Octavia
The days pass, yet the feeling of failure and helplessness does not, and I promised myself long ago that I would never allow myself to feel helpless again, and yet here we are.
I try to keep to my classes and retreat to my dorm whenever I can, losing myself in my art in the hope that it will quiet my mind.
Adriano has not summoned me for any of my nightly work, which means he has not yet found a target.
But one of my targets continues to walk freely across this campus, because I failed yet again to kill him.
Still, I am more motivated than ever.
If it takes nine attempts, so be it.
I had a full day of classes before ending the afternoon with combat training, and of course he was there as well, every second of it, because by now it is painfully clear that the man takes every single class I do, and I know—without the slightest doubt—that he is doing it on purpose.
And it is exhausting, having him in my presence from morning until night.
Every so often a thought I despise creeps into my mind.
I have never had difficulty killing those who deserve it, and I know with absolute certainty that if I truly tried, I would have succeeded by now.
And that realisation terrifies me.
Because it means I am not… trying.
Leaving all of that aside, the man himself is deeply confusing.
He is an enigma, I will grant him that.
He thrives on sarcasm and humour, plays the part effortlessly, and yet there is such a darkness beneath it that I don’t think many people ever notice, because it lives in the smallest details.
In the way he can smile and joke one moment, and then, when provoked, something in his eyes shifts instantly, turning black and empty, as though a demon has slipped behind them.
And then there is the way he looks at me.
This obsession of his, this fixation, which exists on an entirely different level of wrong.
But somehow he calls to me.
And what worse punishment could there be than to feel a connection to a rapist, to a man who should not even be breathing anymore, to a Markev… of all people.
I shake myself out of the thoughts as the room begins to close in on me, then move to my closet and change out of my lounge clothes, still streaked with paint, into a pair of leggings and a long sleeved vest before tying my trainers.
I pull my hair into a ponytail, slip my earbuds in, connect them to my phone, and secure it in the band strapped to my arm, and within minutes I am out of the dorm, and into the cold September night.
I start running toward the woods, the music blasting in my ears.
I run until my lungs burn, and still I push myself harder, refusing to slow.
When I finally come back to myself I ease into a walk, forcing my breathing to steady as I take my phone from my arm, only then realising it is already past midnight.
I have been running for three hours straight.
A drop of rain touches my skin, and I lift my eyes to the sky, becoming aware of how heavy the downpour has become, how thoroughly soaked I am.
I make my way back toward the dorm building, the campus quiet at this hour, and take the stairs in silence before slipping inside, leaving my shoes by the door and padding barefoot toward my bedroom.
The curtains are not drawn, and my eyes are pulled instinctively to the window across from mine, the one belonging to the opposite dorm, identical to ours.
Where the Ferrum Syndicate currently resides.
And more precisely, to his window.
Because I am acutely certain that someone has it out for me, not only because he happens to live in the dorm directly opposite mine, but because his window looks straight into my room.
My eyes meet his instantly.
Those icy blue eyes pierce straight through me.
So intense that my breath catches, an audible gulp escaping my lungs as I hold his stare for a moment longer, trying to understand what it is in those eyes, that darkness, that possession, before I finally reach for the curtains and pull them closed, blocking him out.
I head straight for the shower, intent on going to bed.
But just as I step out, the towel still clinging to my skin, and reach for my sleeping shirt, a message chimes.
I pick up my phone, and to my own surprise an actual smile touches my lips.
A message from Adriano.
Instead of the pyjamas, I pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie.
After three hours of running I should be exhausted, but I am anything but, my body becoming acutely alive at the mere thought of killing.
Ridding the earth of yet another stain upon it might settle the rage I carry, if only for a few hours.