Chapter 4
Four
Kinsley
My phone feels contaminated. I don’t even bother blocking the number; I know it’s a pointless gesture. A guy who can get my number in minutes will do what it takes to message again. Instead I power the phone off completely and shove it under my pillow, cutting off the connection.
Sleep doesn’t come. My mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding and sparking, too fast to grasp, too loud to silence.
It’s not just fear; it’s a cold, simmering fury that vibrates through every nerve ending.
This isn’t a game. This is a campaign, and he’s just made his opening move.
The adrenaline from the encounter is still coursing through me, making my skin prickle, my senses hyper-alert.
By morning the fury has sharpened into a diamond-hard resolve, almost a manic certainty.
I’m not going to hide. I’m not going to let him scare me away from my own life.
I have a Chem 102 lecture in a hall that holds three hundred people.
It’s my sanctuary, a place of facts and formulas where I am anonymous and in control.
He can’t touch me there. He can’t. He won’t.
The conviction feels absolute, almost unshakeable.
I arrive early, claiming my usual seat: third row, aisle.
I don’t cocoon myself between others for safety.
This is my spot. I will not be moved. I focus on my notebook, sketching the structure of a benzene ring.
The familiar patterns are calming the wild energy buzzing under my skin, trying to channel the racing thoughts into something productive.
The lecture begins. Dr. Albright is a stern, no-nonsense woman who commands attention, and I gratefully sink into her lesson on reaction kinetics.
For forty-five blissful minutes, there is no West Monroe.
There is only the predictable, logical world of science, a temporary balm for my overstimulated mind.
Then, the heavy door at the front of the lecture hall opens with a soft groan.
My head snaps up. The sound is too loud, too sudden.
West Monroe steps inside. He walks directly to Dr. Albright and hands her a folder.
Dr. Albright stops mid-sentence. “Ah, thank you,” she says, turning to the class. “Everyone, a quick announcement. This is West Monroe. He’s the new teaching assistant assigned to this class.”
A low murmur ripples through the lecture hall but to my oversensitive ears, it’s a deafening roar.
My pen slips from my numb fingers and clatters onto the floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
For a single, solitary second my blood runs cold, the hypomanic edge threatening to shatter into a sudden, terrifying drop.
Then the heat of my anger rushes back in, boiling away the chill, a furious surge that pushes back against the encroaching despair. Of course. This is his move, a power play of the highest order.
Dr. Albright continues, “Mr. Monroe will be holding review sessions on Thursdays, and will be managing all grading.”
As she says this, West turns his head. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, methodical and deliberate.
It’s not a scan; it’s a search. His eyes move past row after row.
I don’t shrink down, I don’t look away. I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on, the defiance a desperate, almost physical shield against the internal chaos.
His eyes stop. They lock onto mine.
He gives me the slightest, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement that says, Checkmate.
I give him nothing back. No fear. No shock. Just the iciest glare I can muster. A look that says, You’ve declared war. I hope you’re ready for a fight. The fury is a clean, sharp edge, a focus that momentarily cuts through the internal static.
He breaks eye contact first, taking a seat at a small desk at the front. He looks for all the world like he belongs there, like he owns the room.
The next thirty minutes are not torture, they are a test. I force my hand to stop shaking as I pick up my pen.
I tune out the overwhelming presence of the man at the front of the room, and I focus on Dr. Albright with ferocious intensity.
My mind latches onto every word, every formula as a lifeline.
My notes are precise, my posture is perfect.
I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. I will not. I cannot.
When Dr. Albright dismisses the class, I don’t rush. I pack my bag with deliberate, measured movements, each action a conscious effort to maintain control.
I can feel him watching me.
Let him watch.
I swing my backpack over my shoulder and walk toward the exit. I don’t take the side aisle; I walk down the center, a path that will take me right past his desk.
As I approach, his voice cuts through the chatter, low and for my ears only. “Have a good day, Kinsley.”
Chills run over my skin as his husky words land on me. I don’t stop, I don’t even turn my head. I just keep walking, pushing through the door and into the hallway, the sudden rush of cool air a shock to my system.
Once I’m clear, I don’t run. I walk straight back to my dorm, each step a hammer blow of defiance. Back in my room, I don’t bother calling Chloe. This is my fight. I sit at my desk, power on my laptop, and log in to the university portal.
There, at the top of my inbox, is a new email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Chem 102
My jaw tightens. With a sharp, angry click, I open it. The screen glows, too bright, the words jumping out at me.
Kinsley,
I have finished grading the first-week diagnostic quiz. You scored the highest in the class. 25/25. Your reasoning on the final question regarding isotopic mass was particularly impressive.
I noticed you seemed distracted during today’s lecture. Don’t let your focus slip. A mind like yours would be a waste to see dulled by apathy.
I hold review sessions on Thursdays at 6 PM in Dalton Hall, room 203. I expect to see you at the first one.
West Monroe
TA, Chem 102
I read it once, deconstructing the attack.
First, the praise. An attempt to flatter me, to make me feel seen and special.
Then, the critique. A lie designed to make me doubt myself, to make me think he has power over my focus.
And finally, the order. I expect to see you there.
The words burn into my retina, each one a fresh insult.
A humorless smile touches my lips. He thinks he can order me around. He thinks he’s won. The hypomanic energy, which had been threatening to crash, now surges, sharp and dangerous.
I move my cursor to the reply button. My fingers fly across the keyboard, the words forming with a speed and certainty that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
Mr. Monroe,
Thank you for the feedback. However, I will not be attending your review sessions. My performance in the class is already exemplary, as you noted. My time is better spent elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Kinsley Fischer
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, the click a final, definitive punctuation mark. The battle line has been drawn, and I just threw his command right back in his face. The rush is intoxicating, a reprieve from the constant, buzzing static in my head.