The low, familiar hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic scraping of pens on paper felt like a sensory vacation. Anya settled into the hard plastic chair beside Betty, placing her textbook on the worn wooden desk. The simple act of being in a university lecture hall felt profoundly normal, a break from her troubles.
"Anya! You're back! I was starting to think you transferred to some secret military academy," Marcus, a guy from her study group, whispered from two rows ahead, flashing a genuine smile. Another girl waved shyly. The warmth of these casual greetings was a physical relief.
She hadn't been erased; she had just been gone. A strange, deep feeling of relief washed over her, making her shoulders relax for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. She was sitting among people who worried about term papers and midterms, not global surveillance or proprietary mind-altering tech. She felt almost human again.
Betty, her dark hair pulled back into a hasty, messy bun, was already leaning close, her eyes twinkling with suppressed energy.
"Didnt know you'll be here," Betty hissed, pulling a thick textbook up like a wall between them and the next student. "We all thought you either got super-sick, ran off to join a cult, or finally got that secret government internship you always joked about."
Anya giggled, a surprising, genuine sound that felt light and unfamiliar. "It was nothing so dramatic, Betts. Just a really intense family emergency. Zero cults, I promise."
"Well, you missed Prof. Mosby's pop quiz last week, and let me tell you, it was brutal. Everyone bombed it and I swear he was just enjoying our pain."
They fell into a soft, easy rhythm of gossip. They talked about the impossibly long reading assignments, the slightly too-loud chewing habits of the student behind them, and the bizarrely aggressive enthusiasm of their TA. Betty kept circling back to Anya's absence, using playful language—calling her a "missing person," and demanding details on her "sabbatical."
"Seriously, you look… different. Better, somehow. Less stressed than yesterday," Betty observed, leaning back slightly.
"I've been off work so…have a lot of time to rest" Anya replied, a faint, closed-off smile playing on her lips.
Their whispered exchange, however entertaining, had not gone unnoticed by Professor Mosby. Mosby was a kind, if slightly intimidating, man who had a genuine soft spot for Anya's sharp intellect.
He paused his lecture, his gaze landing squarely on their corner. "Ms. Malik, Ms. Hayes. I appreciate your dedication to the curriculum, but I believe the history of whispered conjecture can wait until the 50-minute mark."
Betty immediately slumped and ducked her head. Anya, however, sat up straight, meeting his gaze with the same focused clarity she used when dealing with Kael.
"My apologies, Professor," Anya said calmly.
Mosby, perhaps not wanting to lose the momentum of his lecture, decided to throw her a curveball instead of a simple reprimand. "Very well. Since you were discussing the interbellum period so intently, Ms. Malik, perhaps you can enlighten the class. When exactly did the Dawes Plan go into effect, and what was its immediate goal regarding German reparations?"
The class held its breath. This wasn't a syllabus question; it was the kind of difficult detail Mosby loved to spring. Most students feared these moments, freezing up under his scrutiny.
Anya didn't even blink. Her mind, newly sharp and trained for recall under pressure, sifted through the data instantly. "The Dawes Plan was adopted in August 1924. Its immediate goal was stabilization—it didn't reduce the total amount of reparations, but it provided a staggered, more realistic schedule for payments and, crucially, arranged for a large foreign loan, mostly from American banks, to stabilize the German currency and facilitate the first payments. It was designed to pull Germany out of the hyperinflation crisis and restore faith in their economy so they could actually pay the Allies."
A beat of silence hung in the air, followed by a slight collective hush from the surrounding students—a mix of impressed surprise and general relief that the spotlight wasn't on them.
Sterling nodded, his eyes bright with approval. "An excellent and comprehensive answer, Ms. Malik. That is precisely correct. See? Conversation can sometimes enhance learning. But just to ensure that your excellent comprehension remains focused on the front of the room," he added, "I believe that empty desk in the front row, directly under my nose, has your name on it for the remainder of the hour. Move along now."
Anya gathered her notebook and pens, offering a faint, acknowledging smile to the professor, who returned to his lecture as she slipped into the new, isolated seat. Betty mouthed, "Sorry!" with an apologetic wince.
The hour passed quickly, spent in focused silence. When the class was finally over, Anya was already packed, eager to regain her place beside Betty.
Betty started gathering her belongings with unusual speed, chattering about a student club meeting. As Anya stood up, ready to slide out from the front row, a figure moved into the narrow aisle, blocking her path.
He was tall, with a clean-cut, preppy look—khakis, a neat blue shirt, and sharp, observant eyes. He carried himself with an easy confidence, completely unfazed by the throng of departing students.
Betty, seeing the interruption, simply gave Anya a wide, knowing grin, zipped up her backpack, and then subtly stepped back, leaning against the wall several feet away. She made eye contact with Anya, silently mouthing, 'Go get 'em!' before turning her attention to her phone,
"Excuse me, I hope I'm not keeping you," the guy said, his voice smooth and slightly deeper than she expected. He had a nice, subtle scent of expensive cologne.
Anya shifted her backpack strap. "Not at all."
"My name's Silas. I just wanted to say, that was an incredible answer you gave to Mosby. I've been in three of his classes, and I think he's only been stumped by a student's answer once. He usually just moves on quickly if he catches you talking, but he decided to put you on the spot, and you totally owned it."
Anya felt a faint blush creep up her neck. She wasn't used to easy compliments, especially not ones that felt so direct and measured.
"Thank you, Silas. I guess I got lucky; I skimmed the section this morning," she replied. She felt a little shy, a familiar awkwardness returning
"'Skimmed,' she says," Silas laughed, a pleasant, resonant sound. "Most of us fear him like the IRS. You handled it with complete confidence. You just moved seats without a fuss, too. Very composed." He paused, letting his gaze hold hers for a second longer than strictly necessary. He wasn't pushy, but the attention was undeniably focused. He was clearly moving toward a point.
"Listen, I'm new to the department this semester, so I'm trying to, you know, find my footing. I feel like I see everyone else in little established groups." He ran a hand through his short, sandy hair. "You seem like someone who has things figured out, or at least someone who can make a difficult professor look good. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Or… a real dinner? Get out of the campus environment?"
The question hung in the air, pulling Anya out of her casual student persona. Coffee. Dinner. A date. It was the simplest social transaction in the world, yet her mind registered a rapid calculation: Risk assessment: Low. Opportunity for assimilation: High. Social value: Normal.
She hesitated only for a heartbeat. In that split second, she thought of the sterile apartment she had returned to, the empty silence, the void left by the chaotic energy of the office, and the gnawing feeling that she needed a life to fill that void. She needed to prove she wasn't just a cog in Kael's machine.
"Yes," she heard herself say, the word feeling oddly momentous. "I'd like that, Silas."
His smile widened, transforming his face. It was friendly, genuinely pleased, but… as she looked closer, something flickered in his eyes—a kind of practiced, deep-seated assurance that felt slightly out of place for a student asking a girl out. It was a subtle hint of something that felt less like nervousness and more like successful execution. She dismissed it immediately. She was paranoid. She was trained to be paranoid.
"Fantastic," he said, pulling out his phone. They quickly exchanged numbers and agreed on a day—Saturday evening. "I'll text you the details for Saturday. Let me walk you to the student union, at least."
Silas offered a final, engaging smile and walked off toward the main staircase. He moved with a clean, athletic stride.
Betty didn't even wait for him to clear the door. She exploded from the wall, practically pouncing on Anya.
"Oh my God, you said yes!" Betty whispered-shouted, grabbing Anya's arm and practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I saw that! I saw you totally accept! Oh my God! You just came back from being missing, and you're already booking dates. You are my hero!"
Anya laughed again, this time with a genuine, delighted flush. "Betty! Keep it down! He's just a guy."
"Just a guy who is way too put together to be a history major! And he's cute! Like, movie cute. I haven't seen him before, ever. And I see everyone in this department. I swear I know every single face in this program. He must be new." Betty paused, her brow furrowing slightly, but she quickly shook off the minor detail in favor of excitement. "Oh, that's clever! A new transfer student, coming in and immediately recognizing the coolest girl in the class—who, by the way, just totally showed up the professor. Smooth move."
"He was very polite," Anya conceded,
"Polite doesn't get a date with you after you've been AWOL for weeks. Politeness gets you an email response. Smooth gets the date! Tell me everything! What's he taking? Where is he from? What did you agree on? Is it a high-class, fancy restaurant date or a casual pizza-and-a-movie date? I need the deets! Your entire weekend plans are now being vetted by your best friend."
As they walked across the sunny campus green, they talked like normal girls. Betty peppered her with rapid-fire questions, already plotting outfits and debating whether Silas's clean-cut look was intentional or just a lucky coincidence.
Eventually, their paths diverged, Betty heading to her club meeting and Anya toward the north side of campus. She decided to take a moment before facing the quiet of her apartment. She found a secluded, shady corner under a huge oak tree, the kind with sprawling, ancient roots perfect for sitting.
She pulled out her heavy, worn history textbook and tried to focus. The words wouldn't resolve; her mind was a whirlwind of disconnected, much larger anxieties.
She thought about Silas's smile, then—abruptly, almost violently—her thoughts drifted back to the office.
Is Kael furious?
He had to be. She hadn't formally resigned. She hadn't even called. She had just vanished, essentially abandoning proprietary tech and critical ongoing assignments. He dealt with the fate of nations; he didn't tolerate insubordination or loose ends. Was he already planning a way to bring her back? Or worse, punish her for not calling?
Did he replace her?
The thought stung in a way that surprised her. It shouldn't matter. He did suspend her himself. But the idea of another analyst sitting in her chair, mastering her code, winning his measured, minimal approval, felt like a small, unexpected betrayal. Why did she care so much?
She squeezed her eyes shut, physically shaking her head to clear the unwanted image of Kael's cool, critical gaze.
Stop.
Silas was a student, a nice guy, and a date. He represented everything simple and real. She had said yes to the date; she would commit to it, She would live like a human again.
With a renewed, almost fierce resolve, Anya tucked the unread book back into her bag and stood up. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows across the lawn. She walked the familiar path home, already mentally cataloging her few non-military-grade items of clothing, wondering what Betty would suggest.
As soon as she crossed the threshold of her apartment, she dropped her bag and pulled out her phone. She felt the need for connection, for that normal-girl ritual.
A quick text went out to her friend:
Text to Betty: got home safe. thanks for the chaos.
Then, she opened her notebook, intending to tackle the history readings Professor Mosby had assigned. She needed to focus, to get back into the routine, to make up for the time she lost.
But the text on the page blurred. Her hand, instead of reaching for a highlighter, moved to her phone again. Not to text Silas, but just to look at the contact she had saved.
Silas, History 301.