The library was quieter than usual. Even for Augusta.
Elira was there, of course. Head bowed. Pencil tapping. Hoodie sleeves halfway over her hands like always. But the way she sat today—something was different.
She wasn't buried in her notes.
She was waiting.
She felt it in her spine before she heard his steps.
Micheal.
He didn't knock. Didn't pause. Just stood across from her like the air had been calling him back.
She looked up slowly.
No words.
Not yet.
Until he dropped a folded paper between them.
Micheal (quietly):
"I found out who built the system."
Pause.
"And who started breaking it… before me."
Elira didn't touch the page. Just stared.
Elira:
"Who?"
Micheal:
"My father."
A pause.
Micheal (lower):
"He was the echo. The original anomaly."
That got her full attention.
She reached for the page now—unfolded it slowly, like truth had a weight.
A glitchy still-frame. Two students, frozen mid-laugh. The boy—Peter Marshall. The girl—unidentified. But the location?
The courtyard.
Same spot Micheal had kissed Sam.
Same place Anjali had tried to rewrite her worth.
And there was more.
Micheal:
"Mira traced the footage. Twenty-four years ago. Pre-hierarchy. They were testing equality then—'Class 17.'"
Elira (soft):
"They buried it."
Micheal:
"No. They tried to erase it. But it kept regenerating. Someone wanted it to be found."
She leaned back.
The room wasn't cold, but her breath was.
Elira:
"If your father started something… what did he leave unfinished?"
Micheal leaned forward.
No smoke. No swagger. Just fire.
Micheal:
"He didn't just defy the rules. He infected them. And they didn't know how to contain it. So they removed him."
Elira (quiet):
"Like a virus."
Micheal (nodding):
"Exactly. But not before he left a strain behind."
He tapped his chest once.
Micheal:
"Me."
Elira:
"You said Mira gave you more than just that footage."
Micheal:
"She did."
beat
Micheal:
"She agreed to become my rook."
Elira's eyes flicked up. No jealousy. No insecurity. Just a quiet calculation.
Elira:
"And the bishop?"
Micheal (half-smiling):
"Professor Vance. She gave me access—her loyalty, too. Not for free. But she's in."
Elira's brow furrowed.
Elira:
"That makes two bishops. One pawn. And one rook currently"
beat
Elira (sharper):
"But what about Grayson's board?"
Micheal exhaled, jaw tight.
Micheal:
"She's ahead. All her pieces are male. And we've only seen three."
Elira:
"The pawn that erases students. The media director. The surveillance architect."
Micheal:
"Exactly. Rhett, Orion, and Lucien."
Elira:
"Which means there are more."
Micheal:
"We don't know how many. We don't know where."
Elira moved to the wall, pulling down a hidden folder from a high ledge. She tossed it open—a crude map of Augusta's internal networks. Names. Class tags. Obscured hierarchies.
She circled the names they knew.
Three pawns. No knights. No queens. No king.
Yet.
Elira (half-whispering):
"If she's only using male pieces… maybe that's the irony."
Micheal (flat):
"She makes them obey—and uses them to keep girls compliant."
Elira:
"She doesn't rule by being the queen. She rules by owning the entire board."
Elira sat on the cold floor, fingers flipping through brittle, dust-worn pages.
She didn't know why she was here—
Only that something Micheal said… unlocked something in her memory.
Augusta documented everything important.
Every major event. Every turning point.
But not in reports. Not in data.
In stories.
Fiction, on the surface.
But not really.
She remembered one book.
One she dismissed the first time—laughed at, even.
Now she turned back to it with a shaking hand.
Inside the Book — Fictional Name Redacted
It was about a boy.
A boy who loved.
Openly. Honestly. Without shame.
And the college—one unlike Augusta—celebrated it.
No hierarchy. No gender games. No roles to play.
Only choice.
He married the woman he loved.
But others loved him too.
Multiple figures. Influential girls. Powerful ones.
And they didn't care that he was already chosen.
They didn't care about vows.
Because in this story?
The boy was more than wanted.
He was valued.
Elira flipped the page slowly, breath catching.
She remembered this part.
At first, it felt absurd.
Women fighting—truly fighting—over a man?
In Augusta, that was comedy.
But now, with Micheal in her life…
She knew it was possible.
The women in the book didn't see him as a trophy.
They felt for him.
Deeply. Obsessively.
And one of them?
She was dangerous.
She had control over the whole school.
Not because she earned it—
But because of who her father was.
She could bend rules. Rewrite them.
She didn't win the boy's heart.
But he respected her. Treated her like she mattered.
Told her she was powerful. Told her she could become anything.
He didn't know she only wanted to become his.
And when he didn't give her that?
She snapped.
One by one, she destroyed the women around him.
Anyone who had touched him. Smiled at him. Loved him.
Until only one remained:
His wife.
Elira's chest tightened as she read.
The wife wasn't powerful.
She was quiet. Gentle.
Holding their newborn in her arms, she hid—terrified.
But the jealous girl found her.
And tried to destroy her.
But failed.
She was caught.
And she—the jealous one—
became the first student ever sent to Wing 0.
Not the wife.
Not the boy.
The instigator.
Elira sat back, breathing hard.
That part always confused her.
If the system punished that girl,
why did it become what Augusta is now?
Why the shift?
Then she turned the final page.
Even from Wing 0, the girl still had pawns.
Loyal. Programmed. Silent.
And weeks later, from the shadows—
She had the wife killed.
No trial. No exposure.
Just… gone.
And the boy?
He ran.
Took his son. Disappeared.
And in the chaos that followed—
The college rewrote everything.
They called love a weakness.
Declared men a liability.
Said affection was unpredictable.
And to prevent another collapse—
They built Augusta.
Where every girl would be made colder.
Harder.
Crueler.
Year after year.
So they'd never fall in love again.
So they'd never feel that way for a boy again.
Elira closed the book.
Fingers trembling.
Eyes wide.
She understood now.
This wasn't a story.
It was the warning.
And Micheal?
He wasn't the start of something new.
He was the return of something buried.
Something the system swore it erased.
A boy worth loving.
And a system terrified of what that could mean.
Minutes Later
Elira slid the book across the table.
Old spine. Frayed pages. No author.
Just a weight that didn't belong in fiction anymore.
Micheal stared at the cover, silent.
He didn't touch it yet.
Didn't move.
Elira (quietly):
"I thought it was just a story."
"But now I think it's… your family."
Micheal's jaw didn't clench.
His breath didn't stutter.
But something behind his eyes shifted—
Like glass cracking under pressure you can't hear yet.
He opened the book.
Read in silence.
Page after page.
No questions. No commentary.
Just… stillness.
Until—
Micheal (low):
"They rewrote it."
Elira nodded once.
"All the names. All the symbols."
He traced the ink with his thumb.
Then whispered, almost like it wasn't for her:
"He kissed her like I kissed Sam."
Beat.
"He ran like I would've."
Longer silence.
Micheal (quieter):
"And they called him Echo."
His voice cracked—just a fracture.
Not pain. Not fear.
Recognition.
The kind that lives in your blood before it lives in your thoughts.
Micheal leaned back in the chair.
Didn't look at her yet.
He was staring past the shelves now.
Through time.
Micheal (flat, hollow):
"They didn't build Augusta to protect girls."
"They built it to punish one."
Beat.
He closed the book.
And when he looked up?
There was no anger in his face.
Just purpose.
Sharper than before.
Colder.
Like something just clicked into place.
Micheal (even):
"She killed my mother."
Not a question.
A statement.
A memory he hadn't lived—
But had always carried.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then stood.
Micheal:
"They erased him from the system."
"But not from the story."
His hand rested on the cover one last time.
Soft. Final.
Micheal:
"My father was the Echo."
"Then it's time I become the Sound."
The book sat between them like a coffin.
Elira watched him—eyes wide behind her lenses, breath shallow.
Micheal didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Then he said it—quiet, but sharp:
Micheal (flat):
"I want names."
Elira:
"Whose?"
Micheal (slow, deliberate):
"The one who killed her."
"The ones who loved him."
"The one who ran the college from the shadows."
"And the one woman who gave birth to me and never made it to the ending."
Beat.
"I want all of them."
There was something new in his voice now.
Not fire. Not fury.
Focus.
A man who had been wandering through a storm, finally finding the shape of the mountain he was meant to climb.
Elira swallowed.
Elira:
"Even if you find them…"
"What are you going to do?"
He looked at her.
Eyes darker than she'd ever seen.
No charm.
No rebellion.
Just… truth.
Micheal:
"I'm not trying to dismantle Augusta anymore."
"I'm trying to confront the woman who created it—"
"by killing someone who loved a man."
His voice tightened.
Micheal:
"They erased my mother. Turned her into a lesson. A warning."
"But I'm not a warning."
"I'm the consequence."
Elira (soft):
"Do you really think she's still here?"
Micheal nodded—once.
Certain.
Micheal:
"Someone kept this book alive."
"Someone protected the footage Mira found."
"That kind of preservation doesn't happen unless the guilty want to keep score."
He stood now.
The air felt colder around him.
Elira stood with him, hesitant.
Elira:
"You're not just looking for answers anymore, are you?"
Micheal didn't lie.
Didn't pretend.
He looked her in the eyes.
Micheal (quiet):
"I'm looking for a face."
Beat.
"The one who sent my mother to the morgue."
"And the one who thought the son would grow up blind."
He turned, already heading for the library vault.
But stopped.
Looked back once.
Micheal (low, final):
"Find the files, Elira."
"Find every woman who ever spoke to Peter Marshall."
"Every punishment. Every redacted page. Every expulsion."
Beat.
"If I'm going to confront the woman who built Augusta's lies…"
"…I need to start with the ones who helped her."
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
Not weak.
Just sharp enough to bleed.
Micheal:
"Even if they didn't pull the trigger—"
"they loaded the gun."
And then he walked out.
Not with swagger.
Not with smirk.
Just with silence.
The kind that precedes a reckoning.
He moved fast.
Elira didn't follow — she knew where he was going.
His bishop. His guide.
The only one who didn't lie to him.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
His eyes darkened.
He didn't wait a third time.
He turned the knob and walked in.
Her scent was still there — faded perfume and paper.
But she wasn't.
And in her place?
An envelope.
He froze the second he saw it.
Because he already knew.
No dust. No second copies. Just red wax. Official. Cold. Final.
He opened it.
Read it.
Then again.
And when he finished—
He didn't breathe.
Not for a full five seconds.
The letter fell from his hand like it burned him.
Transfer: Professor Leora Vance
To: Wing 0 – High Risk Supervision Unit
Effective: Immediately
By order of: Warden Council, under Madam Grayson
Micheal (low, shaking):
"She was my bishop."
His voice cracked. Not from sorrow. From pressure.
"She was mine."
And they took her.
He stepped back.
His shoulders stiff.
His chest rising faster now — sharper.
A growl flickered under his breath.
Not rage. Not yet.
Strategy.
Because now he knew something else:
The board was live.
Grayson had pieces already moving.
He was down a bishop.
He hadn't even placed his knight yet.
And Grayson was already striking.
His hands tightened at his sides.
A sharp inhale.
Micheal (through teeth):
"She's pulling strings before I've even placed mine."
"That's not control."
"That's fear."
Micheal stood frozen.
The letter still lay on the floor.
His bishop was gone.
Ripped from the board by a silent hand wearing Grayson's rings.
And just when he thought the weight couldn't deepen—
His phone buzzed.
A sharp vibration.
Too light for the weight it carried.
He pulled it out instinctively—eyes still half-lit with the burn of the last blow.
Notification:
🎥 Anjali Deyn just posted a new stream: "Let's talk about Micheal Marshall."
The air stilled.
His thumb hovered.
He tapped.
The video buffered—only for a second.
But that second?
Long enough for something in his chest to coil tighter than before.
Anjali's voice filled the space.
Bright. Clean. Public.
Anjali (on stream):
"I've tried to keep this between us. I really have. But if someone's going to manipulate loyalty and throw it around like a charm, we should call it what it is."
Pause. A breath. A practiced tremble in her voice.
Anjali:
"Micheal Marshall is obsessed with me."
A sharp cut to her face — not crying.
Perfectly framed disappointment.
Anjali (continued):
"He kissed me. Said I was his. His pawn, even. Promised me everything. And now… I see him sniffing around every other girl in this school."
Beat.
A smirk.
Just faint. Just enough.
Anjali:
"So let's be clear. If he runs to anyone else now?
He's not charming.
He's not special.
He's just a pervert.
Another desperate boy who doesn't belong here."
Video ends.
Silence.
Thicker than grief.
Micheal stared at the screen like it might rewrite itself.
It didn't.
His jaw tightened.
His breath dropped.
His voice—finally—rose.
Micheal (furious, under his breath):
"…What the hell is wrong with her?"
He stepped back.
Shoulder slammed into the edge of the bookshelf behind him.
Micheal (louder, teeth clenched):
"Why the fuck is this day trying to kill me?"
His voice echoed in the empty office.
No one there to answer.
Not Elira.
Not Professor Vance.
Not even Mira.
And Anjali?
His pawn.
The one he chose.
The one who swore loyalty.
Now she'd lit a match with his name on it—
Public. Intentional. Calculated.
He wanted to hit something.
But he didn't.
He wasn't a weapon.
Not yet.
He was still a piece on the board.
But now?
He knew who'd be first to fall.
The post had already gone viral.
Anjali's name trending.
Micheal's name—twisting.
He found her by the central arch, where influence once looked good on her.
Now, she stood alone.
Back to the wall.
Eyes unreadable.
Micheal stormed toward her.
Heat in his chest.
Ash in his throat.
Micheal (sharp, low):
"Why the hell would you say that?"
Anjali didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Micheal (louder now):
"Do you have any idea what you just did? You made it look like I'm—obsessed with you. Like I'm some freak bouncing between girls for sport."
A few students slowed their steps.
Heads turned.
Phones hovered.
Anjali raised an eyebrow—only slightly.
Anjali (calm):
"You didn't read it, did you?"
Micheal (snapping):
"Oh, I read it. Every edited, twisted word."
More heads turned.
Someone whispered.
Someone else started recording.
Anjali (quieter, firmer):
"I said I chose to be your pawn."
Micheal froze.
Anjali:
"I said goodbye to the throne. I said I wasn't above you anymore. That I was for you. That I was stepping down willingly. I wrote it with heat. With honesty."
A pause.
Anjali (cold now):
"But of course, you wouldn't see that. Not after he touched it."
Micheal (confused):
"He?"
Anjali (tight):
"Orion Kael."
The name hit.
Hard.
She folded her arms, voice low and bitter now.
Anjali:
"Every post. Every narrative. Every influencer update runs through his desk. I didn't even get a preview of what they pushed. The original video? Gone. Replaced by that edit."
Micheal's stomach dropped.
Anjali (still quiet):
"He's not a censor. He's a redirector. A pawn with a scalpel. And he just carved you up with my words."
The comments were pouring in now.
Hovering in every screen.
"Another boy trying to climb through a girl."
"Creep."
"Typical. Soft power always shows itself."
"Micheal Marshall is proof boys need supervision."
Micheal's voice fell.
Soft. Bitter.
Micheal:
"They just turned me into an example."
Anjali looked around.
Faces watching.
Laughing.
Not just at him.
At every boy.
Anjali (quietly):
"This wasn't just about me.
They made you the warning."
Micheal's hands curled into fists.
He'd played their game too loud—
Too direct.
Too emotional.
Now he was being used.
Framed.
Painted.
The crowd didn't see nuance.
Didn't know Orion Kael's name.
They only saw one thing:
A boy yelling at a girl.
A girl who looked like she was done being nice.
The crowd saw danger—and in Augusta, that meant correction.
Micheal stepped back.
Eyes dulling to realization.
He couldn't speak freely anymore.
Not here.
Not ever without risk.
Every word, every glare, every breath from now on—
Could be sliced into narrative by someone else's hands.
And Anjali?
She wasn't his enemy.
She was just another victim of the same board.
Micheal (hoarse, almost to himself):
"They've started the game.
And I'm already bleeding."
Micheal stood in the middle of the courtyard.
The crowd was dispersing, but the weight of their judgment still hung thick in the air.
Phones lowered.
Eyes lingered.
No one said a word.
He exhaled once—slow.
Not broken.
Just… colder now.
Inside his head, the pieces clicked.
They can't expel me.
Too messy. Too public.
I'm the glitch they don't want the world to see.
And Wing 0?
That wasn't a punishment—it was a containment protocol.
A destination only if the system could prove he was a threat.
Not just rebellious.
But out of control.
They needed him to snap.
To become the villain in the story they were already writing.
So instead… they aimed at what he had.
What he was building.
Bishop — gone.
Transferred "for supervision" in Wing 0.
A clean lie, printed in polished type.
Pawn — undermined.
Spun into a weapon against him.
The girl who chose him now made to look like she regrets it.
And lips of Madam Grayson whispered while looking at Michael from her Window "Checkmate"
He chuckled. Dry. Dangerous.
Micheal (under his breath):
"Elegant. Precise.
Break my pieces before I know I'm even playing."
His hands slid into his coat pockets.
His shoulders straightened.
And then, like venom wrapped in silk—
Micheal (low, smiling to himself):
"But you forgot one thing."
He looked up at the sky—so clean, so staged.
Every angle of Augusta designed to look controlled.
Micheal:
"You've pulled two moves.
Now it's my turn."
His eyes glinted.
That quiet fury wasn't rage.
It was something tighter.
More dangerous.
Intent.
Micheal (firm, to himself):
"You want me wild.
You want me reckless.
You want me to burn it all down so you can call it 'discipline.'"
He stepped down from the courtyard.
Boots hard on marble.
Micheal:
"But you'll get none of that.
You'll get precision."
He moved toward the edge of campus, past the dorms, toward the shadow corridors—
Where Mira waited.
Where Elira searched.
Where his next bishop was still out there.
Micheal (low growl in his breath):
"You made your opening.
Now watch what I do with mine."
Location: Dorm Rooftop — Midnight
Wind clawed at the edge of the rooftop, but the camera stayed steady.
Anjali held it. Not streaming. Not posturing. Just filming.
Micheal stood at the ledge—jacket flaring, face unreadable under the wash of moonlight.
Micheal (calm, slow):
"I'm requesting entry into Wing 0."
No intro. No dramatics. Just a blade drawn with surgical silence.
Micheal:
"Seven days. No special treatment. No shield. Just me.
I want to know what it's like.
To be labeled. Contained. Broken."
He turned his head slightly—like he knew where the watchers were.
Micheal:
"Some of you think I'm dangerous. A virus.
Others think I'm special. That I don't deserve punishment."
Beat.
"You're both wrong.
I'm not asking to be forgiven. I'm asking to be…understood."
Pause.
"To show you what it means to walk willingly into hell—because the fire isn't what I fear.
It's the silence that comes after."
He nodded once. Final.
Micheal (low):
"Seven days. Nothing edited. Nothing rewritten."
Anjali lowered the camera, eyes scanning his face.
Anjali (soft):
"You sure this is the only way?"
Micheal:
"It's not the only way."
Beat.
"But it's the loudest."
She didn't say another word. Just handed him the footage.
Scene: Mira's Intervention
Location: Server Room — 1:13 AM
Mira didn't look at him when he arrived. Just nodded toward the console.
Mira (flat):
"You want it uploaded clean? No filters. No redirect."
Micheal:
"Yes. Unedited. Unstoppable."
Mira:
"Once it goes up... they can't ignore it.
Wing 0 isn't a metaphor anymore. It's your coffin."
Micheal:
"Or my spotlight."
A flicker of something moved behind her eye lens.
She typed. Three keystrokes.
And the video went live.
Two Hours Later
Screens lit up everywhere.
Cafeteria. Dorm halls. Class lounges. Even restrooms.
Everyone watched the same thing:
Micheal Marshall requesting entry into the place no one returned from.
The student body shattered into two.
🟥 Group 1 — Retribution Sector:
"Let him rot. He wants it? Give him eternity. Let Wing 0 eat him alive."
🟩 Group 2 — Redemption Sector:
"Don't send him in. He's not a threat. He's a symbol. He's…ours."
Some whispered he was brave.
Others called it a stunt.
A few? They knelt.
Just to say they stood with him.
The Decision — Council Chamber, 10 AM
Grayson watched the chaos unfold like she was sipping tea at the end of the world.
The board was splintering. The institution bleeding reputation.
Council Warden (anxious):
"We can't have a campus war over one boy."
Grayson (cold):
"Then give the boy what he asked for."
Council Warden:
"Wing 0?"
Grayson:
"Seven days. No more, no less. Let the fever burn itself out."
She turned away before they saw her smirk.
Grayson (to herself):
"And when he returns…
there will be no one left to save him."
Location: Wing 0 Gate — Sunset
The hallway leading to the entrance was cleared.
No guards.
Just silence.
And a single glass door, tinted red from the inside.
Micheal walked alone. No cuffs. No warnings.
Only Mira watching from above.
Only Elira watching from behind a book she couldn't read.
The hallway lights flickered once.
Then the door slid open.
The air hit him like breath held too long—cold, sterile, watching.
But Micheal didn't flinch.
He stepped through.
And the door slammed shut behind him.
Outside, the war raged between mercy and punishment.
Inside Wing 0?
Something darker stirred.
Something even the system hadn't catalogued yet.
Because Micheal Marshall wasn't there to survive Wing 0.
He was there to break it open from the inside.
And bring his bishop back.
The door closed behind him with the sound of an execution.
No chains. No threats.
Just procedure.
Micheal stood still as two masked staff approached him—neither spoke. One held a scanner. The other, a clipboard.
The first rule of Wing 0?
You don't ask questions.
The scanner passed over his body. Front. Back. Then lower.
No devices.
No metal.
No transponders.
No hope of contact.
When they were satisfied, they offered him two items:
A tablet.
A pair of sleek black headphones.
The tablet lit up immediately—one screen, white background.
RULES:
You do not remove the headphones. Ever.
You do not skip medication. Four pills daily. No exceptions.
You do not speak unless prompted.
There was no button to press. Just a timer.
00:00:14
Ticking down.
At zero, the screen went black.
A tray opened in the wall beside him. Inside—four soft-pink pills and a paper cup of water.
Micheal didn't reach for them.
He was already watching everything.
Every corridor camera.
Every ceiling panel that blinked too softly.
Every wire running up the corner of the wall like a vein in a monster's skin.
And then—the headphones clicked on.
The voice started.
"Men exist to serve. Women exist to lead. Do not resist the natural order."
"Obedience is peace. Peace is earned through silence."
"You are here to heal. You are here to forget."
Micheal flinched slightly.
The volume was locked.
He tapped the tablet. No volume control. No menu.
Just blank.
He was trapped in someone else's sound.
Moments Later – Inner Wing
He walked forward.
Slow.
Cautious.
Each hallway looked clean. Polished. Whitewashed into submission.
It looked like a spa. Felt like a funeral.
Every door he passed was closed.
Except one.
Door 12B.
Open. Light buzzing from inside.
He turned, cautiously.
And saw her.
Scene: 12B — Soft Containment Room
Professor Leora Vance.
His bishop.
Sitting at the edge of a bed.
Her posture was upright.
Her hands folded.
But her eyes?
Empty.
Not broken.
Blunted.
Like someone had filed her thoughts down to smooth, obedient shapes.
She looked at him—and didn't react.
Until he stepped inside.
Micheal (gently):
"Professor."
Nothing.
Just the headphones on her head, playing the same loop.
The same poison.
He sat beside her. Reached out slowly—and lifted one earpiece.
Her hand snapped to his wrist.
Not violently.
Just… controlled.
Leora (flat):
"No. You can't take them off. It's the rule."
Her voice was her own.
But not whole.
Micheal (quietly):
"What is this place?"
She blinked. Once.
Then, as if something in her had permission to remember, she exhaled.
Leora (softer now):
"They call it a recovery wing."
"But it's a reformatting lab."
Beat.
Leora:
"Lucien Quell built it. Mira's father. Years ago."
"He believed resistance could be… softened."
"Through isolation. Repetition. Sensory restructuring. And… chemical reinforcement."
She glanced at the pill tray near her bed.
Didn't touch it.
Leora:
"You follow the rules. You hear the message. You take the pills."
"And after a while, you stop thinking."
"You just… agree."
Micheal:
"You're drugged."
Leora:
"Only enough to dull choice."
"Not enough to erase it."
Her voice cracked—just faintly.
Micheal leaned closer.
Micheal:
"You're still in there."
"I came here for you."
Her hand trembled.
For the first time, emotion flickered in her face.
A twitch of pain.
A flinch of something remembered.
Leora (whisper):
"You shouldn't have."
"If Bastien finds out you resisted dosage…"
Micheal:
"He'll force it?"
Leora nodded once.
Leora:
"He waits. Until you're starving."
"Then he offers you food—only if you take extra."
"Two days of that, and you'll say thank you for the leash."
She reached for his wrist again—not to stop him this time.
To warn.
Leora:
"Wing 0 doesn't kill you."
"It rewrites you."
"Into something Augusta can claim."
Final Beat
Micheal sat still.
The voice still whispered in his ears.
"Women are not tyrants. They are truths."
"Disobedience is illness. Treatment begins now."
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened.
And then—he whispered, barely audible:
Micheal:
"They want me to forget who I am."
"But I remember you."
Beat.
Micheal:
"And I'm not leaving without you."
Leora didn't speak.
She just looked at him.
Like maybe—maybe—there was still enough left inside her…
To hope.
Wing 0 – Day 2
No one spoke in Wing 0.
But everything here spoke to you.
The white walls whispered obedience.
The floors hummed with sterilized purpose.
The staff—ghosts in pressed uniforms—moved like clock hands, always on time, never hesitating.
Micheal learned quickly:
Rooms 100–150 were for containment.
Wing B housed the girls—far less of them, but treated just the same.
Cafeteria intake was controlled by time-locked pressure doors. Food came after pills, not before.
And Sector X—the place no one returned from—was always guarded by one man.
A man named Bastien Reeve.
Grayson's hidden pawn.
Not clean like Lucien Quell.
Not elegant like Orion Kael.
Bastien was brute force in skin.
Muscles wide. Voice absent.
When someone refused pills, refused protocol?
He didn't shout.
He waited.
Until the body weakened enough to obey with its stomach.
Then?
He'd pin them down. Force the pills down their throat. Three times the dose.
After that?
You didn't refuse again.
Micheal — Day 3: Starvation Protocol
He didn't take a bite.
Not one.
No meds. No food. No water from community dispensers.
Only what he could find in pipe runoff or borrow from untouched trays at night.
His lips cracked.
His stomach curled inward like it was chewing on memory.
But he didn't yield.
Because he had a plan.
That night, when the lights dimmed to "Sleep Mode," he used the metal tab from his toothbrush.
Shorted the headphone circuit. Burned it once.
Just enough to disrupt the signal—not destroy it.
Enough so it still looked whole.
The band still wrapped around his head.
The lights still blinked.
But no sound came through.
And in that silence?
He heard everything else.
The sighs of those trying not to weep.
The way Leora sometimes whispered old lectures into her own pillow.
The crackling buzz of the loop from other rooms—still playing.
He was the only one awake.
Wing 0 – Day 4
Micheal walked the halls like them now.
Still. Numb. Quiet.
But behind his eyes?
He was building a map.
Guard rotations.
Camera blind spots.
Who served what.
What hallway leaked when it rained.
And which pipes fed into the air system.
By day, he drifted.
By night, he plotted.
The more he watched, the more the system revealed itself.
Lucien Quell's surveillance design was meant for pattern recognition.
But Micheal wasn't a pattern.
He was a virus disguised as protocol.
Leora's Room, Night 4
He slipped in through the maintenance shaft.
No one checked them anymore.
Everyone here was too far gone to crawl.
She was sitting at the edge of her bed again.
Headphones on.
But the light in her eyes?
It flickered this time.
Micheal crouched in front of her.
Careful.
Slow.
He lifted one side of her headphones just a little—enough to let air in.
Micheal (quiet):
"I've stopped taking it."
"Three days. My stomach hates me, but my head is mine again."
"And these?" (he taps his headphones) "They're fried."
She blinked.
Just once.
Leora (faintly):
"You shouldn't say that out loud."
Micheal:
"Then let me whisper."
He leaned in closer. Face inches from hers.
Micheal (lower):
"I came in here for you."
"Not to be rescued. But to remember you."
She turned her head slightly.
Not enough to betray herself to the cameras.
Just enough to listen.
Micheal:
"You're still in there. You remember your name. Your mind. Your strength."
"You were my bishop before this place. And I'm not playing the rest of this game without you."
She clenched her jaw.
Her fingers trembled in her lap.
Micheal reached up—touched the side of her temple.
Just a breath.
Micheal:
"They want us empty."
"But I'm here to make you feel again."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
But her voice?
Still ironed flat.
Leora:
"If Bastien finds out…"
Micheal:
"Then he'll try."
"And he'll fail."
Beat.
Micheal:
"Because they drugged the wrong monster."
Bastien's Watch — Just Outside
Bastien stood in the corridor outside Sector X.
Watching the monitors.
One lit up brighter than the others.
Micheal—face calm. Posture perfect. Headphones still on.
Bastien grunted.
Not worried.
But curious.
Because something in that boy's gait had changed.
He wasn't walking like he was obeying.
He was walking like he was waiting.
The hum in her headphones pulsed like static.
"Girls lead. Boys follow. Love is weakness. Obedience is order."
The words were stitched into her brain now—not believed, but memorized through repetition.
Micheal watched her eyes.
Still. Dim. Focused on nothing.
But not lost.
Not yet.
He reached forward, slowly.
One hand to the back of her headphones.
The other to her jaw—light, anchoring.
Click.
A short, sharp buzz—metal scraping metal.
The same toothbrush tab that fried his circuit now touched hers.
A spark hissed.
And then—silence.
No voice.
No loop.
Just him.
Micheal (low, steady):
"You hear that?"
"That's your silence."
"That's your mind—not theirs."
She blinked.
Her pupils dilated slightly—not because of the drugs.
Because for the first time in days—she heard her own breath.
Leora opened her mouth.
But no words came.
Just a short inhale—ragged. Hollow.
Micheal leaned in, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the haze.
Micheal:
"You're my bishop."
"And I want you back."
He moved closer.
Fingers brushing her cheek—not to hold.
To remind her what touch felt like without sedation.
Micheal:
"Not as a piece. Not as leverage."
"But because you were the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn't a symptom."
"And I won't let them turn you into silence."
He paused, forehead against hers.
Breathing the same cold, sterile air.
Then—he kissed her.
Not soft.
Not slow.
Fierce. Alive. Human.
Like he was trying to burn through every layer of sedation and fear and obedience that had wrapped around her.
Her lips were cold at first.
Unmoving.
But then—
Her hand rose.
Weak.
Shaking.
But it touched his shirt.
Clutched the fabric.
Pulled.
And for the first time since she entered Wing 0—
She kissed back.
It wasn't perfect.
Her breath hitched like she forgot how to need it.
Her hands trembled like they weren't sure if this was allowed.
But when their mouths broke apart—her eyes were wet.
Still foggy. But clearing.
Leora (hoarse):
"I can…feel again."
Micheal:
"Good."
"Because I need you whole when I tear this place down."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his chest—not as a teacher.
Not as a leader.
As a survivor.
And he held her.
Not because she was fragile.
But because she was waking up.
And that?
Was dangerous.
For everyone.
She was trembling. Not from his lips—but from what it meant to feel them.
For days she hadn't truly felt anything.
But now, the dull weight in her blood was lifting. Slowly. And her clarity was crawling back.
Her lips parted.
Leora (hoarse):
"They saw us. On camera. They're coming."
Micheal's reply was soft—almost too calm.
Micheal:
"No, they're not."
She blinked. Her fingers still clung faintly to his shirt.
Leora:
"What are you talking about? They monitor everything."
Micheal turned, walked to the corner, and sat down.
He looked like a man catching his breath—but he wasn't resting.
He was timing.
Micheal's Confession
Micheal (evenly):
"There's a book in the library. You know it."
"The House of Names."
Leora flinched. Familiar.
Micheal:
"A boy. A woman in Wing 0. A message passed through walls. A death. A collapse."
"Everyone called it fiction."
He looked up now, meeting her eyes.
Micheal (quiet):
"But it wasn't."
Leora (barely breathing):
"I taught that book…"
Micheal (firm):
"And now you realize—it's a record."
Revelation
Micheal:
"She was sent here. Just like you."
"But even from this hole, she sent a command."
"She got her rival killed. From the inside."
"And I don't want death."
"I want control."
2 Days Ago (Flashback)
He'd found the pipe by accident.
A whisper of air in a place where everything else was still.
He knelt beside the wall.
Dry metal. Hollow.
And most importantly—silent.
The sound didn't echo. It traveled.
And that was the key.
Wing 0 — Professor Leora's Room
The door was still closed.
The air was still cold.
But for the first time in days, Leora Vance's eyes didn't look numb.
They looked awake.
Still trembling from the kiss, her hand brushing over her lips like they still carried his warmth.
And then—
Her voice broke the silence.
Leora (urgent):
"They'll come. Cameras saw us. The systems always see."
Micheal stepped back, calm, unrushed. But not dismissive.
He just… smiled.
Micheal (quietly):
"No, Professor. They won't."
Leora (narrowed eyes):
"How can you know that?"
Micheal:
"Because I've been planning this since the first night."
He took a breath, stepping closer. The room swallowed his voice, like it wanted to hear.
Scene Transition: His Voice Low, Calm, Intentional
Micheal:
"I read a book before I got here. Hidden at the bottom of the banned stack in the West Library."
"It was called The House of Names."
Leora's eyes widened—barely—but enough.
Leora (soft):
"That book… it's fictional."
Micheal (shaking his head):
"No, Professor. That book is a warning in disguise."
Flashback: Elira's Voice, Her Hands on the Book
Elira sliding the book across the table, the weight of its spine heavier than history.
Whispers between the pages.
The girl in Wing 0.
The message to the pawn who carried out end of my mother
Back to Scene — Leora's Realization
Her voice came low now. Shaken.
Leora:
"That was real?"
Micheal:
"It wasn't just real. It's repeating."
"And if she—my Mother's killer—could pass a message to her pawn from inside Wing 0…"
"…then I can do the same. Right now."
Day 2 (flashback) Washroom – The Dry Pipes
Micheal's footsteps echoed down the metal corridor. Not toward the exit. Not toward escape.
But to the one place Wing 0 didn't track.
The washroom.
And in the far-left stall—he found them.
The pipes.
Three ran the length of the tiled wall.
Two vibrated faintly—water flow.
But the third?
Dry.
Dead-silent.
Micheal (V.O.):
"In Anjali's corridor… I remembered the sound."
"A metal clink. An echo. Something underground. Dry pipes."
"The layout finally made sense."
"Because Wing 0 isn't a bunker outside the college."
"It's a spine. Built directly beneath it."
Quick Blueprint Flash — Mental Mapping
Voiceover (Micheal):
"Her corridor runs above this sector. Clean. Empty. Unmonitored."
"And that pipe? It stretches straight under it."
Tapping the Message
Micheal crouched beside the pipe, fingers poised.
He didn't knock randomly.
He tapped in rhythm.
Pauses.
Repetition.
It was the morse code saying SOS.
He waited.
One minute.
Two.
Then—he heard it.
Not tapping.
A voice.
Distorted by metal.
But unmistakable.
Anjali.
"Micheal?"
He smiled.
Micheal (softly, toward the pipe):
"Thought you'd never pick up."
A long pause on the other end.
"How… how did you find this line?"
Micheal:
"The same way you once tried to use it. To climb."
"Now it's my turn to use it. To burn."
Scene: Back in Leora's Room — Revelation
Leora (whispers):
"You're passing information."
Micheal:
"No. I'm passing the strategy."
He looked at her now—eyes fierce, hands steady.
Micheal:
"I came here willingly. For you."
"But I knew you'd be drugged. Numbed. Lost."
He took her hand.
Micheal:
"So I started learning. Mapping. Listening."
"I haven't eaten in three days. I haven't taken their pills."
He touched his temple, lifting the headphones he wore like a crown of submission.
Micheal:
"I burned the circuit inside these.
Let them think I was one of them.
But all I've been hearing… is their weakness."
Leora's Voice Breaks — Fear Returns
Leora:
"But now that they know… they'll send someone."
Micheal (low, confident):
"Let them."
"Because they're late."
He turned toward the door.
"By the time they reach me…"
He looked back, brushing her cheek gently.
"The message will already be delivered."
"And Mira will know where to aim the knife."
The air was still.
Too still.
And for once… that wasn't a threat.
Professor Leora Vance stood near the far wall, arms wrapped around herself like the warmth of his voice hadn't quite reached her skin yet.
She wasn't shaking.
She was waiting.
For doubt.
For consequences.
For the pounding boots of some brutal enforcer crashing through the door.
But…
Nothing came.
No alarms.
No footsteps.
No voice screaming her name through a speaker.
Just stillness.
And then—
Micheal stepped toward her.
His steps didn't echo like before.
Didn't stomp like a declaration.
They were quiet.
Intentional.
Like everything he did now was tuned to the rhythm of something deeper than rebellion.
Her voice came first, barely a whisper.
Leora:
"They haven't come yet…"
He reached for her—no urgency, no heat.
Just hands steadying gently at her arms.
Micheal (low):
"That's because Mira's loop is holding."
"She's feeding the system a lie—us sleeping in our cots. Still. Numb. Silent."
"They think we're broken."
"But right now…"
He pulled her into his arms.
Careful. Close.
A breath passed between them—hers catching.
His grounding.
Micheal:
"…we're invisible."
"Which means I can make you whole tonight."
Her chest rose against his.
And for the first time in days—
She felt it.
Not the chemicals humming in her bloodstream.
Not the echo of indoctrination looping in her mind.
But the one thing she hadn't been allowed to feel since they'd dragged her to Wing 0:
Presence.
Real.
Human.
Warm.
She exhaled, her hands slowly finding the fabric of his shirt—not to grip, not to hold—
To remember.
That she still could.
Leora (soft):
"You shouldn't risk this."
Micheal:
"I'm not risking."
"I'm choosing."
He brushed a hand behind her ear, fingertips trailing the edge of the old headphone scar she didn't even realize she'd kept touching.
Micheal:
"They wanted you muted."
"But I don't want a version of you…"
"I want you."
Their foreheads touched.
No urgency.
No fireworks.
Just quiet thunder building in the center of a storm they were finally ready to walk through together.
He didn't kiss her yet.
Not this time.
He waited.
Waited until her breath stopped being hesitant.
Until her fingers stopped questioning whether she had the right to touch him.
And when she leaned in first—
He let her come home to her body.
The silence hadn't broken.
But her breath had.
It came shallow now—not weak, but changed.
Not from fear.
Not from the drugs.
But from him.
Micheal's hands didn't roam.
They remembered.
Traced the history of a woman the system tried to forget.
His fingertips moved slow, lazy even, across the plane of her back—barely-there shapes under the fabric of her thin institutional blouse.
Circles.
Lines.
A rhythm he didn't rush.
Like he was spelling a message directly into her skin.
Her body tensed—just once.
Then melted.
The serum in her veins—designed to numb, to erase, to flatten—twitched against the rising heat pooling low in her stomach.
And for the first time since she'd been locked in Wing 0…
The chemicals didn't win.
Because something stronger was happening.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
But slow. Inevitable.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him tighter—not from weakness, but from a need that had shape now.
Leora (hoarse):
"They told me I was... past this. That feeling was just noise."
Micheal (near her ear):
"Then let's make noise."
He kissed her.
Not a tease. Not a claim.
But a pull.
Her lips parted and he answered—
Tongue slow. Warm. Certain.
It wasn't a clash.
It was an undoing.
Each breath he stole from her wasn't theft—it was a gift wrapped in want.
Her hands slid down now, brushing over the curve of his waist. Not unsure. Just real.
And his response?
A soft growl in the back of his throat.
He pushed her gently—not hard—until her back met the wall, cold tile shocking against her spine.
But she didn't flinch.
Because his palm came up instantly, landing flat just beside her head.
Anchoring.
Framing her.
Micheal:
"Feel that?"
His free hand dropped, tracing the edge of her hip. Slow. Burning.
Micheal (whispered):
"That's your blood fighting back."
His fingers slid under the hem of her shirt—not invasive, just warm and waiting.
Her skin jumped.
Not from fear.
From clarity.
Because even with the drugs twisting her neurons, this wasn't a command.
It was a reintroduction.
To her own body.
To the fire they tried to drown.
To wanting.
And wanting on her terms.
Leora (breathless):
"You shouldn't be able to make me feel this…"
Micheal:
"Then blame the part of you they couldn't reach."
He leaned in again—slower this time.
Dragging his mouth along her jaw, down her neck, to the spot just under her ear where her pulse betrayed her.
A kiss there—
Soft.
Deep.
Lingering.
She gasped. Sharp. Raw.
Her knees nearly gave out.
But his thigh was already there, braced between hers.
Her body folded forward, chest pressing flush to his.
Every nerve lit.
Every inch of her unfreezing from the inside out.
She could feel the ache now—between her thighs, behind her breath, under every part of her skin that remembered how to tremble.
The system had muted her.
But he was tuning her back in.
One breath at a time.
And as his hand rose again—
Sweeping up her ribs, stopping just beneath the soft curve of her breast—
She grabbed his wrist.
Not to stop him.
But to feel it with him.
To show him her body wasn't shutting down.
It was waking up.
Leora (against his lips):
"Then take me."
Micheal (low):
"No."
He kissed her again—harder now.
Then pulled back just enough.
Micheal:
"I'll never take you."
"But I'll give you everything."
Her breath shook.
And then her voice broke—
But not with fear.
Leora:
"Then give it to me. All of it."
Leora's fingers trembled—not from hesitation.
From release.
The drugs hadn't numbed her completely.
Not yet.
And now?
They were melting.
One button at a time, she unfastened her shirt, slow and silent—until the fabric fell open, sliding off her shoulders like it didn't belong to her anymore.
She didn't break eye contact.
Not for a second.
She stood there—bare from the waist up, bathed in the pale blue of institutional light, skin flushed with returning life.
No shame.
No fear.
Just need.
Leora (low, firm):
"I don't care if it's give or take."
"I just want it to be you."
Her voice didn't shake.
Her body did.
But not from weakness—from the violence of wanting after being kept still for too long.
Micheal didn't hesitate.
Didn't pretend he wasn't undone by the sight of her—shoulders exposed, chest rising with shallow breaths, nipples taut from the cold or from the blazing proximity of him. Maybe both.
He stepped forward.
One hand reached between them—calm, unhurried—and he began to unbutton his shirt.
Each pop of fabric echoed louder than any scream.
When it was open, he let it fall behind him, sleeves trailing off like chains breaking.
Now skin met skin.
Warm. Alive. Real.
The moment her bare chest brushed his, she gasped—a sound caught between shock and hunger.
And he felt it too.
How her body surged toward him.
How his hand cupped the back of her neck.
How his lips found hers again, more desperate this time.
Not just a kiss.
A collision.
Tongues tangled.
Breath collided.
Their chests pressed so tightly together, she could feel his heartbeat thundering through her ribs.
One of his hands moved down—fingertips grazing along her waist, then her hip, then lower, where her body pulsed hotter than her breath could explain.
Her nails dug into his back.
He groaned—low and dangerous.
Micheal (against her lips):
"Tell me if you want to stop."
Leora (panting):
"Don't you fucking dare."
His hands moved faster now.
One lifting her thigh to wrap around his waist, the other trailing up her spine, fingers dancing along her shoulder blades in that same lazy rhythm—
Except now it wasn't a message.
It was a trigger.
And she was coming alive under him.
Her back arched.
Her breath hitched.
Her head dropped back with a sound that couldn't be taught.
He didn't just touch her. He woke her.
She felt his mouth trail down—along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone. Each kiss left a mark. A burn. A memory carved into muscle and skin.
When his lips closed around her breast—hot, wet, consuming—she nearly buckled.
Her fingers found his hair.
Pulled.
He groaned again—not from pain.
From permission.
Micheal (murmured):
"They tried to make you forget this."
"Let me remind you."
He kissed lower now.
Her body pressed harder into his.
And the more he gave?
The more she took.
But not with desperation.
With reclamation.
She pulled him back up, locking lips again—this time harder, more demanding, more her.
Their bodies weren't dancing anymore.
They were devouring.
Clothes dropped.
Heat surged.
And in the middle of Wing 0—the coldest, quietest, most drugged part of Augusta—
A woman made numb by the system cried out into the mouth of the only man who dared to hold her like she was more than function.
She wasn't surviving anymore.
She was feeling.
And Micheal?
He didn't need power.
He needed her.
And she gave all of it.
Because this time, Leora Vance didn't want to be saved.
She wanted to be seen.
And in Micheal's arms?
She was home.
Her shirt lay discarded.
His breath was ragged.
And Leora Vance — once so measured, so sharp — was now pressed against Micheal like the system had kept her starving for this.
Not attention.
Not obedience.
But intimacy.
She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his pants — fierce, wordless, eyes blazing.
She didn't wait for him to lead.
This time, she pushed him.
Back toward the bed.
Back onto the cold, regulation mattress that had never felt heat like this.
She climbed over him — not timid. Not asking.
Claiming.
Her thighs on either side of his waist. Her hands braced against his chest. Her breath hitting his lips, sharp and searing.
Leora (hoarse, electric):
"I've broken every rule for you already."
"So don't expect me to stop now."
And then she kissed him—no hesitation, no pause.
Mouth crashing into his like she'd been chained for years and just tasted air.
His hands roamed her waist, her back, lower—gripping her like she might vanish, like he needed to memorize every inch before the system pulled her away again.
But she was not going anywhere.
Not tonight.
She pressed her chest to his—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—and after undoing his trouser, she sat on erection only for him to dig himself deeper in her, slow, testing.
He groaned.
Her body responded—hot, desperate, pulsing.
She moved again.
And again.
Deliberate.
Unapologetic.
Her hair fell from its once-perfect bun—wild strands framing her face as her rhythm built.
Her nails dragged down his chest, leaving red lines that would scream the truth long after this moment passed.
Micheal (voice low, wrecked):
"Leora…"
Leora (gasping):
"Say it again."
"Say my name like it means something."
So he did.
He moaned it.
He groaned it.
He said it like a secret he'd never let anyone else have.
And she shattered.
Not into silence.
Into sound.
She rode him harder now—drugs be damned.
System be damned.
Pain, fear, rules, shame—burned away beneath her hips.
Every thrust was rebellion.
Every cry was proof she could still feel.
Every climax closer was a scream against numbness.
And when she finally broke—body spasming, voice rising, head thrown back—it wasn't pretty.
It was primal.
Leora (screaming):
"I'm still ALIVE!"
She collapsed against him, trembling—shoulder pressed to his, her breath catching on the edge of sob and laughter.
But he wasn't done.
Micheal (gritted):
"I'm not letting you go numb again."
He flipped her gently onto her back—a shift, not a demand.
And then he worshipped her.
He crawl down on her
His kissing every inch in the way
His mouth between her legs.
His hands holding her thighs wide.
His tongue drawing sounds out of her she'd forgotten she could make.
Every flick. Every slow swirl.
Precision.
He wasn't proving dominance.
He was giving her remembrance.
And when she came again—louder, wetter, helpless—her hand gripped the back of his head like she needed him anchored to her forever.
Leora (choked):
"I didn't remember what it felt like…"
Micheal (against her thigh):
"Now you'll never forget."
He climbed up back on her.
And this time he made her feel how it likes to be one again.
Her Legs Wrapped instantly around his waist
She couldn't help but whimper his name
Asking for more, making him to mark her
And once he start moving there was nothing stopping them
Despite her legs wrapped tightly around his wait, she cant' resist shaking them
Her body was rejecting every thought of stopping now
And this time both of them were getting edge of climax
The repetition of words asking to not stop
The music of squishy noise, with the song of her moans with the tone of bed squeaking grown louder when they got to climax
He fell on her
Draped her in the discarded sheet.
And held her.
Real.
Warm.
Present.
And in that brutal, aching silence that followed—neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
Because in that one night?
She wasn't his bishop.
She wasn't his piece.
She was his equal.
And for the first time in her entire time at Augusta—
Leora Vance didn't feel like faculty.
She felt like a woman.
Whole.
Unnumbed.
Undeniable.