It had been two weeks since Cassius Veldane's death.
As I suspected, the news of his death quickly died out.
School resumed within a week and everybody carried on with their lives as if nothing happened.
The supposed investigation was still ongoing, but as expected from the same investigation team that hasn't found a lead on my sister, they couldn't find a lead on Cassius' murder either.
That could mean that either the investigation team wasn't trying hard or the murderer was just good at his craft.
Frankly speaking, it was the former. The supposed tall guy who is the prime suspect and possibly the murderer wouldn't have had enough time to pull off a perfect murder without being caught.
Life at Dicarthen returns to its usual rhythm—classes, assignments, pointless social politics. And me, pretending I don't notice the eyes watching me.
It started small. A feeling. That prickling awareness when you're being observed.
Then, the proof.
A misplaced notebook. A door slightly ajar when I know I shut it. A presence, just out of sight.
Someone is watching me.
Ethan thinks I'm being paranoid. Misha suggests it's my guilt manifesting. They don't get it.
I check my surroundings constantly. Hallways. Cafeteria. Even my dorm. But whoever they are, they're good. Careful.
Then, late one night, I find the note.
"I know what you're looking for."
No name. No signature. Just a quiet warning, left where only I would find it.
I should be scared. I should stop.
But if someone thinks they can play mind games with me—
They don't know who they're dealing with.
I've been tested, more than most.
I tried to be an ordinary guy, to blend in with people, to find clues about Marienne from the shadows. But that didn't work out.
I tried a polite approach, I asked seniors, classmates, even. But no one knew—where did Marienne disappear and what happened. Eventually, the answer became clear.
The key wasn't Dicarthen's students—it were the key figures, the masterminds behind the scene.
If I wanted answers, I needed to meet them.
And to do that, I needed to remove any obstacle in my way—using any means possible. And you're next, Mr. or Mrs. Stalker.
Although, your gender was female. I wasn't sure but it was a hunch.
The realization comes gradually, but once it settles, it's undeniable.
The signs were subtle at first. The handwriting on the note—too neat, too precise. The way my belongings were moved—deliberate, careful. Not the clumsy rummaging of a brute, but the calculated touch of someone meticulous.
Then, the scent.
A faint trace of something floral lingered in my dorm when I returned one evening. Not overpowering, just enough to make me notice. No guy I know wears perfume like that.
The clincher? The feeling.
The way I was being watched—not just out of suspicion or hostility. There was something else. Something more... obsessive.
Ethan and Misha still dismiss me, but I know better.
Who is she? What does she want?
More importantly—how much does she know?
I came across many females during my time here. Although I never became friends with them, I became pretty well-known. Some even called me, "The Most Liked Commoner" and hey, I live up to that reputation, not that it did me any good.
Let's narrow down the list.
Misha Caleb? Too gullible to not get caught.
Snowflake Everhart? Not entirely out of the question as I have felt that she's interested in me but I don't see it.
The Demara sisters? They have no reason to stalk me and leave that cryptic note unless they're going to extreme measures to get me to join the Gardening Club.
Isla Vritra? Out of the question.
There are more females that I've come to know, but it was only to ask them questions about my sister or just in general.
If it's a girl, she's obsessed with me.
I don't have the kind of good looks a noble from a respectable house would, but I'm quite charming even if I do say so myself. Still, that's no reason for that cryptic note.
It's likely someone I'm familiar with. Long before the Academy. But I can't recall anyone like that, mainly because I have too many unfilled gaps from my life before the Academy.
For a place brimming with elite students, a prestigious academy like Dicarthen should feel… safer. But today, it doesn't. Not for me.
The whispers about Cassius' murder have finally faded into the background. No new leads. No confessions. Nothing.
And yet, I'm still being watched.
I don't let it show. Not yet. If I acknowledge it, that means whoever's watching me wins.
I get ready for the day, leaving my dorm early. The academy feels strangely normal, like nothing ever happened. But I know better.
Ethan and Misha find me at breakfast. More accurately, Misha throws herself into the seat across from me with a dramatic sigh, while Ethan follows behind, looking just as exhausted.
Misha: "I hate mornings. And classes. And rules. And existing."
Ethan: "You say that every day, and yet, you're still alive."
Misha: "Tragic, isn't it?"
I sip my coffee, pretending not to hear them. It's too early for this.
Ethan nudges me. "Hey, Castor. You good?"
Castor: "Define 'good.'"
Ethan: "Not brooding in a dark corner and planning murders."
Castor: "Funny. No, I'm fine."
Misha squints. "Liar. You've been off since the whole Cassius thing. And don't say 'murder,' Ethan. You sound guilty."
Ethan: "Fine. 'Unfortunate demise.' Better?"
Misha: "Barely."
They're not wrong. But I can't tell them what's actually bothering me. I can't tell them about the stalker.
Misha: "Anyway, are you coming to club activities today?"
Castor: "I don't do clubs."
Ethan: "That's a lie. You did one meeting of the dueling club and almost murdered a senior."
Ethan was talking about a friendly duel I had with a senior. I was minding my own business until I got dragged in a feud between a senior and a junior from the dueling club and had to become that junior's supposed 'champion.'
A bare-handed duel. Though I never did any sort of martial arts, I've been told I have sharp survival instincts so I fight like a prey would fight a predator.
Castor: "It was a friendly match."
Misha: "That guy had to get stitches."
Castor: "I was being friendly."
Ethan sighs. "You're impossible."
Misha grins. "That's why we keep him around."
Well, thanks for that.
The academy halls feel different today. Tighter. Controlled.
It doesn't take me long to figure out why. They're here.
A pair of uniformed parole officers patrol near the entrance of the student dorms, their presence stiff and unnatural against the usual chaos of academy life.
Nicole and Aria Demara's petition actually worked.
I spot Nicole, positively glowing with pride as she talks to a group of students about how she and her sister made it happen. Aria stands beside her, quieter, watching everything.
Nicole catches my eye and smirks. "You're welcome, Castor."
Castor: "For what?"
Nicole: "For making the academy safer, of course. Now, if the killer tries anything, they'll be caught before they can strike again."
I glance at the officers. They look bored. Uninvested.
Castor: "You think a couple of guys in uniforms will stop a murderer?"
These guys are probably gonna be the ones to get murdered when they fall asleep without doing their job.
Nicole: "Better than nothing."
They're worse, Nicole.
Aria suddenly speaks, voice quiet but sharp. "Do you feel it too?"
Castor: "Feel what?"
Aria: "Like someone is watching you."
A chill creeps up my spine.
Nicole waves her off. "Oh, don't start with that. Castor's already paranoid enough!"
I say nothing.
Because Aria is right. But, Aria isn't my stalker, is she? I never even considered her. She's always quiet and when you look at it that way, she does seem like a perfect candidate. But, my gut told me it wasn't her.
I find Isla in the library. Or maybe she finds me. I'm never quite sure. No, I'm pretty sure I find her. I think she considers me her stalker.
The Commoner Stalker.
She's seated alone, reading, as usual.
Castor: "Do you ever take breaks?"
She doesn't look up. "Do you ever mind your own business?"
Castor: "Touché."
I sit across from her. She doesn't tell me to leave, which I take as a victory.
For a while, neither of us speak. The silence is oddly comfortable.
Then she finally closes her book and meets my gaze. "You're still investigating, aren't you?"
Castor: "Shouldn't I?"
She studies me, eyes sharp. She knows something.
Isla: "How's it going?"
Castor: "What?"
Isla: "I'm asking you how's the investigation going."
I lean backwards. "Well, it's going, you-know-how. Not even been a month and no one cares about him anymore. It's awkward to even talk about it now. If only a certain someone could be more specific..."
Isla: "I don't know. I couldn't see. But he wasn't alone. I've been more useful then anyone here."
Okay, I do agree with that.
She stands, grabbing her book. "If you're smart, you'll stop digging."
She walks away before I can respond.
But stopping isn't an option anymore.
I return to my dorm, exhausted.
The stalker is still on my mind. Isla's words keep repeating in my head.
"If you're smart, you'll stop digging."
Can I really stop?
I lie down, intending to rest for just a moment.
And then—darkness.
A nap. A dreamless, quiet void.
Sleep pulls me under like a tide. No resistance, no warning—just an abrupt descent into the unknown.
And then, I see it.
A house. Unremarkable. Ordinary. The kind of house you'd pass by every day without a second glance.
The walls are painted a dull, faded beige. The roof is slightly slanted, its shingles worn with age. There's a small front porch, barely big enough for a single chair, but there isn't one. Just an empty space, like it's waiting for someone who never arrived.
The yard is patchy, grass uneven, neither well-kept nor completely abandoned. A wooden fence surrounds the property, but it's low—more for show than security. A breeze moves the loose gate just enough to make it creak.
The windows are closed. Curtains drawn.
Something about it feels… wrong.
Not in an overtly menacing way. There are no bloodstains, no ominous figures lurking in the shadows. Just a wrongness. A familiarity I can't place.
I take a step forward.
The door is unlocked.
I step inside. The door doesn't creak. No hesitation, no resistance—just silence.
The air is warm, carrying the scent of home-cooked food. A familiar smell. Too familiar.
And then, I see them.
Seated at the dining table, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the chandelier. My parents. My sister.
My mother had similar features like me, people often said I took after her. That black hair and black eyes, and how our eyes looked.
My father was the one who was different; white hair with black pupils. Unique features which my sister took after.
Mom sets down a steaming bowl of soup, her expression relaxed. Dad flips through a newspaper, sipping his tea like it's just another evening. And Marienne—she's there too, her silverware clinking against her plate as she eats.
My breath catches.
This isn't real. It can't be.
But they look so… alive. Untouched by time.
I don't know what compels me to move, but I do. I take a seat at the table.
They don't look surprised.
Mom: "You're late, Castor."
Her voice is light, teasing. As if I had just come in from playing outside. Like nothing ever happened.
Dad: "Had another rough day?"
I open my mouth to speak—to demand an explanation, to ask if they're real, to scream. But instead, I say:
Castor: "Yeah."
Because what else can I say?
Marienne looks up, her eyes bright. She's smiling.
Marienne: "You won't believe it, Castor."
I look at her, studying her face. Perfect. Untouched. Not the lost figure I've been chasing for so long.
Castor: "Believe what?"
She grins, rocking in her chair like she can barely contain herself.
Marienne: "I got in."
I blink.
Castor: "Got in?"
Marienne: "Dicarthen. I got accepted."
Her voice is light, excited—just like I remember.
A prodigy.
The words echo in my head, but they feel like someone else's thoughts.
This isn't right. This never happened.
I glance at my parents, expecting confusion, hesitation—some kind of inconsistency in the illusion.
But no. They're smiling. Proud.
Mom: "She worked so hard for it."
Dad: "Our little genius."
Marienne laughs, a sound I haven't heard in years.
And suddenly, it hurts.
Because for a moment, I want to believe this is real.
Marienne: "You're acting weird."
Her voice is lighthearted, teasing, but there's a flicker of concern in her eyes.
I can't respond. My throat is tight, constricted by something heavy—something suffocating. I just sit there, staring at her, trying to burn every detail of her face into my memory.
Because I know.
This isn't real.
It can't be.
And yet, I want to stay.
I want to sit at this table and pretend I belong here. Pretend that nothing ever changed. That I didn't wake up one day and find my world ripped apart.
Castor: "Marienne…"
She tilts her head, waiting.
How do I say it?
How do I tell her that I've spent every waking moment trying to find her? That I've walked through blood and fire for the mere hope that she might still be alive?
That I'm afraid—terrified—of what I'll find at the end of this road?
I swallow.
Castor: "Don't go."
She blinks. "What?"
Castor: "Don't leave. Stay here. With me."
She laughs, a small, confused sound. "What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."
She doesn't get it.
She doesn't understand.
Because she's already gone.
Something inside me cracks.
I push back my chair, move to her side of the table, grasp her hands in mine.
They're warm. Real.
But for how long?
Castor: "Please. Please, just stay."
The words spill out of me, desperate, shaking. I can't lose her again.
Her brows furrow, her smile faltering. "Castor, what's wrong with you?"
I shake my head, tightening my grip.
This moment. This illusion. I need it to last.
Marienne: "You're scaring me."
I open my mouth—to say what, I don't know—but then I see it.
The blood.
It's everywhere. Pooling onto the table. Staining my hands.
Marienne gasps, her eyes darting downward. "C-Castor, what is—"
Her voice distorts. The room shifts. Everything is crumbling.
I jolt back, gasping, drowning in a suffocating silence.
Reality.
I'm in my dorm.
The air is cold, sharp. My heart is hammering, my skin slick with sweat.
I stare at my hands—clean. Trembling.
But the feeling of blood doesn't leave me.
Did I—
—No, it can't be. I never killed Marienne because I was jealous of her.
I loved Marienne, so...
Fuck.
The air by the waterfall is crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and fresh mist. The rhythmic crash of water against stone drowns out the restless thoughts in my head.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. A breather. That's all I need. A moment away from the academy, from Cassius' death, from the dream that still lingers in my bones like a bad omen.
But that feeling—the one I can't shake—returns.
I'm being watched.
I keep my posture relaxed, my movements slow. Pretend you don't notice. The moment I move too suddenly, they'll run. Instead, I shift my weight slightly, just enough to let my hand brush against my pocket. The knife is there. Good.
A rustle.
I turn. Fast.
The blade is in my grip before I can think, the silver edge gleaming under the moonlight. A shadowy figure stands a few feet away, frozen. The tension crackles between us, thick as a storm cloud.
Then, the figure steps forward, and I finally see her face.
Snowflake Everhart.
You.
I exhale sharply, lowering the dagger.
Castor: "You should know better than to sneak up on me. Are you my stalker?"
She tilts her head, amused. "You should know better than to pull a knife on someone so easily. And, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please don't make baseless accusations. I just saw you and had business with you."
I was too hasty.
I click my tongue and shove the blade back into my pocket. "What business?"
She doesn't comment on that. Instead, she steps closer, her white hair catching the soft glow of the moon. Her gaze is sharp, assessing. She was watching me.
Castor: "Why are you here? We aren't friends or close."
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she walks past me, settling on a nearby rock overlooking the water. Completely at ease.
Snowflake: "You're looking for Marienne."
I stiffen.
Of course. She knows.
Castor: "I'll ask you again. Are you my stalker?"
Snowflake has a bland expression before looking me in the eyes and with a playful expression.
Snowflake: "Yeah, I am. So?"
...So, you are my stalker. That's... unexpected.
Castor: "I see."
Snowflake isn't the type to involve herself in things without a reason. If she's bringing this up now, it means she has something to say. Something she thinks I should hear.
I sit beside her, watching her closely.
Castor: "And?"
She exhales, tapping her fingers against her knee. "I can help you. I wasn't stalking you because I wanted to hurt you, y'know? I was just intrigued by you and your search and wanted to help you, but I just couldn't find the right opportunity."
So you broke into my room multiple times, stalked me all over campus and left that note? Bullshit. You're dangerous. I shouldn't have underestimated you or fallen for your nice girl act.
The words hang between us, heavier than the mist in the air.
But—you want to help me?
I don't respond immediately. I don't trust easily. But Snowflake—she's different. She's calculated, meticulous. If she's offering something, it means she's thought it through.
Castor: "What's your plan?"
She smirks. "Simple. We break into the headmistress' office."
I blink.
I was expecting something underhanded—maybe coercing someone, maybe digging for clues through the student records. But a direct break-in?
Snowflake meets my gaze, expression unshaken. She's serious.
And that's when I realize—she's already thought this through.
Castor: "How much do you know?"
Snowflake: "Regardless of who you think I am, I really don't know much. Only the details of what you did this past week. Your past is a big mystery, no records, no anything, so not much."
You even looked into my past?
Guess I wasn't wrong.
You are obsessed. But for what reason and why?
But, if you claim to help me regarding Marienne, I won't turn your offer down.
Castor: "Well, I don't care either way. Whatever it takes."
Snowflake: "Are you really the most liked commoner?"
I'm starting to doubt that title too.