I will not subject my intellect to the rudimentary psychoanalysis of a demonstrably inferior mind, Arthur seethed as he walked.
He had learned everything about psychology and the workings of the instinctual mind from the book. Attending sessions would only hemorrhage time from his research. He hadn't found any clues yet, but with the extra five months provided by the Board, surely he would make a breakthrough.
Failure is not an acceptable outcome.
As a group of students approached him in the hall, Arthur applied a gentle smile and executed an immaculate wave of his hand.
Observe their vapid expressions. This deference is entirely novel. My reclassification into the Honor Class has abruptly rewritten their perception of my humanity, he thought, observing them.
Several contradictory memories appeared to correct him, but he disregarded them.
A predictable farce. Nevertheless, the maintenance of the 'Cedric' persona is paramount to evading detection.
Several others passed. He deceptively offered the exact same greeting, down to the degree of the wave, every single time.
Then came the jolt: a microscopic surge of dopamine flickering through starved neural pathways. For someone who had spent thirteen years rationing validation like poison, the chemical kick was startling. The synthetic warmth pulled his lips outward into an unbidden, genuine smile.
Ten paces ahead, the rhythm shattered against stone.
Stationed near the threshold of the rotunda stood Derrick Dunwell.
The wave prompted no deference. The smile commanded no lowered eyes. Derrick simply stared—trembling, veins mapped in scarlet across his sclera, his jaw locked in feral, unadulterated venom. Stripped of all noble composure, the Viscount heir vibrated with raw malice aimed square between Arthur's eyes.
Grief? No, it couldn't be.
Sentimentality was the diagnosis of an amateur. They were close, but only students of the same doctrine, and allies in self-interest.
Derrick wouldn't be so sentimental to allow the death of another to cloud his judgement.
Derrick was not mourning, no. He was burning with disgust. To Derrick's eyes, his only intellectual equal had degraded himself into a disposable pawn for an entitled Saint. And now Cedric stood before him: the living parasite who had survived on Arthur's pathetic sacrifice, soaking in the unearned adoration of sheep while the boy who died for him was reduced to a footnote.
The urge to step forward and speak the truth tightened Arthur's jaw. Derrick was an aligned variable. But in this feverish, unstable state, a sudden revelation risked a catastrophic behavioral rupture.
Arthur tightened his grip on his satchel strap, letting the counterfeit smile settle back over his features as he held his stride.
Let him burn with his misdirected wrath for now. You will be the first variable informed, Derrick—once Cedric is retrieved.