The scent of old books, sweat, and cheap sanitizer clung to the halls of Blackridge University's dormitory wing like a warning. Zara Quinn gripped her suitcase tighter, dragging it behind her with one stubborn wheel that kept twisting sideways.
She stopped in front of the door marked Room 304 and double-checked the number for the third time.
"Co-ed dorms aren't allowed. It must be a mistake," she'd told the Resident Advisor earlier that evening.
But the girl had shrugged, chewing gum like she was on break at a gas station.
"Your name's on the file. Room 304. Take it up with Housing if you've got an issue—when they reopen next week."
So here she was. A scholarship student from a nowhere town, holding a secondhand suitcase and a sinking feeling in her gut.
She took a breath and knocked.
No answer.
Zara tried the doorknob. It creaked open. The room inside was dim, lit only by slats of moonlight through half-closed blinds. She stepped in slowly, her sneakers silent on the tile.
Two beds. One already made, with sheets tangled and a hoodie thrown carelessly on top. A guitar leaned against the corner. There was a faint metallic scent in the air—iron? Or rust?
She wheeled her bag inside and closed the door behind her.
This can't be permanent. I'll fix it tomorrow. One night. Just one night.
She stepped into the bathroom to splash her face—and froze.
A hoodie was hanging on the back of the door.
Dark. Damp.
Blood smeared across the sleeve.
She stumbled back into the room just as the door behind her swung open hard.
A tall figure stepped in, shoulders broad, hair tousled like he'd just come from a fight. His black shirt clung to his chest, and his knuckles were red and scraped.
The moment he saw her, his eyes narrowed.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said flatly.
Zara's mouth opened, but no words came.
"Who gave you this room?"
She swallowed hard. "The housing office. They said—there was a mix-up…"
He exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed. He stepped past her, grabbed the bloodied hoodie off the hook, and stuffed it in a gym bag.
"You saw nothing. And if you did—forget it."
Zara blinked. "Wait—what happened to your hand?"
Cain slung the bag over his shoulder. His voice dropped into a warning growl.
"Don't ask. Don't follow. Stay out of my way."
Then he was gone.
She didn't sleep.
Every creak in the hall, every thud of footsteps outside the door, made her flinch. Her side of the room still had no sheets, so she lay curled on her bag with her hoodie over her body like a blanket.
At 3:17 a.m., the door opened softly. She didn't turn. She heard him step in, walk past her, and sit on the edge of his bed.
Then… silence.
Except for the whispering.
Low. Muffled. He was on the phone.
"I took care of it… No, she didn't see anything. Just some dumb freshman. I'll handle it."
Zara pressed her eyes shut.
The Next Morning
Cain was gone by the time she opened her eyes. His bed was made. His hoodie and gym bag gone. As if the night before had been a dream.
The room smelled faintly of cologne and something… burnt.
She changed quickly and rushed to her first class. Blackridge's campus was sprawling, but she'd memorized the map. Zara liked order. Structure. Things that made sense.
Which is why Cain Morello did not.
At lunch, she sat alone in the cafeteria, staring at a bowl of instant noodles. Conversations buzzed around her—gossip, complaints, laughter.
"Hey. You're the girl from Room 304, right?"
Zara looked up.
A petite girl with red braids and silver nose rings sat across from her. "I'm Eliah. Journalism major. But more importantly… I have questions."
Zara blinked. "About…?"
"Cain. You're his roommate now. I didn't think they were still assigning people to that room after—" she paused. "Never mind."
Zara frowned. "After what?"
Eliah leaned in, whispering like it was state secrets.
"Last year, there was this girl. Room 304. She dropped out mid-semester. Vanished, actually. Some say she left after a breakdown. Others say… Cain had something to do with it."
Zara stiffened. "That's just a rumor, right?"
Eliah smiled thinly. "Blackridge doesn't do rumors. It buries them."
That Night
Cain came in late again. She was at her desk, pretending to read.
He didn't acknowledge her at first. Just kicked off his boots, yanked off his shirt, and collapsed onto his bed.
His back was covered in scars. Some old. Some fresh.
Zara found herself staring, then quickly looked away.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Silence.
Then:
"You really don't know how to stay quiet, do you?"
"I'm trying," she replied, voice small.
He turned his head, just enough to meet her eyes. "Then try harder."
The Days That Followed
The routine became familiar:
Cain came and went at odd hours.
Zara kept her head down.
Whispers followed her in hallways.
Someone pinned a sticky note to her dorm door:
"Careful. He eats girls like you."
Cain ignored it. Or maybe he didn't see. But one night, he came home angry. His eyes darker than usual.
He slammed his bag down.
"Who's been talking to you?"
"What?"
"Someone told you something. About me. What was it?"
Zara stood slowly. "People talk. But I don't believe them."
He stepped closer. "Why not?"
She swallowed. "Because you haven't done anything to me."
He stared at her like she'd said something wrong. Then he said quietly:
"You should stop waiting for people to hurt you. That's how they win."
A Week Later
Zara returned from class and found Cain asleep—head on his desk, phone buzzing beside him. A message popped up on his screen:
"Warehouse. Midnight. Bring the knife. Alone."
Her blood went cold.
Chapter End Hook:
Zara stands at the door of Room 304, holding her phone, debating whether to take a screenshot of the message.
Before she can decide, Cain's voice pierces the silence.
"If you ever touch my phone again, you'll wish you hadn't."
She turns—and finds him awake, watching her. Not angry. Not shouting.
Just... wounded.
And deadly serious.