Rayne stirred to wake nearly thirty minutes after fainting in the Dormitory hallway. When she opened her eyes, the lights were too bright, and her throat was burning.

"Look who's finally coming around." A young woman with tanned skin and caramel hair offered an unsympathetic smile. There was an iridescent pearl necklace looped around her neck, and she had dangling earrings to match. Beneath the open lab coat, Rayne could tell the woman was wearing a designer belt around a black business dress. The woman placed a hand on the edge of her bed. "Do you know where you are?"

"The infirmary?" she guessed, looking at the man in the corner.

It was her onsite psychiatrist, Doctor Henry MacGowan. Memory of her campus tour was still foggy, but he didn't seem offended when she asked him to reintroduce himself. "The students here like to call me 'Red'," he said, and the longer she stared at him, the more Rayne understood why. Tall, with a slight belly protruding over his belt, he wore glasses with scarlet rims to match his red tie, and the fluff of his ginger eyebrows and receding hairline was beginning to gray. In a three-piece corduroy suit, Red stood behind the woman and watched as she pressed the back of her hand to Rayne's forehead.

The physician sat on a wheel-about stool beside her. "Rayne, I'm Doctor Audrey Campbell. I've been watching over you for the past half-hour. Would you like to tell me how you're feeling?"

"Like I don't belong," Rayne confessed, observing all the certificates, diplomas, and awards adorning the beige damask wallpaper. All the pharmaceutical cabinets were black with polished gold handles, and the white sheets blanketing Rayne's medical bed were made of silk. "This place is too much. Is the whole staff loaded with M.D.s or just you guys?"

"Sense of humor still intact." Red grinned. "You had quite the fall upstairs, young lady. So I'm sure the doctor wants to know how you're feeling physically. You and I can discuss how well you're adjusting later."

"Honestly, I just want some sleep."

She tried to stand, but the moment her toes swept the floor, she lost her balance. Red caught one arm, and the doctor gripped the other. As if they feared they might break her, they sat her on the bed as slowly as possible. They seemed to notice the bruises caking her forearms at the same time. Rayne had to smack the psychiatrist's hand after he tugged at the neckline of her shirt, revealing a green blemish the size of a baby's foot on her collarbone.

"What is that from?" Doctor Campbell asked, exchanging a look with the psychiatrist.

"It's nothing," Rayne groaned, fixing her collar. "We hit a dog on the way over. Impact was harsh, and the seatbelt got me good."

"I see," said Red, although it didn't appear he believed her. "Rayne, Doctor Campbell is going to examine you now, if that's alright. Do you have any objections?"

"No, do what you've got to do." Rayne lifted her arm so the woman could wrap a band around her bicep. After monitoring her blood pressure, Doctor Campbell lifted Rayne's shirt and placed a stethoscope on her back. The frigid contact of metal on skin was shocking, but it was not why Rayne shivered. In her mind's eye, she saw two little girls playing on a metal swing set. Rayne whispered, "Hey, Doc. Do you have a sister?"

"No talking," she chastised.

Rayne mumbled, "Just trying to make conversation."

"The longer you talk, the longer we're here. Now, deep breath."

Rayne inhaled.

And exhaled.

"Good, now another . . . . . 'Atta girl." The doctor stood and wrapped the scope around her neck, an accessory that seemed to compliment the riches of her attire. "And yes, I do have a sister. Why do you ask?"

Rayne shrugged. "Just had a feeling. I have a sister, too. Are you the older sister?"

"Yep. You?"

"Same."

"I bet you miss her." The doctor reached for the retinoscope to flash a light before Rayne's eyes. She chose words of compassion, and yet, her tone seemed to lack the appropriate sentiment. For just a moment, her eyes shifted to the psychiatrist before returning to Rayne. "What's her name?"

"Persephone. 'Effie' for short. I've only seen her once since . . . well, since everything happened. The lady who drove me here, Officer Scott, actually brought her to visit me last month. Best day of the year, hands down."

"Well then. That was very sweet of the officer," said the doctor. Again, her voice lacked true empathy, sounding almost mechanical.

Rayne exhaled. "My, uh . . . My mom doesn't want her near me right now."

"Why don't we change the subject?" Red interjected. "These kinds of things can be difficult to process. Everyone needs time." He sat in the leather-seated chair beside her. While the doctor continued her examination, Rayne's new psychiatrist pulled a pen from his breast pocket. "Now, Rayne. You mentioned a scar before you collapsed. Do you remember that?"

"No," she lied.

"According to your file, you've mentioned a boy with a scar quite frequently in your sessions."

The statement was so bold, Rayne twisted toward the man, shielding her body as though he'd stripped her of clothes and put her on display.

"It's alright," he reassured. "We're here to help you, Rayne. Doctor Campbell has been thoroughly briefed on your history and will be in charge of distributing your medication in the morning, too. You can speak freely here."

"Well, I don't want to."

"Suddenly not in the mood to talk?" the woman teased.

Rayne didn't find it funny. She shifted her eyes to the other side of the room, searching for anything besides the probing psychiatrist and physician. There was a long window in the wall that separated the inspection room from the waiting area. On the other side of the glass, the man with blue eyes stood against the frame, scratching an itch at the back of his neck.

Speak of the devil, she thought.

This time, however, Rayne was not afraid. There was no headache pounding her brain into the pit of her neck. She was lucid enough to know the man before her now was not the one from her dreams. He had no scar, no air of darkness radiating from a ghostly frame . . .

Noticing her scrutiny upon him, the man offered a small smile and salute.

Rayne frowned. In an effort to regain the control she had long since lost to the real blue-eyed man, Rayne chose to defy this man's stare. She wanted to intimidate him, to frighten him in ways the real blue-eyed man frightened her. The longer Rayne glared, the more his arctic eyes widened.

Suddenly, a whoosh of air severed the connection between them. It slithered around her neck and through her hair, sending a shiver down her spine. She might have dismissed it as a draft if she hadn't already seen its source: a shadowy figure. It was a person, yet not quite human, with long limbs and tendrils that curled and twisted through the disinfectant-scented air. The darkness emanating from it was unlike any she had ever known, a void so deep and consuming that it seemed to swallow the very essence of light.

Rayne whipped her head toward the door, eyes wide with fear, but the shadow had already vanished, leaving only the lingering sense of dread. But it had been there, right? She rubbed her neck, still feeling the cold chill where fingers had brushed her skin just moments before.

After looking around and coming to the conclusion that no one else had witnessed the bizarre spectacle, Rayne swallowed hard. The hallucinations were supposed to have been better—they had gotten better. So why was everything so bad ever since she woke that morning to go to Maria J. Westwood?

"He thinks he can torture me forever," Rayne announced quietly. "The man with the scar . . ."

"Who?" Red queried. "Who is he?"

"I don't know. Just some dude in my dreams . . ."

"Just . . . in your dreams?"

"Just my dreams."

"And how does he torture you?" the psychiatrist probed, flipping open a small leather-bound journal. Its tattered edges were studded with multicolored flags. "This man," he began, placing pen to paper, "is he violent?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Rayne, you just collapsed after referencing a figure who torments you in your dreams. I need to ensure you are fit for class tomorrow. Please answer the question."

"No, he's not violent," Rayne snapped. "He just likes to talk."

And stare, apparently.

"I see, and what does he say to you? What does he want?"

"I don't know." Rayne finally ripped her gaze from the window. "And I don't plan to find out."

◢✥◣

Later that night, moonlight oozed through the bars of Rayne's third-story window for only a few minutes before clouds obstructed the luminescence. She had been cleared by both the physician and the psychiatrist as being fit for class the next day and was determined to catch as many hours of rest as possible. Although, she learned rather quickly that getting used to the new lodging was going to take some time.

The dorm room was exquisite, to say the least, but it was also far too much.

Varnishing the walls was a charcoal-on-gray trellis wallpaper. She had a full-sized bed with four black pillows and a classic, black-and-white noir comforter. In the corner, there was a desk constructed of black oak, topped with onyx marble. A matching dresser sat along the rear wall. Rayne tossed her bags beside it, unsure as to whether or not she really wanted to unpack just yet.

It hadn't taken her long to fall asleep, but according to Rayne's alarm clock, it was somewhere around one in the morning when she had started to see things. Things that weren't actually there.

It began with a voice. Quiet. Somewhat strangled. It caused her to sit up in a panic and ask, "Who's there?" because of how distinctly close it was. She couldn't make out the words—it was just a sound that would sputter up throughout the night.

On and off like a switch, that voice stirred her to wake numerous times until about three in the morning. Just as she decided to brush off the sound as something echoing from a neighboring dorm, Rayne felt the mattress dip behind her, somewhere along the curve of her spine.

She froze.

In a school full of felons, her first concern should have been the notion that someone had broken into her room. As invasive as that would've been, it would've at least been sane. Logical. But such thoughts never crossed her mind. Perhaps that was because she already knew who it was.

Slowly, she rolled over.

Just as she knew they would be, his blue eyes were shining—the only light in the room—and they drew closer and closer until his nose was only a hair's breadth away from hers. His scar was back. With bangs tossed sideways and a black jumpsuit slung over his slender frame, his appearance mirrored that within her dreams. Nothing like the man who had been introduced as her homeroom teacher.

Then a shadow—just like the one she'd seen in the infirmary—crawled into her room. It slithered through cracks in the door frame, and Rayne's gasp caught on the panic welling in her throat. Oxygen deprivation reddened her cheeks the moment five, obscure fingers began to materialize from the black cloud. Those fingers reached for her, stretching and curling until they fell, gripped the floor, and pulled the entire dark mass closer towards her bed. She wanted to sit up, but the blue-eyed man leaned closer, his breath hitting her neck. Rayne lifted her shoulder, curled away from his gaze, and looked toward the shadow on the floor once more. Slowly, an arm appeared from the black vapor. Then another. Then a head—stretching like it was screaming, although there was no face visible.

With this singular horrifying specter, came friends . . .

Countless shadows filled the room; they crawled along the floor and morphed together until they were one large black mass surrounding those glowing blue eyes. Rayne couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. For hours, it was simply Rayne, her unwelcome visitor, and a mass of black shadows, reaching for her and flickering in the light of those strange, blue eyes.

◢✥◣

In the cold light of morning, Rayne struggled to find a sense of normalcy. She rubbed her eyes and tugged a wedge from her black flannel pajama bottoms, the hem of her white tank top slipping upward as she yawned. There were four fingerlike bruises along her hip. Quickly, she pulled it back down. She hadn't slept well and didn't want to think about why.

Telling herself that it had all been a dream, but not actually believing it, Rayne grabbed her uniform and a towel before venturing into the hallway. She couldn't remember where the shower room was, but when her hand brushed the stairwell door, she had the distinct feeling she might find it somewhere on the first floor.

The stairwell echoed with the soft fall of her footsteps, the smell of damp stone and decay mingling with the aroma of impending rainfall. Voices trickled up toward her, a rough-edged symphony of laughter that cut through the early silence. Rayne paused on the second landing. A group of boys lounged by the windowsill, radiating a careless confidence.

Her gaze landed on one of them, in particular—the one who seemed to draw in the light all around him.

His tousled hair, parted slightly to one side, curled gently at the ends as if kissed by the wind. Each strand framed his face with an almost ethereal glow, the kind of old-money blonde that spoke of endless summers outdoors. He wore a sleeveless, loose-knit beige top, the thick strands weaving across his sun-kissed skin like delicate ropes, as if he were a mythical figure caught in a fishing net. But it was the bruises that caught her attention next.

Dark smudges bloomed like poisonous flowers under his skin, trailing up sculpted arms. Judging by the grass stains over his slim-fit track pants, she'd guessed they were from one too many stumbles out on a field. Yet his movements held an undeniable grace, a hint of luxury that clung to him almost like a second skin. She couldn't decide if he would look more at home chasing a soccer ball or drifting on a surfboard.

His eyes, half-lidded and still heavy with sleep, darted toward her suddenly. Rayne felt a flicker of something—connection, perhaps, or a warning. She wasn't quite sure.

Beside him, a taller boy with a black goatee slugged another, his slicked-back hair catching the light. His facial hair was unusual for someone their age, which suggested he had either been held back or developed early. The boy next to him, a massive figure with ebony skin, smiled as he brushed a hand over his shaved head. Though he exuded an intimidating strength, there was a strange softness in him, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—an ephemeral kindness that seemed to vanish the very moment he noticed . . . her.

Their laughter died as Rayne approached. The trio straightened, their previous lethargy sharpening into a sudden predatory focus.

"Hey, babe. Where you headed?"

"Yeah, come on, baby girl, you know we got the best wood at Westwood," said the bodybuilder, laughing and high-fiving the dark-haired boy.

The blonde purred, "You scared, new girl?"

Rayne's initial intrigue swiftly fizzled out. She pushed past them, her shoulders brushing theirs as they tried to corner her on the stairwell. Her pulse quickened, but she forced her chin up, straightened her spine. "You know what, boys? New girl's a little lost. Why don't you make yourselves useful? Any of you know where I can find the ladies' shower room?"

Dumbfounded looks swallowed their smiles.

"Oh, what?" Rayne jabbed. "Does the new girl normally keep her mouth shut?" With a quick shove to the blonde one's chest, she added: "And you. Back off, or I will report you."

For a moment, the blonde stared down at her, their proximity forcing him to meet her gaze. Something flickered in his eyes—a faint openness, like a glimmer of dawn breaking through clouds. But the moment passed, and shadows reclaimed his stare. Rayne had been eyeing the bruises on his biceps until he shifted, covering them with crossed arms. 

"Someone's got a mouth on her," he muttered, and when he turned away, she noticed a purple contusion along his jawline. 

Before Rayne could open that very mouth to retort, the creak of a heavy door interrupted them. They all turned, and she half-expected a teacher to appear, but instead, a fourth boy sauntered into the stairwell.

There was something in his movements, an unspoken authority that made the others instinctively part to let him through. The blonde, however, moved a fraction closer toward Rayne instead, his body angled between her and the newcomer. The shift was quick, almost imperceptible, but Rayne felt it—the fleeting sense of being shielded. She glanced up at him, and then, as if realizing it himself, the boy swiftly stepped away, a cool mask slipping back into place.

The newcomer had dark brown hair, swept backward, a few rebellious strands falling over his left temple. All over his forearms, serpentine tattoos peeked from under his black shirt, their grayscale coils stark against his olive skin. Rings glinted on his fingers as he pushed his hair aside. "Well, what have we here?" he asked, green eyes falling over Rayne's unkempt pajamas. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made her pulse stutter. "Hello."

"Hey." Rayne pulled her shoulders back but tightened her grip on the bundled uniform.

She scanned the boys around her: the tattooed newcomer, the boy with the goatee, the massive bodybuilder, and lastly, the bruised blonde who just seemed to have a personal bone to pick with her for some reason.

A surge of unease rippled through her, casting a spotlight on the "reform" aspect of this elite institution. While most students presented a veneer of luxury and polish, these boys seemed to belong to a different world entirely—one that veered closer to a gritty underworld than a high school.

Well, except for the blonde. He sort of fit the bill entirely—minus the grudge anyway.

"Looks like we found a tough one," said the one with the goatee. He smiled wide, throwing an arm around the blonde and patting his chest. "Even had the nerve to put her hands on our golden boy here."

"Oh, did she?" the new guy intoned slowly. "For her sake, I hope he liked it." He placed his ringed fingers in the pockets of his black joggers, a smirk lifting his narrow jawline. "Because it just might be the biggest mistake of her life, walking these halls without knowing who we are."

The bodybuilder nodded. "Threatened to make a report too."

Rayne scoffed. "Seriously? You harass me, and the moment I stand my ground, you go crying to daddy?"

"Watch it, new girl," the blonde cautioned, his voice sharper than perhaps he'd intended. He looked away, jaw tight. "You really don't know who you're talking to."

"Oh, really? Enlighten me then." Rayne stepped toward him, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, to see the bruises he tried to conceal. "I'm right here, tough guy. Why don't you do something about it?" She lurched forward, an attempt to assert herself, but fumbled, tripping at the worst possible second.

The blonde's reflexes kicked in, his hands catching her with an unexpected gentleness. Their eyes met. His touch lingered a moment too long, just before Rayne felt herself falling, the tenderness giving way to a sudden forceful push. She stumbled backward, catching herself against the wall.

"Oh, baby girl," cooed the bodybuilder, "didn't your momma ever tell you not to mess with strangers?" Rayne pulled back when he brushed her short locks with his fingers. "You don't know the mental stability of some people."

"Exactly," she snarled, regaining her center. "You don't."

The fourth boy had been eyeing her closely. Finally, he said. "You're that new girl who cheated the system, aren't you? The one who got in without paying a penny?"

"Well, now I feel bad. I didn't order your background check."

This made him smile.

"Allow me." He held out a hand. "Cole. Cole Bradford."

"Rayne. Just Rayne. Pleasure's all yours." She ignored his hand and kept hers tucked in her elbows. "Look, I was just asking your boys here if they could direct me toward the showers."

He stepped toward her, fingers brushing through his hair. "You lost?"

"Not that lost." She stepped back. "If you don't want to help, that's fine. Just get the hell out of my way."

Another smile lit his face. "Wow, you really are new."

"So they tell me."

"No," he said, stepping closer. "It's more than that."

"More than what?"

"I mean . . . you're different."

Feeling a strange spark of victory, Rayne returned his smirk. "So they tell me."

"Out those doors," Cole said, pointing down the stairs. "Female showers are down the hall and to your left. Probably could've found it on your own. Sorry my guys got in your way."

When Cole grinned at her, the blonde's eyes narrowed. It was so brief that Rayne almost missed it, but there was no mistaking the tension that rippled through him when Cole waved her away. "You're apologizing?" the blonde asked, his voice tight as if the words stung. "That's it?"

"That's it," Rayne confirmed, her smile darkening into something a little smug herself.

That earned her yet another teeth-baring grin from Cole.

Rayne turned around, wishing her hair had been long enough to flick his chest. "Later, boys." With a little wave of her fingers, she parted ways and bounded down the stairwell. For a moment, she thought they might follow her, but they never did.

It was strange how for one simple adolescent second, Rayne finally felt as though she was back in high school—as if none of the horrors from the last thirteen months had ever occurred. And to her bizarre satisfaction, it was the first interaction she had on campus that she actually enjoyed.