15 hours remaining.
Dorian's eyes snapped open at 8:14 AM.
The ceiling was grey with morning light. His body was heavy—he'd crashed around 4 AM, too exhausted to keep staring at the red numbers. Four hours of sleep. Maybe less.
He sat up slowly. The dorm was quiet. Tyler's bed was empty—already gone, probably to set up his BLIMP booth. Marcus's bed was still empty. Had been for days. Kyle was a small shape buried under blankets in the corner.
The system interface flickered in his peripheral vision.
Time remaining for 5B and 5D: 14 hours, 46 minutes.
5C active (2 days).
Failure to complete 5B and 5D within time limit will trigger immediate collection.
Fifteen hours. The art show started at 7 PM. That gave him eleven hours to prep, to plan, to figure out how to complete two impossible quests in a room full of people who could destroy him with a single sentence.
He grabbed his phone.
Elise. The art show was content. She loved content. And if he could get her to develop even a flicker of genuine interest, he could reject her there. Witnesses? Dozens.
He typed.
Dorian: Hey. Changed my mind about that collab. There's an art show tonight on campus. Big crowd. Good lighting. You should come.
He stared at the screen. No reply.
He opened her profile. Scrolled through her feed. Videos of her posing in different outfits, lip-syncing to trending audio. Her latest post was a photo from the coffee shop—the staged shot of them together, her arm around his waist, his uncomfortable smile. The caption: "productivity looks good on me ✨ #fansonlylife"
He stared at the numbers. 2,000 likes already. Comments flooded in: "Who's the guy?" "That jawline though." "Collab when?"
No one knew his name. They just wanted more content.
His phone stayed silent. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
He checked her profile again. A new story: a video of her twerking in her gym outfit to a trendy rap song, the bass thumping through his phone speakers. The gym tights barely left anything to the imagination. She moved effortlessly, her BBL catching the light, her expression a mix of boredom and invitation.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
At 8:32, the three dots finally appeared.
Elise: What time?
Dorian: 7 PM. Campus hall.
Elise: I have a shoot until 6. Might be late. Send address.
He sent it.
Elise: If I come, you owe me. 70/30 split.
Dorian: Fine.
She didn't reply again. He didn't know if she'd actually show. But it was something.
---
13 hours, 20 minutes remaining.
He stopped by the campus hall before lunch.
Jenna was there with two other committee members—a guy named Derek who handled sound, and a girl named Leah who handled registration. The three of them were huddled over a floor plan, arguing about the placement of the wine station.
"You're late," Jenna said without looking up. "Again."
"I'm here now. What needs doing?"
She finally looked at him. Her eyes traveled over his face—a beat longer than necessary. "Final check on the lighting grid. Derek's been messing with it."
Derek held up his hands. "The left side was too dark."
"The left side was atmospheric."
"The left side looked like a cave."
Jenna sighed, turned to Dorian. "Let's go. I'll show you."
She led him to the back of the hall, where the lighting control panel sat behind a curtain. The space was tight—their shoulders brushed as she pointed at the switches.
"These control the spots over the featured section. Don't let Derek touch them."
"Got it."
She didn't move. Her hand was still on the panel, her shoulder still against his.
"You've got some serious eye bags," she said.
"Long week."
"Sarah keeping you up?" Her voice was light, but her eyes were sharp.
She's testing.
"Something like that."
She turned to face him. They were close—closer than they needed to be.
"You know, if you ever need a break from all that… seriousness…" She leaned in, her lips near his ear. "I'm good at distractions."
Her hand brushed his. Lingered.
Dorian's pulse ticked up.
"I'll keep that in mind."
She smiled, stepped back. "Good. Now go fix the left side before Derek makes it look like a funeral."
She walked away, hips swaying just enough to notice.
Dorian stood there for a moment, then got back to work.
---
11 hours, 5 minutes remaining.
He met Sarah for lunch at their usual spot. Noon. She was already there, picking at a salad, her phone face-down.
"Hey."
"Hey." She didn't reach for his hand. "You went to prep already?"
"Yeah. Final checks. The art show's almost ready."
She nodded. Pushed a piece of lettuce around her plate.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine." She looked up. "Are we still going together tonight?"
"Of course. Do you want to?"
"I do, unless you'd rather go with someone else."
He blinked. "What? No. I want to go with you."
She studied his face for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay."
They ate in silence. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down.
---
4 hours remaining.
Dorian arrived at the art show with Sarah at 7:12 PM.
The campus hall was transformed. White walls, track lighting, wine stations at both ends. A DJ played ambient music that made everyone feel like they were in a museum. Artworks of all kinds filled the space—not just paintings, but sculptures, video installations, a piece made entirely of crushed soda cans arranged into a wave.
People stood in front of pieces, nodding seriously, saying things like "the negative space speaks to our collective anxiety."
Four hours left. Two quests. One room full of people who could ruin me.
His palms were already damp.
Tyler had set up his BLIMP booth near the snack bar—white cans stacked in a pyramid, a sign reading "MINIMALIST HYDRATION." Kyle stood beside him in a BLIMP SECURITY shirt, scanning the crowd with wide eyes.
Nearby, a professor with a gray beard was examining the BLIMP display with the same intensity he might give a Renaissance painting. Tyler leaned in.
"You look like a man who appreciates purity," Tyler said.
The professor blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"BLIMP. Minimalist hydration. No additives, no pretension. Just water and a dream." Tyler held up a can. "Would you say this is art?"
The professor stared at him. "It's… water."
"That's what THEY want you to think." Tyler nodded sagely. "But it's more than that. It's a statement. It's the absence of statement. It's—"
"Is this a sales pitch?"
"This is an awakening."
The professor picked up a can, read the label, and set it back down. "I need a drink." He walked toward the wine station.
Tyler turned to Kyle. "He'll be back. They always come back."
Kyle said nothing.
---
Kofi appeared with Rachel, his arm around her waist, his voice loud enough to carry across the hall. "Mi tell you, dis art? Dis is REAL! Not like that pretentious nonsense where they hang a banana on a wall!"
Rachel elbowed him, her face flushing. "Kofi, keep your voice down!"
"Why? Art should be LOUD, Rachel! A banana is not loud. A banana is quiet. A banana is—"
"KOFI."
He grinned, unrepentant, but lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Fine. But I'm right."
Chloe walked in with Tristan's entourage. She was wearing something simple—black dress, minimal jewelry—and somehow she still stood out.
Tristan was beside her, laughing at something, not noticing that she wasn't laughing with him. He moved through the crowd like he owned it—easy, confident, effortless.
Dorian watched him, and the old venom stirred.
Must be nice. Wake up handsome, fall into success, never calculate a single smile. If I hadn't needed to compete with him, maybe I wouldn't need the ring at all.
Tristan glanced across the room. Their eyes met. He nodded—casual, friendly, like they were old friends.
Dorian nodded back. Forced a smile.
Joke's on you, golden boy. I'm the one with the system.
Chloe's eyes drifted across the crowd. Landed on Dorian. Held for a moment. Then moved on.
Near the back wall, Marcus stood alone, arms crossed, watching everything. His silence was a physical weight. He hadn't moved since he arrived.
---
Dorian and Sarah moved through the show, hand in hand. They passed a video installation of someone eating cereal in slow motion. A sculpture made of broken mirrors. A piece that was just a single light bulb flickering in an empty room.
"I don't get it," Sarah whispered.
"I don't think we're supposed to."
They stopped in front of a large canvas covered in thick, swirling oils—an impressionistic scene of a crowded city street, but all the faces were blurred into smudges.
"This one's called 'Anonymity,'" Dorian read from the placard.
Sarah tilted her head. "It's kind of beautiful. In a sad way."
"Like most things."
She glanced at him. Said nothing.
---
Lisa's section was at the far end of the hall, bathed in its own pool of light. Four pieces, each radically different from the next. A small crowd had gathered, murmuring appreciatively.
Lisa stood near the center, wine glass in hand, talking to a professor. Her usual chaotic energy was tempered tonight—she was in her element, confident, glowing.
Sarah squeezed Dorian's hand. "She's good."
"She's been working on this for weeks."
Sarah looked at him. "How do you know?"
"We're friends. I'll introduce you."
They walked toward the section together.
Lisa spotted them and excused herself from the professor. She grinned.
"Look who finally came." Her eyes moved to Sarah. "And you brought someone."
Sarah extended her hand. "I'm Sarah."
Lisa shook it, then glanced at Dorian. "She's cute. You didn't tell me she was cute."
Dorian's cheeks warmed. "Sarah, this is Lisa."
Sarah smiled. "I love your tattoos. The flowers on your arm are gorgeous."
Lisa glanced down at the ink curling around her wrist—a sleeve of flowers, a tiny dagger, a line of poetry. "Thanks. They're my garden. Low maintenance, never die." She gestured at her section. "Come, let me show you what I've been killing myself over."
She led them through her pieces, one by one.
"Neon Wasteland." Oil on canvas. Explosions of electric pink and toxic green, shapes that might have been billboards or bodies. "Consumer culture," Lisa said. "We are what we buy. Garbage."
"Echoes of a Scroll." Ink on rice paper. Mountains and rivers, but tiny smartphone screens glowed in the brushstrokes. "Ancient traditions meet modern distraction. The scroll is infinite now. So is the loneliness."
"Soft Violence." Pastel on paper. Two hands reaching for each other, fingers ending in razor blades. Soft pinks and blues. "Beauty that hurts. We're so gentle when we're cutting each other open."
Sarah stared at it. "That's… unsettling."
"Good." Lisa grinned.
"The Hollow Embrace." Single-line drawing on a massive white canvas. Two women facing each other, their bodies drawn in one continuous, unbroken black line. Each woman's hand pierced through the other's chest, where the heart should be—but the chest was hollow, an empty space. The line never stopped; it flowed from one figure into the other, binding them even as they wounded each other.
Lisa's voice softened. "Intimacy as mutual destruction. We give each other our emptiness."
Dorian stared at it. That one hurts.
Sarah was quiet for a moment. Then: "These are incredible. Really."
Lisa smiled—genuine, a little tired. "Thanks. That means a lot."
They lingered for a moment longer, then moved on.
---
Dorian and Sarah wandered through the rest of the show. A sculpture of melting clocks. A digital projection of faces morphing into one another. A charcoal drawing of a city on fire.
Dorian's eyes kept drifting across the room, scanning for Priya, for Marcus, for Elise. The timer in his head ticked down. The ring pulsed faintly against his finger. His heart was a dull drum in his chest.
Then Sarah stopped.
Dorian followed her gaze.
Priya was across the room, standing in front of "The Hollow Embrace." She was alone, her burgundy dress catching the light, her expression unreadable.
3 hours, 41 minutes remaining.
Sarah's grip tightened.
"She's here."
"I see that."
"Did you know she was coming?"
"No. I didn't."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. Her face didn't change.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"She's not worth my energy." Sarah turned to face him, her smile small and sharp. "I trust you. Don't make me regret it."
She kissed his cheek—quick, cold—and pulled him toward the far end of the hall. "I want to see 'The Hollow Embrace' again."
They walked back toward the painting. Priya was still there.
As they approached, Priya turned. Her eyes met Dorian's—just for a second—then moved to Sarah.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Priya said. Her voice was steady. "The way they destroy each other but can't let go."
Sarah's smile didn't waver. "I prefer 'Soft Violence.' The hands with the razor blades. At least that one's honest about the pain."
Priya tilted her head. "Honest?"
"It doesn't pretend there's love in the destruction. It's just violence pretending to be tenderness." Sarah's arm looped through Dorian's. "That's more honest than most relationships."
Priya's eyes flicked to Dorian. Held.
"Sometimes the violence is the love," Priya said quietly.
"Then it's not love." Sarah's voice was cold. "It's just two people too scared to walk away."
The silence stretched.
Dorian said nothing. Couldn't. His throat was tight.
Priya looked at him one more time, then nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right."
She walked away.
Sarah watched her go. Then she turned to Dorian, her smile back in place.
"Let's get some wine."
They walked toward the wine station. Dorian's eyes swept the room automatically—and stopped.
The door was opening.
Elise stepped through.
She was wearing a neon green dress that left nothing to the imagination. Her BBL announced itself before she did—the exaggerated curve of her hips, the impossible shelf, the waist cinched tight. A ring light dangled from one hand. Her photographer trailed behind her, already shooting.
Heads turned. Conversations stopped. A guy near the wine station choked on his drink.
She's not here for the art. She's here to be seen.
The ring light left a green afterimage in Dorian's eyes every time he blinked.
Elise scanned the crowd, spotted Dorian, and smiled wide. She began gliding toward him—her hips swaying with each step, the ring light catching the track lighting and scattering it across the room.
Dorian watched from across the room. His palms were slick. His pulse hammered in his throat.
Three hours. Two quests. And she's my only shot.
Now I just need her to want me. Really want me. Not for content—for real.
And then I have to reject her.
In front of everyone.
He took a breath.
Then he saw movement.
Marcus was no longer against the wall.
He was walking toward them. Toward Dorian and Sarah.
His face was unreadable. His pace was steady. His eyes were locked on Dorian.
The ring pulsed—hot, urgent. Dorian's heart slammed against his ribs. His palms left prints on his jeans.
He's going to tell her.
The crowd seemed to part around Marcus as he moved. Elise's laughter faded into background noise. Priya was somewhere behind them, still watching. Sarah hadn't noticed yet. She was still looking toward the wine station, her lips pressed together.
Three seconds until Marcus reached them.
Two.
One.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 28]