In his first year, all Michael had done was explore every corner of the hill where the academy stood—and every inch of the campus, inside and out.

He had found places no other student knew about, places no one else would even think existed.

One of those hidden spots was the boiler room—the place where warm water was supplied to the dormitories. It was located underground, with only a single entry point.

But for Michael, that was no problem.

He had already memorized every blind spot in the security system. And right now, most of the guards were stationed near the dorms and entry gates.

So, slipping into the boiler room was easy. He used one of the exhaust windows.

"Damn, it's hot in here," he muttered.

The place was wide, but the constant steam from the pipes made the air thick and humid. Sweat clung to his skin within seconds.

Wasting no time, he pulled out his Shard.

He aimed at one of the wooden brackets holding up a large cylindrical tank. With a swift slash, embers scattered and caught on the dry wood.

The bracket burst into flames.

He did the same to another, then another.

Soon, flames danced across the room, spreading from one bracket to the next.

Michael was about to stay and wait—let the smoke drift up and reach the guards—but then, something unexpected happened.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The alarm blared loudly, making him flinch.

But then he grinned.

This was even better. The alarm would spread more panic than smoke ever could.

Without hesitation, he leaped over one of the still-unburned brackets and climbed through the small exhaust window.

He crawled his way out, vanishing from the boiler room as the fire raged behind him.

He exited to the back side of the dorms.

From the upper floors, he could already hear shouting and hurried footsteps. The students were panicking—perfect.

Sliding his weapon back into the holster, he looked up at the nearby ledge. Sylvie's room was on the fourth floor. Not a problem.

For the sweet reward, some labor is required, he thought, grinning as he climbed onto the first ledge and then jumped to the next one above.

It took him a little time, but there was no need to rush. He knew this side of the building stayed deserted, especially at this hour.

Reaching the third floor, he paused to catch his breath. Then, with a low grunt, he leaped again and grabbed the next ledge. The impact jolted his arm—still recovering—but he pulled himself up steadily.

Climbing a few floors was nothing for a warrior-in-training. But with an injured arm, he had to move with care.

He crouched low on the narrow ledge and slowly rose, peeking through the window.

His heart skipped.

Sylvie was there, resting on her bed, her breathing soft and even. Her serene face, the gentle slope of her neck, and those slightly parted, luscious lips made his chest tighten with emotion—and desire.

He forced himself to stay calm.

Sliding the window open with practiced ease, he slipped inside without a sound.

She didn't stir. Still fast asleep.

But Michael knew better than to take chances.

Without hesitation, he drew his weapon and pressed it gently to her neck.

"Don't move," he said softly.

Sylvie jolted awake, eyes flying open in confusion and shock.

"Michael?"

"Yeah, baby. It's me." He leaned in, breathing in her scent. That familiar, intoxicating warmth surrounded him, making him hard already.

Sylvie didn't look nervous. She didn't scream, didn't even flinch.

And that sent a dark chill down Michael's spine.

What was she thinking? Was she ready to give herself to him?

"You made a mistake coming here," Sylvie said calmly.

Michael frowned—not at her words, but at the sudden, biting chill that crept along his fingers. His armament... it was freezing.

Then came the scream.

"AHHH!"

He let out a shrill cry as something latched onto his ankle and taking advantage of his shock, Sylvie snatched the weapon from his hand.

He leapt back in shock, and a figure slowly emerged from under the bed.

Long silver hair flowed like a curtain behind her, glinting in the dim light. Her movements were smooth, but her eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone.

"Senior Elana?!" Michael's face turned pale.

She rose to her full height, arms folding across her chest. "You thought only you knew how to hide under a bed?"

Michael swallowed hard.

Panic surged—but he forced himself to stay rational.

Elana wasn't someone he could handle. She was in a completely different league—trained from a young age, a warrior who had tasted real battle. In any of a hundred scenarios, she'd come out on top.

There was no winning here.

'I need to escape,' he told himself.

Sylvie wouldn't go anywhere. He could always come for her later. But if he stayed now, he'd die.

Elana was the type of person who could kill someone and forget about it by breakfast. He couldn't afford to gamble with his life.

He started backing away, inch by inch, eyes locked on her. When he finally reached the point where he could leap through the window in a single bound, he turned—

—and froze.

A cold metal barrel pressed against his forehead.

"...huh?"

His breath caught. There, sitting casually on the windowsill, was Adrian.

His expression was calm, almost gentle, with one leg crossed over the other. In his hand was the artifact that had once slaughtered tens of Acolytes. Now, it rested calmly against Michael's head.

"As Sylvie said," Adrian spoke softly, "you made a mistake coming back here."

The warmth in his voice vanished in an instant.

"Now, only your dead body will leave this room."

Adrian had compassion—for students. But not for criminals.

And to him, Michael was nothing more than a heartless insect—one that needed to be crushed.

Michael slowly raised his hands and began to back away. He wasn't stupid—he knew he wasn't fast enough to dodge a trigger pull, not when the barrel was just inches from his head.

Still retreating, he stammered, "I-I surrend—AGHHH!"

He cried out in pain and dropped to his left knee as something smashed into the back of his knee with a sickening crack.

Elana leaned casually against the wall, twirling a steel baton in one hand.

"Oops," she said, without a shred of regret.

Michael clenched his jaw, fury and pain mixing in his throat.

"Fuck you, bitch—!"

THAK!

"GAAAAAHHHH!"

Before he could finish his curse, Adrian fired. The blast tore through Michael's shoulder, severing his arm cleanly.

He collapsed onto the floor, writhing in pain, blood spreading fast beneath him.

Adrian exhaled slowly and said, "Sorry, Sylvie. Couldn't hold that one back." He raised both hands as if to show he had no intention of finishing the job. "He's all yours now."

Sylvie stood a few steps away, cold and unreadable, staring down at the broken boy she had once called a friend.

Her voice was calm and quiet.

"Professor," she said without taking her eyes off Michael, "may I borrow your belt?"

Adrian smiled, got up, and handed his revolver to Elana.

"Of course."

He loosened his belt and passed it to Sylvie without asking a single question.

Thankfully, the dorm building was empty that night.

Had anyone else been there... they would've been scarred forever by the screams that followed.

°°°°°°°°

A/N:- Thanks for reading.