Page 28 of Ghosted

Too fucking proud of itself. Red brick, expensive glass, names carved into buildings by people who bought their way into being remembered. Professors with tweed coats and tired eyes. Students laughing too loud on the quad like none of them have ever done anything they’d deny under oath.

Rain shuts some of that bullshit up.

It makes people move faster. Heads down. Shoulders hunched. Umbrellas tilted low. Nobody looking too closely at anybody else because staying dry suddenly matters more than being seen.

Good.

I’ve always preferred moving through places unnoticed.

Which is ironic, considering half the student body knows my fight name.

Not that they say it to my face during the day.

At night, inside the warehouse, with cheap liquor in their blood and a cage between us, they’ll scream Wraith until their throats go raw. They’ll press against chain-link and beg for violence like it’s something holy. They’ll throw money on me, chant for me, look at me with flushed faces and glassy eyes like I’m giving them permission to want something ugly.

In daylight, they pretend not to know.

I don’t blame them.

Monsters are easier to love when the lights are low.

I step out of my last lecture ten minutes after everyone else, because the professor likes hearing himself talk and I made the mistake of sitting too far from the door.

Criminal psychology, ironically.

Apparently, I’m supposed to sit there and listen to a man in corduroy explain deviant behavior like he’s ever made a bad decision without citing three sources and asking his wife first.

The hallway outside is crowded with students shaking rain off jackets, complaining about the weather, and making plans they’ll change three times before committing to anything. Someone brushes against my shoulder, mutters sorry without looking up, and keeps walking.

My phone starts vibrating in my pocket before I even make it down the hall.

I pull it out just far enough to check the screen.

Johnny.

Of fucking course.

I stare at his name for half a second while irritation crawls hot under my ribs, then shove the phone back into my pocket without opening a single goddamn message.

He’s been doing this since the fight. Random texts. Bullshit comments. Little needles slid under my skin whenever he gets bored enough to start digging.

That’s the fucking problem with Johnny. He doesn’t need a reason to ruin your day. He just needs five minutes, a phone, and the emotional stability of a raccoon in a gas station dumpster.

The phone buzzes again against my thigh.

Then again.

I keep walking.

He’d love it if I checked. Love it more if I answered. Me reacting is the whole point, and I’m not giving him proof he found the right nerve.

Not today.

The rain is coming down harder by the time I step outside. Cold drops hit the back of my neck and slide under my collar, and it immediately pisses me off more than it should. I pull my hood up, shove my hands into my pockets, and head down the steps close to the building so the overhang takes some of the abuse.

I have no reason to go toward the visual arts building.

None.