The Embarrassment Evolution

Chapter 2: Eyes of the Crimson Glitch

The silence in the room was suffocating, a heavy, pressurized weight that threatened to buckle the very floorboards. Dimas stood rooted to the spot, the bioluminescent red fading slightly from his pupils, yet the metallic hum vibrating in his skull refused to die down.

"Did you hear me, Dimas? I asked what you are," Irina stepped forward, her initial shock hardening into a brittle, jagged edge of curiosity.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dimas stammered, his voice still carrying that dissonant, unnatural undertone. He clutched his bag, his knuckles white. "I need to go. I’m not feeling well."

"You think I’m blind? Your eyes were glowing like a pair of emergency exit signs. That isn't just 'not feeling well,'" she countered, her gaze darting to the other students.

"It’s a condition. Photophobia. My eyes... they react to stress. It's medical," he lied, the words tasting like copper in his mouth.

"Stress? You tripped over a wire, Dimas. That’s not a medical condition, that’s a slapstick routine," she retorted, crossing her arms.

"I’m leaving," he muttered, turning on his heel.

"Hey! Don't you dare walk away from me," Irina called out, but Dimas was already pushing through the heavy double doors of the lecture hall, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He didn't stop until he reached the library, ducking into the dark, labyrinthine aisles of the second floor. The air here was cool and smelled of ancient paper and dust. He slumped against a bookshelf, clutching his head as the system pulsed behind his eyes again.

Scanning environment... the voice echoed. Current stability: 42 percent. Threat detected: Subject Irina Pavlov approaching.

"Already?" Dimas whispered, his breath ragged. "How is she that fast?"

A few moments later, the soft, rhythmic clicking of heels echoed through the aisle. Irina rounded the corner, her expression unreadable.

"Library? Seriously?" she asked, stopping a few feet away. "This is your big getaway strategy? Hiding behind a stack of outdated encyclopedias?"

Dimas didn't turn around. "Leave me alone, Irina. Seriously. I just want to sit here and wait for my head to stop spinning."

"Is that what you call it? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were downloading the entire history of the human race directly into your brain," she said, leaning against the shelf across from him.

"You have a vivid imagination," he said, turning to face her, his eyes cast downward. "It’s a migraine. Just a really, really intense one. The light in there was too much."

"Look at me, Dimas," she commanded.

"I’d rather not."

"Look. At. Me."

Dimas slowly lifted his head. The red glow was gone, replaced by his usual, dull brown irises, though his vision was still flickering with floating data points—numbers, graphs, and heat signatures mapping Irina’s posture.

"Happy?" he asked.

Irina squinted, leaning in closer, her face inches from his. "They look normal now. But you were acting like a completely different person in there. You were... detached. Cold. Like you were calculating my pulse or something."

"I was in pain," he insisted, his heart racing as the system highlighted her proximity. Warning: Personal space boundary breached. Subject heart rate: 78 BPM.

"You’re a terrible liar," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "And you’re sweating buckets. If it’s just a migraine, why are you shaking?"

"Because you’re interrogating me like I’ve committed a felony for having an eye spasm," he snapped.

"Maybe I’m just observant. Most people in that room are too self-absorbed to notice anything, but I noticed," she said, tapping her chin. "You were different. You stood up differently. You didn't even look embarrassed when you fell. You just looked... annoyed."

"I am annoyed. I'm embarrassed. I’m having a terrible Monday," Dimas countered, his hands fumbling with his satchel straps.

"You're hiding something," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Whatever that was, it’s not an eye condition. I’ve seen people with light sensitivity. They don't glow like a neon sign."

"What do you want from me, Irina? A confession? A medical history report?"

"I want the truth. You’ve been sitting in the back of that lecture for months, never saying a word, barely moving. Then suddenly, you turn into some kind of—I don't even know. A cyborg?"

Dimas forced a weak, self-deprecating laugh. "A cyborg? You’ve been watching too many movies. Look, if I were some kind of secret weapon, do you really think I’d be struggling to pass Intro to Bio?"

Irina paused, her gaze raking over him. She seemed to be looking for a crack in his facade, a hint of a circuit board or a hidden weapon. "Maybe you're practicing. Laying low."

"I'm just a guy, Irina. A guy who had a bad reaction to a stressful morning. That’s it."

"If you say so," she said, though she didn't sound convinced. She reached into her bag, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a pair of sleek, oversized black sunglasses.

"What are those for?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"They're mine. I keep them in my bag for days when the sun is too bright," she said, stepping into his personal space again.

He could smell her perfume—something sharp and floral, like rain and jasmine. The system beeped, a jarring sound that only he could hear. Target proximity: 0.2 meters. Efficiency: High.

"Take them," she said, holding the glasses out.

"I don't need your sunglasses, Irina."

"Take them, Dimas. If your eyes are so sensitive to light and stress, then cover them up. It’ll make you look less like a bomb waiting to go off," she said, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes.

Dimas hesitated, his fingers brushing hers as he took the glasses. They were warm from her bag. He slipped them on, the dark lenses instantly dimming the harsh, flickering data points that were clouding his vision.

"Better?" she whispered, her face still lingering far too close to his.

"Yeah. Better," he muttered, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks.

"Good. Now, how about you tell me why you were looking at me like you were deciding whether or not to dismantle me piece by piece back in that hall?"

Dimas stiffened. "I wasn't."

"You were," she countered, her voice dropping to a low, intense hum. "And I want to know why."

"I really don't think you do," he replied, turning away to hide the fact that his eyes were beginning to pulse red again behind the dark lenses.

"Try me," she challenged, leaning her shoulder against his, making it impossible for him to retreat further into the shadows of the bookshelf. "I have a lot of free time, and you’re suddenly the most interesting thing to happen to this campus in years."