CHAPTER 145: SCARED ROOMIE

Clark POV:

I lay on that unfamiliar mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the slow, rhythmic hum of the building. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked, then slammed. Someone laughed—too loud, too long. The wind outside scraped faintly against the windows, like fingers tracing the glass.

Still no reply from Sara. My last message just hung there, delivered, unread.

I tried not to spiral, tried to tell myself she was just busy. She was probably knee-deep in open suitcases, already gossiping with her roommates about who’s hot, who’s weird, and which prof has the ugliest shoes. That’s what girls did, right?

Maybe it was the shaken figure curled up on the other bed, wrapped tight in the covers like the walls might cave in. I didn’t even know his name. I’d literally just arrived at the dorms, and now this?

I should’ve left. Maybe wandered around. Found a vending machine. But one look at him—his shoulders twitching with every random sound, his soft gasps like he was holding in a scream—and I knew I couldn’t. No way I was leaving this guy alone.

Sometimes when fear claws through you, you just want someone. Anyone. Even a stranger.

So, yeah, I stayed.

The dorm lights buzzed faintly as night crept in. The shadows outside our window grew deeper, longer. A strange hush settled over the building. I couldn’t hear much beyond the faint wind whistling outside. No chatting from neighboring rooms, no footsteps. It was like the building exhaled and then forgot how to breathe again.

I lay down, hoping sleep would drag me under. It didn’t.

I tossed, turned, my mind buzzing.

Everything kept pointing back to one thing: bullies. It had to be. The guy in bed looked like someone who had been cornered, shaken down, probably roughed up for looking the way he did—delicate, pretty, fragile even. Maybe they thought he was an easy target.

I hated bullies.

God, I hated them.

Not just because of some moral high ground, but because I knew what it was like. I knew that feeling—the cold dread in your stomach, the shame of being seen as weak, the hopelessness when no one does anything.

I turned on my side, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly I was six years old again.

Grade two.

Clare had called in sick—faked it, actually. She just wanted to laze around and sneak extra cake from Mom. I’d gone to school anyway, being the good twin, thinking I could take notes and help her catch up.

That day, the math teacher came in like a storm. Banging the door, face red, fury dancing in her eyes. She didn’t even open her books—just started firing off addition questions like bullets. Anyone who got one wrong got pinched. Hard.

It became a game of survival. Kids flinching, tears forming. She didn’t spare anyone. Except me.

I knew my additions. I answered fast. No pinches for me.

Billy, though—he didn’t answer a single one right. The teacher had it out for him. He flinched every time she walked by, already red from her cruel little pinches. And when the class ended, he looked at me like I was the reason he suffered.

Later, during recess, he cornered me behind the classrooms.

"You think you’re better than me?" he sneered.

I said nothing. Just tried to walk past.

He grabbed me. Pinched me. Over and over. Red marks bloomed across my arms. His fat fingers digging in. I could still hear him laughing. His breath smelled like stale cereal. I didn’t cry—not in front of him—but inside, I was dying.

He told me if I ever told anyone, he’d knock out my front teeth. Said people would laugh every time I smiled. Said I’d be a freak.

So I kept quiet.

I didn’t tell Mom. I didn’t tell Dad. But Clare? Clare knew something was up. She always did.

She caught me alone in our room that night and cornered me with her signature scowl. I gave in. Told her everything—on one condition. That she wouldn’t tell.

She promised.

But the next day, she woke up eager for school, which never happened. She hated it more than math itself. Even Mom raised an eyebrow but let her go.

That afternoon, Billy came to me crying.

Big, tough Billy. Red-faced and sniffling.

When the teacher asked what happened to him, Clare sang sweetly, "He fell."

Billy nodded. Hard.

She bit Billy.

Not metaphorically—literally. Bit him. In his face.

She told me, deadpan, "I bit the math out of him."

And apparently, she did some other things too. Stuff I was too "pure-minded" to understand, she claimed. She never told me the full story, but I knew Billy never looked at me again. He wouldn’t even walk on the same side of the hallway.

Clare never needed to raise her voice to be scary. She just was.

I wished I had even half her guts.

That was Clare.

She was my shield.

But here? Now?

I was alone.

And I had a roommate who looked like he’d stared into the gates of hell—and they had stared back.

I wished I was brave like Clare. I wished I could bite and scratch and scare the monsters off. But I wasn’t her. I was just Clark—the quiet twin, the observer, the hacker who hid behind screens and silence.

And those seniors I’d seen? The ones with the glowing eyes and that weird, otherworldly aura?

They didn’t feel like bullies.

They felt like something else entirely.

Like predators.

And this university? It was starting to feel like a cage.

My eyes fluttered shut again, trying to ignore the cold breath of fear crawling under the doorframe. I could hear my roommate breathing, still shallow, still fast.

Now I was the guy lying in a dorm room with a traumatized stranger, and all I could do was wish I knew how to help.

I turned back toward him. His figure was still bundled under the covers, unmoving. I wondered if he was asleep, or just pretending to be. Sometimes, it was easier to pretend.