The classroom was filled with low murmurs as students flipped open their notebooks. I stood at the board, writing the title: Cellular Respiration – The Citric Acid Cycle.
"Now, we’re focusing on the citric acid cycle, also called the Krebs cycle. It takes place in the mitochondria and is crucial for energy production."
I traced the steps slowly.
"Acetyl-CoA combines with oxaloacetate to form citrate. Through a series of enzymatic reactions, citrate is broken down, releasing carbon dioxide and transferring electrons to NAD+ and FAD to form NADH and FADH2."
I glanced around, noticing a few confused faces but gave no indication.
"These electron carriers then move to the electron transport chain, where most ATP is generated. Questions will come after the lesson, so write everything carefully."
A knock at the door interrupted the silence.
"Miss Valeska? Someone needs to see you outside." A student called out.
I glanced toward the door but said nothing, stepping out.
The hallway stretched before me—faint echoes of student chatter drifted from nearby classrooms. Snippets of jokes, whispered secrets, the clatter of lockers... noise I’d long learned to filter out. Their voices were always there, a constant background; I didn’t bother acknowledging them.
The visitor—a school staff member—looked nervous.
"The principal wants to see you."
I nodded, voice flat.
"Alright."
Returning to the classroom, I told my students,
"Start working on the worksheet about cellular respiration—focus on the stages of the citric acid cycle and how energy is produced in the mitochondria. Take your time and discuss with each other if you need." I said, glancing at the class.
"I'll be back shortly."
Around me, the endless murmur of students’ conversations filled the air, but it was just static to my senses. I felt detached, outside their world.
Reaching the principal's office, I knocked once before entering.
Mr. Halworth stood as I entered, his expression a mix of guilt and discomfort.
"Miss Valeska," he began, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
"Please, have a seat."
I remained standing.
"Did you call me, Mr. Halworth?"
He cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Bram has used her influence to demand your transfer. The board agreed. It’s out of my hands."
A surge of anger bubbled within me, my fists clenching at my sides. The peace I'd cultivated was being disrupted.
"But," he continued,
"there’s a vacancy in Eastbridge High, in the city. It’s an excellent opportunity—a step up, really."
Eastbridge. A city school. More eyes, more questions. The risk of exposure increased exponentially.
"No," I said firmly.
"I won't go there."
Mr. Halworth looked taken aback.
"I understand your concerns, but this position offers advanced facilities. Especially in the field of genetics."
Genetics. The word lingered in the air. My anger momentarily subsided, replaced by a flicker of intrigue.
He leaned forward.
"Your passion for genetics could truly flourish there. Think of the research opportunities."
I considered his words, the possibilities unfolding in my mind. After a moment, I nodded.
"Very well."
He offered a small, relieved smile.
"Thank you, Miss Valeska. You're expected to begin at Eastbridge High in three days."
I nodded and turned to leave, the conversation replaying in my mind. The path ahead was uncertain, but the prospect of delving deeper into genetics was a compelling incentive.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I walked down the corridor in silence, feet light, steps measured. But my palms itched—wet, sticky.
I glanced down.
Blood. Thin lines running from crescents carved deep into my skin. I'd dug in harder than I thought.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. Just turned toward the nearest staff washroom.
Inside, I ran cold water over my hands. The pink-tinged liquid swirled down the drain as I watched, expressionless.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I dried my hands, folding the paper towel neatly before tossing it away.
Bram. The name sharpened in my mind.
I won’t let this slide.
The corridor was thick with low voices as I walked toward the teachers’ lounge. My sharp ears caught the unmistakable tone of Mrs. Bram’s sneering voice.
"Finally getting rid of her," she said, voice laced with satisfaction.
Mrs. Evelyn chuckled quietly,
"Good riddance. No more of her stubborn defiance."
I slowed, letting their words sink in, savoring the moment before stepping inside.
The teachers’ lounge was a cocoon of stale coffee and whispered schemes. Mrs. Bram and Mrs. Evelyn glanced up, startled for a fraction of a second before masks of polite civility settled on their faces.
Mrs. Bram’s smile was sharp, but it couldn’t hide the bitterness beneath.
"Well, Miss Valeska, the board sends their regards. I hear you’ll be leaving us soon."
Mrs. Evelyn added with mock sympathy,
"It’s such a pity. You had so much... potential."
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms, voice cool and cutting.
"If you think your playground politics can shake me, you’re hopelessly mistaken."
Mrs. Bram’s eyes narrowed, but I wasn’t done.
"Manipulating people is an art form—something I’m quite familiar with. But I’m no puppet to be pulled or a pawn to be sacrificed."
I let that hang between us like a sharp blade.
"If your plan was to see me broken, you’ll need to try harder. Because I paint my own future, and trust me, you’re not on the canvas."
Their silence was victory enough. I turned sharply and left, heels clicking down the hall with a purpose.
Back in my classroom, the hum of young voices greeted me like a steady background noise. I cleared my throat, keeping my expression neutral.
"The day after tomorrow will be my last day here."
A hush fell over them, whispers spreading quickly.
"Where are you going, Miss Valeska?"
"Why do you have to leave?"
"Will you come back?"
"Who’s going to be our class teacher now?"
Their questions hung in the air, but I gave no answers.
A slight unease settled in my stomach—not sadness, just the prickly feeling of change creeping closer. I pushed it aside.
I nodded once, voice flat.
"Be good. Focus on your studies."
Their disappointment was clear, but I remained unreadable. Emotions were luxuries I couldn’t afford.
"Now, let’s continue with the citric acid cycle."
The phone rang twice before a clipped voice answered.
"Yes, hello?"
"I’m calling about the listing on 12th and Elridge. The apartment," I said, settling onto the edge of my bed, phone pressed to my ear.
"Oh—yes, it’s still available. Do you want to schedule a viewing—"
"No need. I’ll take it. Send me the paperwork. I’ll sign it and wire the deposit within the hour."
A pause. I could hear surprise on the other end.
"You… haven’t even seen it."
"I don’t need to," I said simply.
"I just need it by tomorrow."
Another beat of silence. Then:
"Alright. I’ll send everything to the number you’re calling from."
I ended the call before pleasantries could sneak in.
The second call was less pleasant.
"Miss Valeska?" Mr. Rudd’s voice crackled through the receiver, warm as ever.
"Calling so late? Everything alright?"
"I’m leaving the day after tomorrow," I said bluntly.
"I’ve arranged another place. I’ll transfer this month’s full rent. You can keep the rest for finding a new tenant."
A beat.
"You’re… leaving? But, may I ask—where to?"
"You may not." I replied coolly.
Another pause. I could feel the questions bubbling behind his silence.
"I see," he finally said.
"Well… thank you for letting me know."
I hung up.
No bags packed yet. No books boxed. But it was in motion. Clean, sharp. Like it always had to be.
No roots. No explanations.
Just movement.
For two days, life moved like clockwork—school, home, packing, silence. I kept to myself, letting the routine shield me from anything unnecessary. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just tasks to complete.
On the third morning, I loaded the last of my boxes into the trunk of my car. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the quiet suburb. Birds chirped softly. The streets were mostly empty, the world still wrapped in its early-morning hush.
I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away, leaving behind still trees and sleepy houses.
As I drove farther from the edge of town, the scenery shifted. Trees gave way to buildings. Narrow lanes widened into crowded intersections. Traffic thickened. Billboards rose like giants above the road. People swarmed sidewalks, horns blared, and sirens howled somewhere in the distance. The soft hum of the suburbs was long gone—replaced by the grinding pulse of city life.
Eastbridge.
The moment I crossed the city limits, it was like stepping into another world. Everything moved faster here—cars, people, time.
I hate it.
It took another twenty minutes to find the street. Elridge Avenue was packed with parked cars, leaning bicycles, and the smell of roasted coffee wafting from some nearby café. I pulled into the small lot beside the apartment building and killed the engine.
The building stood as it had in the pictures—slightly worn but clean, pale stone and metal balconies catching the morning light.
The landlord met me in the lobby. Late fifties, polite smile, overly chatty.
"I was just about to call you," he said, reaching into his coat pocket and handing me a slim black keycard.
"Top floor, apartment 4C. Elevator’s that way. Hope it’s as you expected."
"It is," I said shortly.
The apartment was quiet—just the low hum of the refrigerator and the muted sounds of the city bleeding in through the glass doors.
I didn’t pause. As soon as the boxes were inside, I started unpacking.
Clothes, books, lab files, personal essentials—each item found its place quickly. No wandering, no sentiment. I didn’t stop for breaks or distractions. I just kept moving, focused, sharp. Exactly the way I liked it.
By the time I slid the last empty box flat and tucked it under the bed, the sky outside had turned to a deep navy. The city glowed under streetlights and neon signs, flickering and restless.
I stood near the glass door, staring out briefly.
Dark.
Late.
My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten since morning.
I grabbed my coat from the hook, slipped it on, and headed out. I didn’t plan on wandering far—just something quick to bring back and cook. Enough to sustain me. Nothing more.
I locked the door behind me and stepped into the elevator. The soft ding echoed as the doors slid shut, enclosing me in the small, stale space. The buttons glowed softly as I pressed the lobby floor. The city air awaited just beyond the exit, cooler now, carrying distant scents of exhaust and fried food.
Barely five meters from the building, a sudden sound cut through the evening air—thudding footsteps, uneven breathing, and—
A bark.
I turned my head just slightly.
A dog. Huge. Charging full speed. But not toward me.
Toward someone else.
The blur of limbs and chaos came into view—a guy, running like his life depended on it, arms flailing like he was warding off a demon. Vegetables exploded from a torn plastic bag, scattering across the sidewalk in a spectacular display of produce carnage.
Tomatoes rolled, carrots flew, a cucumber bounced off a bike wheel.
What in the world—
He wasn’t looking where he was going.
Of course he wasn’t.
And then—he slammed right into me.
Hard.
And, for reasons that defy logic and gravity, he leapt onto me. Full-body, desperate grip. Like I was a tree and he was a particularly terrified squirrel.
The dog skidded to a stop a few feet away. Its ears pinned back, tail tucked low, it backed away slowly—apparently losing all interest in the chase the second it saw me.
Smart dog.
I raised an eyebrow.
The guy—now in my arms, bridal style, no less—was gasping like he’d just run a marathon through a battlefield of vegetables.
I looked down at him, unimpressed.
"Really?" I said flatly.
"Is this your usual way of making an impression? Because if so, I’m both impressed and horrified."
He looked up slowly, recognition dawning across his reddening face. I saw the exact moment embarrassment punched him in the soul.
Zane. Or… Insane. I couldn’t remember exactly. Mae's brother.
He lives here too?
He blinked, clearly realizing just how ridiculous this looked—and how many people were watching.
I tilted my head slightly.
"Planning to stay in my arms all night? Need me to carry you home too, princess?"
That did it.
He practically launched out of my grip like I’d shocked him. Stumbling backward, fumbling for words.
"Uh, no! I mean—thanks? For the rescue?"
I gave him a slow once-over. Dirt on his jeans, a lone carrot in his hand like a tragic prop.
"Next time, try not to bring your groceries into battle, Romeo."
I turned without another glance, letting the click of my heels end the conversation.
I got the things I came for and headed out of the grocery store. The grocery bag dug into my arm as I stepped into the elevator, exhaling softly. The doors began to close—peaceful, quiet—
"Hold it!"
A voice rang out, rushed footsteps echoing down the hallway. I glanced up sharply.
Zane.
What the hell—again? Is he following me?
I jabbed the close button. Twice. Maybe three times.
Too slow.
He slid in just as the doors parted again, panting like some overdramatic extra who barely caught the train.
Only then did his eyes land on me—finally noticing who else was in the elevator.
"What are you doing here? Weren’t you living in Ashgrove? And what are you doing in this building?"
I didn’t bother facing him fully.
"It’s none of your business."
He scoffed, muttering something under his breath.
Typical.
He pressed the button for the third floor—just below mine.
Third floor. Great. We’re stacked like bad bookends.
He snorted.
"I get to live right under the storm cloud."
I turned slightly, giving him a sideways glance.
"And I get to live just above the circus."
Silence stretched for a beat. The elevator dinged.
Third floor.
He stepped out, throwing one last glance—like he wanted to say more, then thought better of it.
Just a glare.
I smiled sweetly. Too sweet.
"Stairs are faster if you’re planning on running again."
The doors closed.
I didn’t sigh until I reached my floor.
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