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  Friday, August 26, 2253

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  “You can’t do this!” Jeremiah shouted, smming both palms against the polished antique desk with a sharp crack that echoed through the office.

  The man seated across from him, crisp in a ste-gray suit and schorly in demeanor, frowned as he pushed his gsses higher up the bridge of his narrow nose.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Bridge,” the Dean of the Prima City Inter-Consteltional Medical College Veterinary Branch said, his tone clinical. “As you’re well aware, your sister — acting as your sponsor — was responsible for the entirety of your tuition and associated fees. Given recent developments, however, questions have been raised about the legitimacy of those funds. Consequently, the board has voted to suspend your degree pending verification.”

  Jeremiah leaned in, voice low and tight with fury. “That’s absurd, and you know it. Sarah’s accounts have already been combed through. Everything accounted for. What possible rea—”

  The dean raised a hand, palm outward. “Mr. Bridge, there’s no need for theatrics. Please, sit down.”

  His other hand hovered just above a recessed switch set into the desk’s surface, discreet but unmistakable. Jeremiah’s eyes flicked toward it. He knew it was there. The desk had been donated to the school by Sarah as part of his admission to the college.

  Their eyes locked. The dean’s brow arched.

  Grinding his mors, Jeremiah slowly lowered himself into the plush leather chair. His jaw clenched so tightly he swore he heard a faint crack from one of his teeth.

  As he settled back, the dean offered a thin smile and leaned forward slightly. “Now then, Mr. Bridge. I do understand your frustration. But surely you can also appreciate our position. As the most prestigious medical school in Prima, and thus Nexus, we must hold ourselves to the highest standards. We must ensure that each of our students not only excels but is above reproach. While I fully expect the investigation will mirror the findings of the Senate of Five’s audit, we cannot appear complicit in any impropriety.”

  Jeremiah’s knuckles whitened as his grip on the armrests tightened. The leather groaned in protest beneath his hands.

  The dean went on. “It’s a matter of public trust. We have a responsibility to demonstrate that our integrity is absolute. I sympathize with your circumstances, I truly do. But until this matter is resolved, there is little else we can offer.”

  Jeremiah’s muscles coiled with the urge to rise again, but he remained frozen in pce.

  “So that’s it?” he said, voice hoarse with restrained anger. “That’s how this ends?”

  The dean ced his fingers and leaned back. “That’s how it begins, Mr. Bridge. As of this morning, you are officially on academic suspension. You will be contacted once the investigation concludes. If our inquiry finds no wrongdoing, your completed coursework will remain valid and your enrollment reinstated.”

  If you can still afford to return, the silence between them seemed to sneer.

  The dean gave a final nod. “In the meantime, I encourage you to respond with the dignity expected of a Prima student. Cooperation, after all, will only serve to smooth the road ahead.”

  Jeremiah met the dean’s gaze, unblinking. The silence between them stretched long and taut, neither willing to back down.

  Then, with the sharp precision of a st card pyed, Jeremiah spoke. “The Third Agreement of the Nexus Senate of Five protects the families and verified employees of... Vilins—” the word caught like a splinter in his throat, leaving a metallic tang on his tongue “— from retaliation and discrimination. If you truly wa—”

  The dean’s hand lifted again, slicing through the air like a scalpel. “Mr. Bridge, please. Let’s not make this more difficult than necessary.” His tone was measured, but there was an edge to it now. “I’m fully aware of the legal protections in pce. I’m also aware that exceptions, regrettable though they may be, exist for a reason. As are you. If you insist on pursuing that line of defense, then by all means. But I caution you... such action will only further tarnish an already precarious situation.”

  Jeremiah stood with such sudden force that his chair scraped backward across the floor. The dean’s eyes widened. He flinched, recoiling so far into his high-backed chair that it nearly tipped. His hand darted toward the hidden switch.

  But Jeremiah didn’t lunge. He didn’t shout. He simply reached down, picked up the worn suitcase resting at his side, and turned toward the towering hardwood doors. Jeremiah took several slow, deliberate steps, then paused.

  “I... thank you... for informing me of the board’s... decisions,” he said, voice rigid, words pulled from deep beneath the weight of humiliation. “You have my contact information if... circumstances change.”

  Though his back remained turned, his pale hand, gripping the suitcase handle, trembled with tightly restrained emotion.

  The dean exhaled and slowly lowered his hand. “You’re welcome, Mr. Bridge. And... for what little comfort it may offer — I am sorry things have come to this. Truly.”

  Jeremiah gave no reply. He walked on, pushed open the heavy double doors, and let them sm shut behind him.

  The dean remained still, listening as the echo of retreating footsteps faded into the hollow corridors of the college. Only when silence recimed the space did his shoulders sag. He removed his gsses and polished them with a silk cloth drawn from his pocket, movements slow and methodical.

  After a long moment, he repced the gsses on his face and gnced down at the file resting on his desk. Jeremiah’s file. His lips thinned. Then, without another word, he reached for an antique-looking phone and began to dial.

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  The only sounds Jeremiah could hear as he moved through the empty college halls were the harsh grind of his teeth and the furious drumbeat of his heart. He wasn’t quite running, but every step was a retreat. A quiet, desperate bid to get as far from the dean’s office as he could.

  His only soce was that no one was in the halls to see him in such a state. Of course they weren’t here. It was css time. They’d be seated in bs or lecture halls, preparing for their end-of-year finals. If they passed, they’d move on to clinical rotations at one of the many partnered hospitals or zoos.

  But not him. Not anymore.

  A low, guttural sound slipped from Jeremiah’s throat before he could stop it. It wasn’t quite a word. More of a snarl, half pain, half fury. His fists clenched, itching for something to hit. But all that surrounded him were marble columns and centuries-old stonework. He wasn’t a Brute-Type. He couldn’t punch through walls without it smashing him in turn.

  No, Jeremiah was nothing special. Just another baseline human. Whatever spark of deviant potential might have once existed in their bloodline had skipped him entirely and gone straight to Sarah.

  Still, that did nothing to silence the storm raging inside. It had been growing for three long months, ever since that day. Building, festering. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it buried. Something had to break. Either his resolve and restraint… or himself.

  “Jerry? Is that you?”

  A woman’s voice, soft and familiar, cut through the mental storm like sunlight through smoke.

  Jeremiah froze. The fire in his chest vanished, repced by a cold weight that gripped his lungs. He turned slowly, schooling his face into something like a smile.

  “Hey, Sam. Been a while, huh?” he said with a ugh that came too easily — and felt entirely fake.

  The redhead standing behind him frowned at him.

  Samantha Woods could be called many things: beautiful, brilliant, maybe even a little timid at times. One thing no one would ever call her, however, was tall. The young woman’s petite 5’02” frame looked even smaller when next to Jeremiah’s 6’01”. It didn’t help that her veritable mane of wild, curly hair seemed to envelop her no matter how she tried to tame it.

  They’d known each other for over a decade. She’d been one of the earliest recruits of Sarah’s original Gifted Youth program. Samantha had awakened young, just ten years old, and rumor had it her potential might one day eclipse even Sarah’s. Now, a decade ter, she was an A+ ranked Techno-Type, specializing in medical engineering and on track for her doctorate.

  “I’d say so,” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been ghosting my calls and messages for over two months, you bloody jerk!”

  She punctuated the accusation with a swift kick aimed at his shin. Jeremiah dodged it with ease, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

  Jeremiah ughed again, a hollow sound, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… sorry about that. Things’ve been… rough tely.”

  Samantha’s gre faltered. Her gaze dropped, and a sheen of moisture welled in the corner of her eye. “I… Sorry, Jerry. I didn’t mean…”

  He waved it off with a tired smile. “It’s fine, Sam. Really. I get it. It’s just been… a lot. You understand.”

  She nodded, looking back up at him, concern etched into every line of her face. “Where are you staying? I heard they took the house. Don’t tell me you’re—”

  His expression flickered. Barely, but enough to fracture the mask. He quickly smoothed it over. “Here and there. Still figuring it out. The city’s got a few programs for people in my… situation. I’ll be okay.”

  Sam reached into the oversized bag slung at her side and pulled out a folded pamphlet. “About that! I’ve actually been looking around and found a few—”

  “I said I’m fine!” Jeremiah snapped, voice sharp and ragged.

  The words hit like a sp. Samantha recoiled, the pamphlet slipping from her fingers. She turned away, blinking fast, real tears glinting in her eyes.

  The fsh of guilt burned through Jeremiah’s anger. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, forcing the heat back down. “Sam, I’m sorry. I—”

  She didn’t let him finish. She turned and started walking, her pace brisk. After a few steps, she paused, her back still to him.

  “You’re not the only one who misses her, Jeremiah…”

  Then she broke into a run, the sound of her footsteps fading quickly into the silence of the corridor.

  Jeremiah instinctively reached out, a half-formed motion as if to follow her. But his hand stopped midair… and slowly fell back to his side.

  He stood frozen, staring down the empty hallway long after she’d disappeared around the corner. His arm hung limp. His chest ached, squeezed by invisible hands, but his eyes remained dry. They had been dry for months now. Since that day.

  Then something on the floor caught his eye.

  The pamphlet.

  He crouched down and picked it up, the thin paper slightly crumpled from its fall. The cover was pin, cheap cardstock with faded print.

  Tell Tales Apartments: A Shelter From the Storm.