The air in the deserted sector of Heroine Island felt different from the manicured, high-energy atmosphere of the Universal University campus. Here, nine kilometers beyond the back gates, the silence wasn't empty; it was heavy, vibrating with the sounds of the untamed jungle and the distant, rhythmic crashing of the Pacific against the cliffs.
I stood there, my chest heaving, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. My "sluggish" nature was usually a shield against the world's frantic pace, but today, I had pushed my body to its absolute limit. My glasses were fogged, my curly hair was a tangled mess of leaves and sweat, and my hip—still tender from the Lamborghini incident—throbbed with every heartbeat.
"Irish, please... stop," I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper.
Irish Travers was huddled against a moss-covered stone wall, her face buried in her knees. Her twenty fingers were intertwined so tightly it looked like a complex knot of porcelain. She wasn't just crying; she was mourning the loss of her dignity.
"Francine, I am so tired," Irish finally shouted, her voice echoing off the ancient trees. "I am so tired of experiencing this kind of feeling! The feeling of being humiliated for a countless number of times already! It never stops, Francine. Not in the normal world, and apparently, not here."
I walked toward her slowly, my movements deliberate. I sat on the damp earth beside her, ignoring the stains on my skirt. "Do you think you are the only one, Irish? Do you think I don't feel the weight of their stares? Every time I walk into a room, I see them calculating my 'value' based on how fast I move or how my teeth look. I am experiencing that same feeling no lesser than you."
I reached out and took her hands. I didn't see "freakish" fingers; I saw the hands of a surgeon who would one day save her brother. "The difference between us, Irish, is that I've learned that their disgust is a reflection of their own limitations, not ours. If Tiffany Carr needs to see you cry to feel powerful, it's because she is the one who is truly empty."
"But am I that peculiar who is very unlucky?" Irish sobbed. "I don't have special powers. I'm just... extra."
"Being peculiar isn't about being a superhero," I replied, looking up at the canopy where the light was beginning to fade into a bruised purple. "It's about the courage to be different in a world that is obsessed with symmetry. Your twenty fingers aren't a curse; they are a precision tool that 'normal' doctors would kill for. You just haven't learned how to wield them yet."
We sat in the silence for what felt like an hour, the "8.33% of the hour" logic forgotten in the face of raw human connection. But the peace was shattered by the sound of footsteps—heavy, purposeful, and far too fast to be a fellow student.
A man emerged from the shadows. It was Jandric Burke. He was panting, his medical tunic damp with sweat. "Francine! Irish! Thank God, I found you."
"Jandric? What are you doing here?" I asked, standing up and brushing the dirt from my skirt.
"The campus is in a state of 'Grey Alert,'" Jandric explained, his eyes darting toward the treeline. "The Unbound... they didn't just breach the gates. They triggered a lockdown of the medical plaza. I saw you two run out, and I knew you wouldn't hear the sirens this far out."
"Is everyone okay?" Irish asked, her voice trembling.
"Drake and Mark are with the security forces," Jandric said, his expression hardening. "But that's not why I'm here. Francine, it's not safe. This part of the island... it's where the Unbound hide their 'lost ones.' We need to get you home."
"I can walk, Jandric," I said, though my legs felt like they were made of lead.
"No," a new voice interrupted.
We all turned. Mark Hendrix stood there. He looked like a ghost in the twilight—his black suit dusty, his sightless eyes fixed on the space between us. He had navigated nine kilometers of jungle in total darkness.
"I will take her home," Mark said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Jandric stiffen.
"And who do you think you are?" Jandric snapped, stepping in front of me. "As far as I remember, you aren't in our department. I'm not sure you're even a friend of Francine's, considering you were with Drake when the chaos started."
The tension was a physical thing, a bridge of lightning between the two men. Mark tilted his head, his "intuitive" senses locked onto Jandric. "I am Mark Hendrix. And while you are a student of the heart, I am a student of her soul. I know when she is afraid, Burke. And right now, she needs the safety that only my family can provide."
"He's blind, Francine," Jandric whispered to me, not breaking eye contact with Mark. "How can he get you home safely in the middle of a lockdown?"
"He will, and he can, Jandric," I replied, stepping forward. "If you cannot trust him, then trust me. I am making my own decision."
Jandric sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Fine. But message me the second you are inside your apartment. If I don't hear from you, I'm calling the Dean."
The walk back to the Lamborghini was a blur of shadows. Mark didn't speak until we were safely inside the car, the doors locking with a heavy, pressurized thud. He didn't start the engine immediately. He just sat there, his hands resting on the steering wheel.
"I'm sorry you saw that, Francine," he said softly.
"The 'Gang'?" I asked. "Mark, what is really going on? Why are you and Drake acting like soldiers?"
Mark's face tightened. "The Unbound... they are a shadow of our family's past. My grandfather built this university to protect people like us, but my great-uncle—he believed we should rule the 'normal' world. The Unbound are his followers. They see Drake and me as traitors to our bloodline because we choose to coexist."
He turned the key, and the engine roared to life. "Drake... he handles it with anger. He's 'snappy' because he's always looking for the next assassin. He wasn't always like that, Francine. Before the kidnapping ten years ago, he was the kindest boy I knew. Now, he hides behind that white suit and that arrogant mask."
"The kidnapping?" I whispered.
"We were held for twenty-one days," Mark said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Drake was forced to watch things... things that rewired his brain. His hyper-processing isn't a gift; it's a scar. That's why I want you to be his friend. You're the only person who has looked at him and seen a person instead of a prince or a monster."
We arrived at my apartment complex. The moon was high now, casting a silver glow over the silent streets. I turned to Mark, my hand on the door handle.
"Thank you for the ride, Mark. And for the truth. I will keep Drake's secret. And... I'll try to find the 'real' him."
Mark smiled—the toothless, genuine smile that had first made me trust him. "You already are, Francine. Just by being your sluggish, wise self."
I went inside, my mind a whirlwind. I looked in the mirror, seeing the "Public Peculiar" staring back at me. I wasn't just a student anymore. I was a witness to a secret war, and my sluggish heart was beating faster than it ever had before.
"I will help you, Drake Hendrix," I whispered to the empty room. "Even if you hate me for it."