Cruel Heirs Of The Circle

Lydia.

“Can you believe it? We’re actually here!”

My roommate, Sarah, spun in a circle, her arms thrown wide. The tiny dorm room barely contained her enthusiasm. It smelled like fresh paint and cheap wood.

“I can believe it,” I said. I dropped my single duffel bag by the door. It landed with a soft, heavy thud.

“This is going to be the best year ever,” she chirped, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I was thinking we could hang fairy lights here. And maybe a tapestry over there to cover up that weird stain.”

I walked to the window, ignoring her decorating plans. I tested the latch. It was flimsy.

“The lock is weak,” I noted.

Sarah stopped bouncing. “The lock? Who cares about the lock? We’re on the third floor. Look at the view of the quad!”

“The third floor is accessible. A drainpipe runs right beside the window. The view makes us an easy target for anyone with binoculars.”

She stared at me, her smile faltering. “An easy target? For what? Rogue squirrels?”

“For anything.” I turned from the window and scanned the room again. The desk chair was solid oak. Heavy enough. The lamp on the nightstand had a weighted base. Also good.

“You’re… really practical, aren’t you?” Sarah said, trying to recover her good mood.

“It pays to be.”

“Okay, well, practical person, we are going to the freshman mixer tonight. It’s non negotiable. I heard half the lacrosse team will be there.”

“I don’t like crowds.”

“It’s not a crowd, it’s a party! Come on, Lydia. It’s our first night. We have to make a good impression.”

“You go,” I said, turning towards the door. “Make an impression for both of us.”

“Where are you going? It’s getting dark.”

“For a walk. I need to know the layout.”

“The layout of what? The campus? They give you a map for that.”

“Maps don’t show you everything,” I said, and closed the door behind me before she could argue further.

The air outside was cool. Students laughed in large, loud groups, their voices echoing off the old stone buildings. They moved like a herd, huddled together for safety and belonging. I walked the other way, towards the quiet perimeter of the campus.

An alley cut between the back of the library and a townie bar. A shortcut. My father always said the shortest path is often the most dangerous.

Good. Danger was the only thing that made me feel less bored.

I was halfway down the narrow passage when a figure stepped out from behind a dumpster, blocking my path.

He was tall, wearing a Saint Aethelgard letterman jacket. A senior, probably. He had the easy confidence of someone who thought he owned the world, or at least this little corner of it.

“Well, look what we have here,” he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “A little lamb, strayed from the flock.”

I stopped. I didn’t speak.

“Are you lost, freshman?” he asked, taking a step closer. The alley lights glinted off a championship ring on his finger.

“No,” I said. My voice was flat.

“I think you are. See, this is my alley. And there’s a toll to pass through.” He took another step. He was trying to use his size to intimidate me, crowding my space.

“I’m not paying,” I said simply.

He chuckled, a low, arrogant sound. “Oh, you’ll pay. Give me your phone. Your wallet too. Let’s call it a… welcome donation.”

“Let me guess. You’re the captain of some sports team. Used to being the biggest guy in the room. You think that makes you strong.”

His smirk tightened. “I am strong. And you’re about to find that out if you don’t do exactly what I say.”

“I’ll give you one chance to walk away,” I told him. My hands remained loose at my sides.

“That’s my line,” he growled, his patience finally snapping. He lunged, reaching for my shoulder.

It was pathetic.

I pivoted on my heel, letting his momentum carry him past me. My hand shot out, not to block, but to grip his wrist. I twisted. He screamed as the bone snapped with a wet crack.

He stumbled, clutching his arm, his face a mask of shock and pain.

“My wrist! You broke my wrist!”

I didn’t answer. I just swept my leg out, hooking his ankle. He went down hard, his head bouncing off the grimy pavement with a hollow thud.

He groaned, all the fight gone, replaced by whimpering.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, don’t.”

I looked down at him, this supposed predator, now just a boy crying in the dirt. I felt nothing. Not pity, not anger. Only the familiar, crushing weight of disappointment.

“Get up,” I ordered.

He scrambled backward, away from me. “I’m sorry! I was just kidding around! It’s just… freshman hazing!”

“This was you hazing me?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

“Yes! Yes! That’s all!”

“You have two seconds to disappear before I break the other one.”

He didn’t need a second warning. He clambered to his feet and ran, stumbling and crying, back the way he came.

The alley was silent again, save for the distant hum of campus life. I stood there for a moment, the adrenaline already fading, leaving the boredom in its place.

Then I heard it.

A slow, deliberate clap.

It wasn't loud. It wasn’t mocking. It was… appreciative.

My head snapped up. On a wrought iron balcony on the second floor of the library’s old wing, a figure leaned against the railing. He was cloaked in shadow, but I could see the silhouette of broad shoulders and the faint glow of a cigarette ember.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, the orange tip illuminating a sharp jawline and a mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.

He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t scared. He looked amused. He looked like he’d just watched his favorite team score the winning point.

A cold spark ignited in my chest, a feeling I hadn’t had in years. Recognition.

Our eyes met across the distance. In his gaze, I saw the same stillness, the same coiled danger that lived inside me.

This one, I realized with a jolt that was almost pleasurable, was not prey.