The fluorescence of the lecture hall felt like a surgical light, stripping away the romantic haze of the previous night. I sat in the third row, exactly where I always sat, watching Professor Julian Vance pace the front of the room.
He was back in the charcoal suit, the creases sharp enough to draw blood. He looked every bit the untouchable academic, his voice steady and authoritative as he dismantled a piece of Victorian poetry.
But I saw the tell. Every time his gaze swept across the room and landed on me, his pupils flared. Just for a second. Just enough to let me know he was remembering the sound of my screams echoing through the restricted stacks.
"The internal conflict of the protagonist is not a flaw in the narrative," Julian said, his voice echoing. "It is the engine of the sto
