back of Dimas’s neck stand up. She was leaning so close he could smell the faint scent of vanilla and ink clinging to her clothes.Dimas swallowed hard, adjusting the heavy, black sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. They were too large for his face, slipping slightly, but they acted as a necessary cage for the flickering crimson light currently pulsating behind his retinas."You don't want to know," Dimas said, his voice coming out tighter than he intended. "Trust me, Irina. Some secrets are better left rotting in the dark."Irina tilted her head, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You sound like a character from a bad noir novel. 'Rotting in the dark'? Really? We’re in a campus library, not an interrogation room in East Berlin.""Maybe it just feels like one," Dimas muttered, shifting his weight. "Can you stop staring at me? It’s not helping the ‘migraine’.""Hard to sto

The scent of bleach and stale floor wax hung heavy in the cramped janitor’s closet, but to Dimas, it was the smell of a prison cell. He gripped the edge of the mop bucket, his knuckles white, his breath hitching in his chest. Irina was still hovering, her hand hovering just above his shoulder, her brow creased with a concern that felt entirely too heavy for the situation."Dimas? You're spacing out again," she said, her voice soft, dropping that edge of sarcasm she usually wore like armor. "You're safe. We’re in the closet. The coast is clear.""I'm not safe," Dimas whispered, his voice trembling. He felt his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. He looked down at the bucket again, squinting through the dim, artificial light. "He was there, Irina. I saw him. That face—it wasn't a reflection. It was… it was like looking at a ghost, but worse."Irina sighed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her movements jerky and anxious. "A ghost? Seriously? W

The hallway outside the gym felt less like a sanctuary and more like a pressure cooker waiting to blow. Dimas leaned heavily against the lockers, his breath coming in ragged, painful hitches as the sensation of his anatomy restructuring itself continued to burn through his limbs."Dimas? You're actually, literally, growing," Irina said, her voice strained. She paced in a tight circle, her eyes darting between him and the long, vacant stretch of the corridor. "Your shirt. Look at the seams. They’re splitting."Dimas looked down. The fabric of his flannel, which had fit him perfectly that morning, was pulling taut across his chest and shoulders. The stitches around his bicep groaned, a high-pitched protest of thread failing under the pressure of expanding, dense muscle."I can't—" Dimas gritted his teeth, his jaw working as if he were trying to chew through iron. "I can't go back in there. I can't let them see this. I’m already the guy who fell into the pasta. If I start ripping through

The hallway seemed to stretch infinitely, a tunnel of fluorescent lights that hummed in discord with the static currently flooding Dimas’s brain. His nose—the source of that neon, lime-green glow—felt like a beacon in the night."Dimas, hold up! Are your legs suddenly made of lead or are you just playing hard to get?" Irina’s voice echoed off the linoleum, sharp and insistent. Her footsteps were rapid, a staccato rhythm that signaled she had no intention of letting him vanish."Just leave it, Irina! Don't you have a psych paper or something?" Dimas didn't look back. He rounded the corner, his pace bordering on a jog. His heart was hammering a frantic, uneven beat."Psych paper? You’re joking, right? My interest in human behavior just skyrocketed to the top of my priority list," she called out, catching up just enough to grab his sleeve. He yanked his arm away, his muscles rippling beneath the janitor’s jacket."You don't want to see this. Seriously, my skin is—it’s doing things. Weird