Page 7 of Breaking Ophelia
Two corridors later, I almost trip over a first-year crouched on the floor, trying to corral a scatter of books and looseleaf. He’s so thin he looks breakable, his glasses perched at a doomed angle on his nose. The crowd surges around him like he’s nothing.
I stop. Kneel. Gather the largest stack and offer it to him, spine up. He blinks, unsure. “Thank you,” he says, voice like a scared mouse.
“Next time, carry less,” I say. I mean it as kindness, but he looks at me like I’ve spoken a riddle.
He scuttles away, books hugged to his chest. The girls at the far end of the corridor stare, then exchange glances, like I’ve broken the script. They aren’t sure what to do with kindness from someone like me. I wonder if it’ll cost me.
This place is fucking massive and it feels like I’m walking through purgatory. I’m supposed to find room 2A but where the fuck was that? The map shows it as being at the end of the West Wing, but the further I go, the less the numbers make sense.
I pass alcoves thick with shadow, hear the click of phone cameras, see the occasional ripple of a curtain behind glass. Iknow the rumors have already started. At least that means they won’t be bored.
For a moment, I falter.I don’t deserve this.Then I remember how to breathe. I raise my chin and walk on, counting the echo of my boots all the way to the end of the hall.
If this place wants to make a meal of me, let it. I’ll give it something to choke on.
The West Wing is eerie. Less trafficked, the echoes last longer, and the eyes in the portraits seem more honest about their contempt. My fingers leave prints on the ancient banister as I climb; it's so old the wood has fossilized, almost stone, so nobody gives a shit about my little smudges.
Probably.
Or they will care and make me lick the whole thing clean just to teach me my place in the pecking order.
2A is tucked behind a minor library—shelves shielded by glass, the books bolted in place. The sign on the door is plastic and slightly crooked, and for some reason that’s the worst part so far.
Like whoever built this place didn’t give a shit about this room.
Which means whoever is inside of it, doesn’t give a shit enough about me to put me in a room they care about.
I’m three minutes late. I knock, once, and the talking stops.
A pause, then, “Enter.”
I manage not to trip on the way in. There are seven people in the room—the five boys in black blazers, one woman in a suit, and another adult who lurks near a side table, eyes glassy, white hair sticking up like he was electrocuted.
The boys. I recognize the type, instantly: the pack leaders, the ones who set the curve and break the rest over it. They lounge in expensive chairs like cat burglars waiting for a target. One is built like a linebacker, neck thick as a sewer pipe; another is paler, fine-boned, more beautiful than any human has a right to be. There’s a blonde who seems to find the whole world hilarious, judging by the twist of his mouth, and a tall one who pins me with dark eyes. The last keeps his face half-hidden by a curtain of black hair, his vibe so hostile it curls off him.
Predators, all of them. Dressed to look careless; shirts untucked, blazers wrinkled just so.
I can hear my father’s voice, through a haze of vodka:Don’t ever let them see your knees buckle, O.
The woman in the suit clears her throat. “Miss Morrow. Please, take a seat.” She gestures to one of the hard plastic chairs. It rocks as I sit, legs uneven. The boys track me, all five sets of eyes. No smirks, no winks—just the open interest of carnivores on a zoo tour. Nobody introduces themselves.
The woman at the desk is elegant in a way that says she could spit-polish a threat into a compliment. “I am Dean Harlow. You’ve been summoned for orientation.”
There it is. Not welcome. Not glad you’re here. Summoned. Like a demon, or a bad rash.
She gives me a look-over, like she’s already found the flaws in my DNA. “I hear you arrived late. Expect better in the future.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The big boy—Blazer, I’m going to call him—is wearing a tight smile. The pretty one just watches, eyes flicking to my hands where they grip the seat.
“First,” says Dean Harlow, “Housekeeping. All debt transfers are on probation the first semester. That means your behavior and GPA are under review. We don’t tolerate failure.” Her glasses catch the fluorescent and for a second she looks like an insect, beady black eyes.
I nod.
“Second, all transfer students are assigned a sponsor. You will report to them weekly. They handle your academic and… social integration.” Her lip curls a fraction, like she bit into a seed and hated the taste.
“Your sponsor is Caius.” She gestures to the one with the black curtain hair. He doesn’t move, barely even looks at me.
