34. Hollow Halls
34
HOLLOW HALLS
~JESSICA~
T he lecture hall feels different today.
Quieter. Emptier. The usual cacophony of voices—snide remarks, flirtations, power plays conducted through carefully calibrated volume and tone—has been replaced by a subdued murmur that barely disturbs the heavy air. Nearly half the seats remain vacant, their emptiness more eloquent than any speech about those who no longer occupy them.
I slide into my usual spot near the back, muscle memory guiding me to the familiar territory despite the weeks I've been absent. My body still aches in places that remind me of bullets and blood and rain-soaked earth, but Marcus finally deemed me recovered enough to return to campus—albeit with an escort that rotates among the four Alphas with clockwork precision.
Today it's Knox, his usual manic energy tempered by both his own lingering recovery and the somber atmosphere permeating the academy. He drops into the seat beside me, mismatched eyes scanning the room with the particular focus I've come to recognize as his version of tactical assessment.
"This is seriously depressing," he mutters, fingers drumming a restless pattern against his thigh. "Even by Dead Knot standards."
He's not wrong. The usual hierarchies and social posturing that define Knot Academy's complex ecosystem seem temporarily suspended, replaced by something more primal—shared grief, perhaps, or simply the sobering awareness of mortality that follows mass casualty events regardless of designation or social status.
Before I can respond, Professor Blackwood strides into the room, his entrance lacking the theatrical flourish that typically accompanies his arrival. No slamming books onto the lectern, no dramatic coat removal, no caustic opening remarks designed to startle students into alertness. Just a man—older than most faculty, with the weathered appearance of someone who has seen too much and expected too little—walking to the front of the room with shoulders that seem heavier than they did before.
The residual murmurs fade to complete silence as he surveys the half-empty classroom, his expression unreadable beneath the silver-streaked beard that covers the lower half of his face. Only his eyes betray emotion—sharp, assessing, edged with something that might be anger or grief or some complex blend of both.
"By now, you've all received the campus-wide notification," he begins without preamble, voice pitched to carry without the theatrical projection he typically employs. "But I've been instructed to provide a more... personal delivery of the information."
He pauses, reaching into his worn leather messenger bag to extract a stack of official-looking papers. The Academy's crimson and gold seal is visible even from my position at the rear of the hall, marking whatever directive he's about to share as coming directly from administration rather than individual faculty initiative.
"Aside from essential extracurricular activities, classes will be officially postponed until further notice due to the gas tragedy that occurred last week," he announces, eyes moving across the room as if cataloging each face, perhaps noting those now permanently absent. "This decision is unprecedented in the Academy's history, but so is the nature of the attack that necessitated it."
The word "attack" sends a ripple through the assembled students—a collective intake of breath, a subtle shifting of postures from passive observation to heightened alertness. Rumors have circulated, of course, each version more dramatic than the last, but official confirmation transforms speculation into concrete reality that demands response.
"Despite how manic and crazy Dead Knot can be," Professor Blackwood continues, his tone sharpening with evident disdain for the euphemism, "inside the school halls is supposed to be off-limits, especially to the masses. This has been established practice for decades—the one rule even the most degenerate among you typically respect."
His gaze sweeps the room, lingering momentarily on certain individuals with histories of particularly egregious behavior. I notice several Alpha males shifting uncomfortably under that pointed stare, their usual bravado temporarily suppressed by the weight of circumstance.
"This was obviously a targeted attack," he states flatly, paper crinkling slightly as his grip tightens. "Not random violence or territorial posturing gone awry, but premeditated action with specific intent. An attack that ended up killing twenty-seven students and two professors."
The numbers land with palpable impact—larger than most rumors suggested, concrete quantification of loss that transforms abstract tragedy into specific absence. Twenty-seven empty seats that will never again be filled. Two faculty offices that will require new occupants, new nameplates, new individuals to move through spaces shaped by those now permanently departed.
I feel Knox tense beside me, his usual fidgeting stilled by the gravity of the professor's words. His hand finds mine beneath the desk, fingers intertwining with surprising gentleness from someone typically so frenetic in his movements. The gesture isn't romantic—not exactly—but something deeper, more fundamentally human. Shared acknowledgment of vulnerability, of mortality that transcends designation or pack politics.
"The situation is being dealt with accordingly, with the help of hired investigators," Professor Blackwood continues, his professional tone at odds with the emotions clearly simmering beneath his composed exterior. "Until their work concludes and security protocols are appropriately revised, you are all released from regular academic obligations."
He sets the papers down, straightening to his full height as his expression shifts from controlled neutrality to something sharper, more personal. What follows is clearly not part of the official script, not contained within the administrative dictates those papers represent.
"So, the lot of you packs," he gestures toward the clusters of Alphas who gravitate together even in classroom settings, "either go and actually be decent Alphas and find an Omega so you don't die within or outside these halls." His attention shifts toward the scattered Omegas, myself included. "And Omegas, keep yourselves busy by exploring your identities and not hyper-focusing on being with any pack that moves."
The unexpected personal commentary—from a Beta professor who typically maintains professional distance from designation politics—creates visible discomfort among many students. Some exchange glances, others stare fixedly at desks or electronic devices, avoiding engagement with this departure from academic protocol.
A snicker cuts through the uncomfortable silence—emanating from Trent Marshall, Alpha heir to some telecommunications fortune, notorious even by Knot Academy standards for his entitled attitude and degrading treatment of Omegas. His artificially whitened teeth flash beneath the carefully groomed mustache that's supposed to make him appear distinguished but always reminds me of a second-rate villain from outdated cinema.
"Our entire purpose here is to find a pack, fuck, and make babies," he drawls, voice pitched to carry despite the pretense of speaking to his immediate circle. "So why the hell does he care if we do anything else?"
The crude commentary—normally guaranteed to produce supporting laughter from his sycophants and intimidated silence from everyone else—lands in complete silence that extends for one heartbeat, then another. Professor Blackwood has gone utterly still, his hand frozen in the act of gathering his lecture notes.
When he finally looks up, his expression has transformed completely. The professional distance, the controlled academic persona he's maintained through years of teaching the Academy's most difficult population, has vanished entirely. What remains is raw, human grief stripped of pretense or protection.
"One of the professors who perished was an Omega who thought her time had come and passed," he says, voice dropping to a register that requires complete silence to hear clearly. "Professor Eleanor Hayes. She devoted all her time teaching you lot of ungrateful assholes who mocked her day and night."
The use of profanity—unprecedented from a faculty member known for linguistic precision that never requires vulgarity for impact—creates visible shock among the students. Several sit up straighter, attention entirely captured by this departure from established character and protocol.
"In the end, she perished in my arms last week."
The simple statement lands with devastating impact, transforming academic tragedy to personal loss with brutal efficiency. Several students look away, unable to maintain eye contact with grief so naked, so unfiltered by social niceties or professional distance.
Professor Blackwood pauses, waiting for response, for question, for any acknowledgment of the human reality beneath the administrative announcement. When none comes—when the silence extends beyond comfort into painful territory—his expression hardens with visible disappointment.
"Her regret was not doing what she liked. What she loved," he continues, words emerging slower now, weighted with emotion he makes no attempt to conceal. "She was so focused on trying to empower everyone else. To encourage all you Omegas to find the right pack so you're not left to be old and lonely. Encouraging you ungrateful, selfish Alphas to be better so you wouldn't be stuck here to rot and become feral."
His gaze moves across the room, lingering briefly on each face, each empty seat, each representation of lives continuing or permanently ended. "She cared about everyone around her, but no one cared about her."
The accusation hangs in the air, unanswered and largely unanswerable. I find myself thinking of a professor I barely noticed—an older Omega woman who taught advanced literature courses I never attended, whose name I wouldn't have recognized without Blackwood's specific mention. An individual rendered invisible by her designation, her age, her position at the periphery of the Academy's complex social ecosystem.
"She died protecting a student," Blackwood continues, gathering his papers with mechanical movements that suggest he's operating on autopilot while his mind remains with his lost colleague. "Because the gas situation wasn't a leak of any sort. It was an intentional bomb placed in her classroom, meant to detonate for the next class—this class, this very group of individuals sitting in this room right now."
The revelation lands like physical impact—a collective intake of breath, shifting postures, widening eyes as implications register. Not random violence but specific targeting. Not general threat but personal danger that happened to catch others in its lethal radius by tragic timing.
I glance at Knox, finding his expression hardened into something dangerous—the playful tech genius receding, the deadly operative emerging from beneath carefully maintained cover. His eyes move systematically around the room, clearly reassessing each individual as potential threat rather than mere classmate. I recognize the shift because I'm performing the same calculation, categorizing every face by capacity and potential motivation for mass violence.
When no one speaks—when shock renders even the most vocal students temporarily mute—Professor Blackwood releases a sound too bitter to be called a laugh, too controlled to be classified as sob.
"She died not knowing what her favorite color truly was," he says, words emerging with increasing intensity despite his controlled volume. "What her favorite comfort show was. What meal she liked the most and least. She didn't know anything about herself but knew everything about everyone else."
He tucks his papers into his worn leather bag with precise movements that betray a man clinging to routine when everything else has shattered around him. "In the end, why does it matter? No one even remembers her name, let alone gave a shit."
The profanity emerges with particular precision, clearly chosen rather than erupting from uncontrolled emotion. Its impact is magnified by the restraint surrounding it, by the careful articulation that transforms crude language into deliberate indictment.
"And if that's how you all want to die," he continues, slinging his bag over one shoulder with a movement suggesting body operating independently from mind caught in emotional undertow, "not knowing anything but yourselves, all because you like to stay at this academy that was made for discarded Alphas and Omegas alike, then go right ahead. Stay here and die at the hands of one another."
He moves toward the door with measured steps that belie the passion evident in his words, in the slight tremor visible in hands typically steady enough to illustrate complex theoretical concepts on ancient chalkboards. At the threshold, he pauses, one hand resting on the doorknob as he turns back to face the collectively silent classroom.
"But guess what you all feel when you take your last breath?"
The question hangs in the air, rhetorical yet demanding internal response from each individual present. Without waiting for verbal acknowledgment, Professor Blackwood delivers the single-word answer with the precision of a blade sliding between ribs.
"Regret."
The syllable emerges perfectly articulated, stripped of academic pretense or emotional excess. Simple, devastating truth delivered with the authority of someone who has witnessed its verification firsthand.
"Class dismissed."
The door closes behind him with quiet finality, leaving behind silence more complete than any I've experienced in this typically chaotic environment. No one moves immediately—no hurried gathering of belongings, no rush toward social engagements or territorial posturing in hallways beyond. Just collective stillness as reality sinks in, as implications register, as individual minds process what just occurred.
I remain seated as students gradually begin to move, to gather possessions, to exit with uncharacteristic quiet that feels more respectful than shocked at this point. Knox stays beside me, his presence solid and reassuring in ways I'm still learning to acknowledge rather than resist.
"You don't seem surprised," he observes quietly, mismatched eyes studying my face with characteristic intensity. "About the intentional nature of the attack."
"I'm not," I admit, voice pitched for his ears alone despite the emptying room. "The timing was too convenient, the specific location too precise to be random violence—even by Dead Knot standards."
His expression shifts toward something grimmer, the playful facade he typically presents to the world temporarily abandoned in favor of the sharp intelligence and deadlier capabilities that exist beneath. "Elliott," he says, the name emerging not as question but statement.
I nod, no elaboration necessary between us. We both understand what this means—not just continuation of existing threat but escalation, movement from targeted individual violence to mass casualty tactics that suggest desperation, rage, resources willing to be expended without guarantee of specific result.
"Marcus needs to know," Knox says, pulling out his phone with fingers that move with preternatural speed across the screen. "If he doesn't already."
"He knows," I reply with absolute certainty. "Nothing happens at this academy without his awareness, especially not now."
We sit in silence as the last students filter out, leaving behind the peculiar emptiness that follows collective trauma—physical space unchanged but emotionally altered, air still carrying the weight of revelations that transform ordinary surroundings into something fundamentally different.
When we're finally alone, Knox turns to me with unexpected gravity, all traces of his usual manic energy temporarily subdued. "Professor Blackwood wasn't wrong, you know. About the regret."
I meet his gaze, finding no humor there, no deflection, no carefully constructed persona designed to keep others at calculated distance. Just raw honesty from someone who has glimpsed his own mortality more recently and directly than most.
"I know," I acknowledge softly. "I've felt it myself."
The admission emerges without conscious decision—truth offered without strategic calculation, vulnerability extended without expectation of advantage gained. Simply human connection in a moment that demands nothing less than genuine response.
"When my heart stopped," Knox continues, fingers unconsciously moving to his chest where ribs broken during CPR are still healing, "I didn't see light or tunnels or any of that bullshit from near-death experience stories. But I did feel regret. Crystal clear, perfectly articulated regret for things I hadn't done, for time I'd wasted, for connections I'd avoided out of fear disguised as tactical consideration."
He laughs softly, the sound lacking its usual sharp-edged mischief. "Weird thing to discuss in an empty classroom after that particular bombshell announcement, I know. But seeing Blackwood like that—seeing what losing someone did to him—it just brought it all back."
I reach out, covering his hand with mine in mirror image of the comfort he offered earlier. "Not weird," I counter. "Human. Necessary, even."
We sit like that for several minutes, connected by touch and shared experience of mortality too close for comfort, too real for denial. The empty classroom around us feels less like academic space and more like temporary sanctuary—pause between movements, breath between words, moment of genuine connection before returning to the dangerous world beyond these walls.
"I don't want to die not knowing my favorite color," Knox says suddenly, breaking the silence with characteristic non-sequitur that somehow makes perfect sense in context. "Or my favorite food, or what books really matter to me versus what I read because Marcus said they were important, or what music makes me feel most alive."
He turns his hand beneath mine, interlacing our fingers with deliberate intent. "And I don't want to die without actually living in this pack we're building, without seeing what we might become together if we stop pretending we're just strategic allies or convenient protection."
The words strike with unexpected force, resonating with thoughts I've been carefully avoiding since waking in Marcus's arms at the lake house, since witnessing Knox's near-death in the forest, since experiencing Bastian's gentle strength during my panic attack, since feeling Rook's fiercely protective presence through our months of careful non-attachment.
"I don't want that either," I admit softly, the words emerging as whisper yet carrying weight of shouted declaration. "I'm just not sure I know how to live any other way anymore."
Knox squeezes my hand, the gesture conveying understanding beyond what words could efficiently express. "None of us do. That's the point of pack, I think—figuring it out together rather than continuing to be messy disasters individually."
The observation startles a laugh from me—genuine, unexpected, momentarily inappropriate given the gravity of everything that preceded it. Yet somehow perfect in its incongruity, in its refusal to remain trapped in somber reflection when life continues to unfold with all its contradictions and complexities.
"Messy disasters," I repeat, finding the descriptor oddly comforting in its accuracy. "I suppose that's as good a foundation as any."
Knox grins—not his usual manic expression but something softer, more genuine, yet still characteristically him. "Definitely better than whatever bullshit foundation most packs build on. At least we're honest about our collective fuckedupedness."
I shake my head, rising from my seat with movements still careful due to healing injuries. "You just made up a word."
"I absolutely did," he agrees, following my lead toward the exit, his hand remaining linked with mine as if the connection has become natural rather than noteworthy. "And it's a fantastic word that perfectly encapsulates our situation. I might patent it. 'Fuckedupedness: The state of being thoroughly and creatively damaged while maintaining functional capabilities through sheer spite and trauma responses.'"
As we leave the classroom, as we step from the weight of collective grief into whatever awaits beyond, I find myself grateful for his particular approach to processing emotion—the humor that doesn't dismiss pain but transforms it into something more manageable, the intelligence that acknowledges reality while creating space for possibility beyond mere survival.
The hallway stretches before us, emptier than I've ever seen it during normal hours, footsteps echoing against polished floors with unusual clarity. It feels like walking through a museum after hours—familiar space rendered strange by absence, by silence, by the lingering awareness of what has happened and what might still occur.
But I'm not alone in this altered landscape. Not navigating danger and possibility without support or connection. Not isolated in vigilance as I've been for seven years of careful distance and calculated violence.
For better or worse, I'm part of something larger now—something messy and complicated and potentially transformative. Something that might lead to disaster or redemption or some complex blend of both. Something that, despite years of carefully constructed defenses, I find myself increasingly unwilling to reject or abandon.
"Pack," I say softly, testing the word, the concept, the implications it carries for someone who has functioned in deliberate isolation for so long.
Knox's hand tightens briefly around mine, the gesture both acknowledgment and reassurance. "Pack," he confirms, the single syllable carrying weight of promise and possibility that feels simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.
We continue down the empty hallway, toward whatever comes next in this dangerous, beautiful, unpredictable life we're choosing to build together.