The fluorescent lights of the Legal History seminar offered no solace, only a stark, ugly clarity. I sat through Professor Hawthorne’s lecture, but I didn’t absorb a single word about property deeds or contractual breaches. My mind was trapped in the narrow, antique-lined corridor of Olin Hall, my back pressed against the wall, my wrist burning from Adrian’s touch. The choice he had given me—White for surrender, Red for shared destruction—was no choice at all. It was an elegant mathematical problem with only one solution: preservation of the innocent variable.

When the class finally dismissed, I moved like a mechanism, every step heavy, the weight of the satellite phone in my backpack a physical anchor dragging me toward midnight.

I walked the familiar path back to the apartment, oblivious to the busy campus. The anxiety that had been a dull, constant hum for five months had intensified into a high-pitched, agonizing whine. I knew what I had to do, and the knowledge was a corrosive agent eating away at the last vestiges of my independence.

When I entered the apartment, the first thing I noticed was the quiet. Cleo was home; her shoes were by the door. But the usual cheerful chaos—music, the sound of her humming, the clatter of a late lunch being made—was absent.

She was standing by the coffee table, her back to me, perfectly still.

The items I had laid out like morbid artifacts—the silver key, the velvet box, the single, blood-red rose I had taken from the package—were no longer merely spread on the polished wood. Cleo had rearranged them. The silver key lay nested in the velvet box, the red rose was held, almost ceremoniously, in her hand, and the crushed cream-colored card from Adrian was smoothed out, its devastating message facing upward.

I have already confirmed you have no capacity for choice; you only have response capacity.

Cleo slowly turned. Her expression was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. It wasn’t anger; it was total, visceral horror, mixed with a chilling, protective rage that was aimed entirely at me.

“He’s back,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual effervescence. She didn’t ask it as a question. It was a terrible, undeniable confirmation.

I stumbled, dropping my backpack, the heavy satellite phone inside thudding against the floor like a lead weight. I scrambled for a lie, a defense, anything to maintain the crumbling façade of my normal life.

“Cleo, I can explain—”

“Explain what, Soph?” She cut me off, holding up the rose, her hand shaking. “Explain this? Explain the four days of white roses I thought were from some secret admirer, only to realize the admirer is the man who nearly put you in the hospital?” Her eyes flashed with sudden tears of betrayal. “Explain why you have a high-security, off-the-grid military-grade phone in your bag right now?”

She gestured toward my backpack. The sleek gray curve of the satellite phone was visible where the zipper had snagged on the drop.

“I was going to get rid of it,” I whispered, the lie tasting like ash. “I just… I needed to know what he wanted. I needed to understand the threat before I went to the police.”

Cleo scoffed, tossing the rose onto the table. It landed with a soft, insulting thump. “Don’t insult me. You’re terrified, yes, but you’re also waiting. I can see it. It’s like watching an animal being called back to the trap, and it’s his trap. You know the scent.”

She walked toward me, her arms crossing defensively. “What did he say? When did he contact you? I haven’t seen you look this gray since the day you left his house. Where did he find you?”

The pressure of her gaze broke me. I collapsed onto the sofa, covering my face with my hands. The full, humiliating weight of the encounter in Olin Hall spilled out. I told her about the Panopticon lecture, Vaughn’s challenge, the deadline, the black velvet box, the flower shop review, and finally, the encounter in the hallway. I meticulously laid out the two choices he had given me.

“White is surrender, Cleo,” I finished, my voice raw. “Red is rejection.”

Cleo paced the small living room rug, her hands running through her short, bright pink hair in frustration. “Red means he ruins you. He doesn’t just expose the relationship; he frames it, he twists it, he uses the resources he has to destroy your academic life, our financial stability, and most importantly…” She stopped, turning to face me, her eyes glistening. “…he destroys me.”

She looked deep into my eyes, pleading. “You don’t save me by choosing captivity. You save me by choosing to fight. If you choose white, I lose my best friend, I lose my roommate, I lose the person I fought for. If you choose red, we lose the apartment, maybe the semester, but we still have us.”

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