Tick. Tock.
The wall clock resumed its usual stride, but if it had a face, it would've scowled at the professor.
"Gobshite time-scammer!" It'd then spit at him in a sudden Irish accent.
The class couldn't relate. A few seconds ago, half of them had no problem unleashing their inner racists. Now, every mouth was shut, every brain unified in one collective thought:
What the hell just happened?
Because a man had just appeared. No footsteps, no warning, nothing. Just blink!, and there he was.
He stood tall and composed, dark coat hanging off broad shoulders. Late-thirties, maybe—handsome in a way that felt hypnotic. His face bore sharp, balanced features: a strong nose and a jawline that could probably file glass. His body was sturdy in the lean, efficient way that came from real use rather than vanity.
His hair was black, neatly styled, with clean tufts of silver. A black eye-patch covered his left eye; the other was pitch black, framed by visible eyebags that made him look tired and very awake at the same time. (The classic FCA instructor look.)
When he shrugged off his black tweed coat, smooth muscles flexed beneath his shirt. Pale scars traced along his forearms, visible now, like whispers of battles long past. Somewhere in the back, a girl audibly forgot how lungs worked.
He tossed the coat onto the lectern, rolled up his sleeves, and surveyed the classroom.
He was met with… a third-rate circus?
Desks were scattered like battlefield debris. Chairs overturned. Notebooks, pens, and dignity strewn across the floor. His gaze paused at a single pen lying pitifully near the board—the same rainbow-unicorn pen someone had hurled during the chaos.
He crouched slightly, picked it up, and twirled it between gloved fingers with the weary air of a man evaluating the world's smallest disappointment.
A ripple of awkward whispers filled the air.
"The heck?"
"Whose goofy ass pen is that?"
"Is that… glitter ink?"
"Damn it, this person is trying to doom us all."
Dimitri looked back to the sea of tense faces. "Did I," he asked in a calm voice, "miss an important event?"
The calm in his tone wasn't soothing anyone's nerves.
Students glanced at each other, guilt shared like a contagious disease. They'd acted out of place, and everyone knew it. Fearcraft Academy was for competing through Imprints, intellect, and prestige—not through ugly, inherited slurs.
More than anything, they hoped the professor hadn't heard a single word.
One particular student had gone pale enough to qualify as a ghost. Head down, he chewed his nails like they owed him rent.
'He couldn't have heard what I said about Chrominents, right? Shit, I'm screwed. I didn't know he was a time-bender! If he asks, I'll just deny it. Yeah. Nothing to be afraid of…'
At the front, Aluminum Bergō stood frozen, still processing the previous trailer of chaos. First, his classmates had turned on him for daring to impose order. Then they'd turned on each other, vomiting centuries of prejudice like it was an extracurricular activity.
Stargate, Dreamsdale's capital, was supposed to be a hub of racial unity—a symbol of post-Cataclysm cooperation. Instead, Aluminum had just witnessed its miniature version implode over cafeteria-level insults.
He didn't need his "disgusting" mirrors to see how two-faced they all were.
Professor Dimitri Fade's one visible eye drifted over the class. Then, in the most anticlimactic voice imaginable, he said:
"Clean the mess."
The culprits jolted into motion. Chairs straightened, notebooks stacked, debris vanished. Even the air seemed to spritz itself with perfume. Those who hadn't joined the brawl quietly opened their notebooks.
Dimitri's gaze finally landed on Aluminum. The boy, catching it, straightened his back and bowed crisply.
"We were expecting you, sir. I sincerely apologize for the mess. I assure you, it will not happen again."
"Mm." Dimitri's reply was a single syllable of pure indifference. He tossed the unicorn pen at Aluminum. The instruction was clear: return it or don't, either way, get it out of my sight.
Aluminum fumbled, and the pen should have clattered to the floor—but it slowed in front of his face, like the air had thickened. He pinched it from the air, eyes snapping back to Dimitri, awestruck.
"Return to your seat," Dimitri said, already turning toward the board.
"Yes, sir." Aluminum nodded, heading back at once.
Dimitri pulled a marker from his pocket, popped it, and began to write on the board in barely legible, jagged strokes:
(Prof.) Dimitri Fade
ESC 106 – Escape Doors (Exit Mapping Fundamentals)
His handwriting looked like it had time-traveled through three realities and barely survived the trip.
"I reckon a proper introduction is due," he said, turning back to them. "I am Dimitri. Specialist in Temporal Architecture and Recursive Portals. Former lead researcher for the Council's Time-loop Stability Division. My academic thesis covered the Fracture Point of Chronal Portals and Their Application in Dreamer Extraction."
A few students blinked, already lost at "temporal." Others mouthed Council researcher?! with reverent horror.
"This course," he continued, tapping the board with the marker, "is about analyzing and designing exits in nightmare frames. How closure affects fear ratings and dream stability."
He paused to cap the marker. "Your goals, therefore, are simple: Identify narrative exit cues. Design layered escape routes. And most importantly, balance dread with resolution."
He leaned an elbow on the lectern and looked over the class. "So tell me... What does it mean to escape?"
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind; the kind that makes clocks loud and souls sweat. Everyone knew the dictionary answer. But no one wanted to be first and wrong.
Half the students lowered their heads like suddenly enthusiastic note-takers. Others darted their eyes between neighbors, mentally sacrificing anyone willing to speak first.
"Well?" His voice stayed mild. "Are your mouths for decoration? Say something. Make an attempt."
Still nothing.
Someone coughed. A couple of students flinched when his gaze landed on them. Others tried to disappear behind taller classmates.
Dimitri's expression thinned. More than anything, he hated a dry class—rooms full of students who let him do all the talking. Passive minds. Dull time wasters.
Still, he gave them the benefit of the doubt. They were first-years, after all. This was their introductory lecture. Silence was expected. Tolerated.
Resigning himself to the monotony of solo lecturing, he was just about to sigh—
When a hand shot up from the front row.
"If I may?"
Dimitri turned toward the voice. The boy who stood rose slowly, like gravity was a suggestion.
Seventeen, perhaps. Tall, clean lines in his posture, composure sculpted into bone. His hair was moss green, not a strand out of place—and his eyes, a deep forest shade, seemed to chill the air itself. The aura around him was impossible to ignore; an inherited calm that made everyone else feel like bad sketches beside a masterpiece.
Dimitri knew it immediately: this one would be the main character in a room brimming with irrelevant background extras.
"Speak," he said simply.
Rin adjusted his glasses, and began. "It's an honor to learn from you, Professor," he said with practiced clarity, then repeated the prompt like a debate cue.
"What does it mean to escape?"
He let the silence hold for a breath. Then, evenly:
"In the broadest sense, to escape means to break free from something that restricts, confines, or oppresses you."
"It's the act of finding a path out of a state you don't want to be in, whether that state is a physical prison, a painful memory, or an unbearable situation. It's the moment the pressure breaks and you find liberty."
He paused, voice dropping slightly. "But escaping a nightmare, from the perspective of a human dreamer, is more specific…"
"It's a profound, biological act; the moment the dreamer's subconscious finally asserts control over the constructed terror. It means their mind recognized the threat, initiated a hard reset, and pulled them back across the Veil into the safety of waking reality. It's not just running away from the monster—it's the mind shutting down the entire room the monster was standing in. It is the only true act of self-rescue a dreamer has."
The class sat transfixed. Even Denny, usually seconds from sleep, blinked fully awake.
Murmurs rippled through the rows.
"He sounds like a senior lecturer."
"He's a Paragon, what did you expect?"
"He didn't stutter even once, holy crap. How unfair is that?"
"Man, what am I even doing with my life?"
The murmurs continued—a mix of admiration and a few sharp scoffs of envy—until Dimitri raised a gloved finger to his lips.
"Quiet."
The hush dropped like a guillotine.
He inclined his head slightly toward Rin. "Flawless articulation, boy. You may sit."
Rin obeyed, the movement graceful.
"Different takes?" Dimitri asked the room again. He expected nothing. But to his mild surprise, a few hands went up. He almost smiled. The paragon effect indeed—role model, not bloodline.
He nodded toward a random seat. "You, with the unfortunate haircut."
The student jolted, not expecting to be selected first. "Uh—escape means… like, leaving a toxic relationship. For example, my ex—"
"Enough," Dimitri interrupted. "No one cares. Next."
A few students tried not to snort at that.
A shy Yvülu girl spoke next, voice trembling but sincere: "To escape is… to find a door in the dark and trust it leads somewhere better."
"Poetic," he said, genuinely approving. "And you didn't even mention your ex."
A Dēremon boy leaned forward with a grin. "Escape means running before the consequence catches up. Like when my dad asks about my grades."
That drew laughter.
Even Dimitri's lips twitched. "I see. Survival instinct. Noted."
He called on a Nereanth who spoke about pressure differentials in deep water and the body's instinct to surface. He called on a Relicbound who framed escape as relinquishing an object's hold over your identity. He called on a Dorsari who, dead serious, described finding the one patch of compact ground in a field of quick sand. A Chrominent girl, voice steady, spoke about controlling loops rather than being controlled by them.
Another student tried to overshare about an ex and was cut short by a dry, "Spare us."
Dimitri spent several minutes letting them trade ideas—some profound, some unhinged—but the discussion carried a strange electricity, a sense of belonging that hadn't existed before.
Aluminum, however, felt it differently.
From his seat near the front, he clenched his jaw. Rin's response had effortlessly stolen the air from the room, the same air he'd had been trying to command since he got here. Every eye, every whisper now bent toward the Paragon heir.
He'd entered Fearcraft with ambition carved into his spine, dreaming of prestige and recognition. Today, with a few sentences, someone else had taken that spotlight.
Still, surrender was not an option. He wasn't naïve; Rin outclassed him in heritage and intellect. But Aluminum had something Rin didn't—the official title of Class Representative. He'd make himself indispensable, even if it killed him.
While he plotted redemption, Zev was silently mourning his own dignity.
He sat stiffly, pretending to focus on his notes, but every scribble blurred into tangled thoughts. His classmates' earlier insults replayed in his mind like broken records. They hadn't made him bleed like Seth, but words sometimes cut deeper.
He'd thought that would, at least, be the end of it. Until it escalated into a full-blown racial conflict. Everything he'd experienced today made one thing painfully clear: his upbringing had been cushy.
He'd grown up sheltered, homeschooled, surrounded by politeness and curated affection. He'd thought himself immune to cruelty until today. Now he realized how much of his life had been padded by comfort… and ignorance.
He thought about his mother and felt a pinprick of shame. She wasn't racist, he wanted to say. She was just very particular about factions. Which was… different? Or was he defending what he didn't want to name because she was family?
Zev's pen hovered above his notebook. He reread Rin's line: the moment pressure breaks and you find liberty.
He almost laughed. Liberty. He'd been trying to run from his family's legacy for years, only to end up here, in their shadow's finest institution. Failed to escape felt painfully accurate. A fitting line on the résumé of his life.
Then, a flicker of motion caught his eye—Zach, beside him, had stopped sketching. His sketchbook lay open on the desk, a page of sharp, unsettling forms. He sat with his chin propped on his palm, eyes dimmed, absent in a way that wasn't sleep.
Then those same eyes—blood-red, impossibly clear—shifted and locked on Zev's.
The abruptness caught Zev so off guard, his mind crashed for a moment. Then, after a mental factory reset, he nearly gave himself whiplash turning away, ears flushing with heat.
"Sorry…" he mumbled, hands flying up to hide his ears.
Zach watched him for a beat, expression unreadable.
"How's your head?"
"P–Pardon?"
"Your head. How is it?"
It wasn't a grand question, but it startled Zev enough to make him glance back at Zach. His expression hadn't changed—still unreadable—but something about him now felt more approachable than before. Less distant.
Zev looked away again. "I–It's fine. I can barely feel the sting anymore."
"Really?"
"Yes. The heal-me pop was very effective."
"That's wicked."
Quiet pushed in again. Voices at the front continued answering the professor; their words faded into a texture rather than meaning.
Zev tried again. "What about you? How's… your hand?"
Zach followed Zev's glance to his bandaged knuckles and smirked. He didn't expect the enquiry.
"Oh, this?" He flexed his fingers once. "Hurts like a bitch. I think my analgesic got shy." He shrugged. "It's fine though. I've got a high tolerance for pain."
Zev could only stare, guilt blooming in his chest. That hand… was in that state because of him. But another feeling quickly overshadowed the guilt.
Zach's oddities kept stacking the longer Zev spent around him. Blood-red eyes—unnatural, unsettling. Sketches that looked like they could crawl off the page. He fought like a beast. He was ambidextrous. He probably had a few terrifying Imprints tucked away in his arsenal.
And now, apparently, he also had a high tolerance for pain.
Zach was a living paradox. But in a place like Fearcraft Academy, Zev thought his weirdness felt like an advantage.
Compared to him, Zev was just… plain. Ordinary. The kind of person people forgot the moment they left the room. The kind of person people loved to bully. People like Seth.
He pressed his thumbs together, trying to banish the thought. It was pointless. Self-pity wouldn't help him survive here.
"I noticed you spacing out earlier," he said, voice softer now. "Did the professor's question stir up something unpleasant?"
A brief stillness.
Zev waited. When Zach didn't respond right away, he thought maybe he hadn't heard him. He opened his mouth to repeat the question—
But Zach's gaze dropped to the open page of his sketchbook. The figures stared back at him—silent, inked witnesses. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"In the end," he murmured at last, "everyone's a prisoner to something. Escaping. Not escaping…"
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"It matters so little when existence itself is the prison cell."