Xavier didn't slow his pace.
He moved through the hallways like he had somewhere better to be, long strides, shoulders set, expecting me to keep up without comment. I adjusted my grip on my bag and matched him step for step, refusing to ask him to slow down on principle.
"This is the east wing," he said without looking back. "Classrooms, labs. You've probably already seen most of it."
"I've been here less than eight hours," I replied. "So… no."
He glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. "Then pay attention."
Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.
We passed rows of glass-fronted classrooms, students inside hunched over tablets and notebooks. Everything here looked expensive. Intentional. Like mistakes weren't allowed to exist.
"Library's upstairs," Xavier continued. "Quiet zone. You talk, you get kicked out."
"That sounds welcoming," I said.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "It's not."
I bit back a smile.
He stopped abruptly in front of a wide staircase, forcing me to halt just short of bumping into him. He turned, arms crossed, expression flat.
"You always this sarcastic," he asked, "or is that just for me?"
"I don't know you well enough to customize my personality yet."
For a moment, he just stared at me. Not amused. Not angry. Measuring.
"Fair," he said finally, then turned and kept walking.
The library was exactly what I expected—quiet to the point of reverence, sunlight spilling across long tables, shelves stretching higher than seemed necessary. I paused just inside the doorway, absorbing it.
"Don't fall asleep in here," Xavier muttered. "They'll write you up."
"I don't sleep in public places," I said.
He scoffed. "Everyone does eventually."
Something in his tone made me glance at him, but he was already moving on.
We crossed the courtyard next, the air warm and bright. Students lounged on benches, some studying, others pretending to. A few glanced our way, curiosity flickering when they noticed who I was walking with.
I ignored it.
"Cafeteria's over there," Xavier said, pointing vaguely. "Food's overpriced. Don't ask me why."
"Do you eat here?" I asked.
"No."
"Figures."
He stopped again, this time slower, deliberate. Turned to face me fully.
"You always comment on things you don't know anything about?"
I met his gaze evenly. "Only when they comment first."
For a second, I thought he might snap back. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away.
"This was a mistake," he muttered.
"I didn't ask for this either," I said quietly.
That earned me another look—longer this time. Something unreadable flickered there, then disappeared.
"Administration loves assigning charity work," he said. "Makes them feel balanced."
I stiffened. "I'm not—"
"I didn't say you were," he cut in, already walking again. "Relax."
The gym entrance came into view, and my legs protested with a dull ache I tried to ignore. I slowed for half a step, just enough for him to notice.
"You okay?" he asked, irritation edging his voice.
"Yes."
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound convincing."
"I didn't realize I needed to."
Another pause. Another stare.
"You're exhausting," he said.
"That makes two of us."
We stopped outside the main building again, tour looping back toward where we'd started. Xavier checked his watch, jaw tightening.
"That's pretty much it," he said. "You'll figure out the rest."
"Thank you," I said, and meant it despite everything.
He hesitated, like he hadn't expected that.
"Yeah," he replied. "Whatever."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Try not to get lost," he added. "This place doesn't wait for people."
I watched him walk away, posture rigid, patience visibly frayed.
And as much as I hated to admit it, one thought lingered long after he disappeared into the crowd:
Xavier Atlas wasn't cruel.
Not yet.
But he was already dangerous in ways I didn't fully understand.
...
The rest of the day passed the way storms do when you're watching from indoors—fast, loud, and slightly unreal.
Classes blurred together. Names, faces, rules I barely registered. I answered questions when called on, took notes automatically, nodded at instructions that felt distant. Every now and then, my mind drifted back to the way Xavier Atlas walked away, shoulders tense, like he'd been counting down the minutes since we'd been paired.
I told myself it didn't matter.
By the final bell, exhaustion sat heavy in my limbs. Not the kind sleep fixed. The kind you learned to carry.
The bus ride home was quieter. I leaned my head against the window, watching the city change from polished buildings to familiar cracked sidewalks. My chest felt tight again, pressure blooming slowly until I focused on breathing through it.
Home smelled like laundry detergent and reheated soup.
Mom was already there, shoes kicked off by the door, scrubs wrinkled, hair pulled loose. She looked up when I entered, a tired smile crossing her face.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Fine," I said. "Long."
She nodded like she understood exactly what that meant.
I dropped my bag by the couch and went to the kitchen to grab water. That's when I saw it.
An envelope sat on the counter, stark white against the worn surface. The return address made my stomach sink.
Final Notice.
Mom noticed my pause.
"It came this afternoon," she said quietly.
I picked it up, fingers trembling despite myself. I didn't open it. I didn't need to. I already knew what it said.
"How much?" I asked.
She exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair. "More than last time."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"I can take more shifts," I said automatically. "I can ask for extra hours at the café. Maybe the tutoring—"
"Aylia," she interrupted gently. "You're already doing too much."
I shook my head. "I'm fine."
She looked at me then. Really looked. Her eyes softened, worry settling in deeper lines she pretended weren't there.
"You said that last time," she said. "And the time before that."
I swallowed, forcing my voice steady. "We don't have a choice."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
"I don't want this life for you," she said finally. "You should be focusing on school. On being eighteen."
I managed a weak smile. "I am. This is just… part of it."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Your father would be proud of you."
The words hit harder than the letter ever could.
I nodded, because if I spoke, I would break.
Later that night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, the day replaying in fragments—hallways, lockers, laughter that didn't belong to me. A name I hadn't meant to remember.
Xavier Atlas.
I pushed the thought away, rolling onto my side.
Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.
And I had learned a long time ago that survival didn't wait for comfort.