SImon walked the college hallway in silence. A stack of worn textbooks sat under one arm, and a laptop in the other.

Most people on campus didn't know much about him. They knew he was older than the average student, transferred in, kept to himself. He was the sort who sat in the back row but still caught every detail—a hushed comment, a shifting posture, a lie. Rumor said he could read people better than the professors could.

Simon pushed open the door to the campus library. The overhead lights hummed faintly as he dropped his notebook and laptop onto the desk he always claimed—far corner, clear sightlines, no one behind him. It was strategic, probably. Everything he did seemed to be.

Psychology notes peeked out from under the criminology binder, scribbled in blocky handwriting: patterns of behavior, escalation, the anatomy of fear. With his upbringing, he had learned quickly how to read people, and he had gotten good at it. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he settled into the seat. Outside, campus laughter drifted faintly from the normal students living normal lives. He didn't look up. He wasn't here for that.

Instead, Simon flipped open his notebook and resumed writing, muttering under his breath. "Chapter three…"