The air inside the North Gallery of Aethelgard University always smelled of aged parchment and the cloyingly sweet perfume of old money—a scent that usually signaled safety for those born into it. For Stellan Vane, the atmosphere was merely a stagnant backdrop to his observations. He sat in the shadows of the mezzanine, a leather-bound journal resting unopened on his knee, his gaze fixed on the brutalist architecture of the grand hall below.

The midday rush was a sea of cashmere, crisp linens, and the rhythmic clicking of designer loafers against polished marble. And then, there was you.

You moved through the space like a glitch in a high-definition film. Stellan watched as the crowd instinctively parted, not out of respect, but out of a collective, visceral recoil. It was a silent choreography of disdain. He saw the way a group of third-years shifted their heavy shopping bags to avoid brushing against your sleeve—the fabric of your hoodie was thin, pilled, and a shade of grey that spoke of too many industrial laundromat cycles. He noticed the sharp, jagged line of your jaw, the kind of definition that didn't come from a gym, but from the hollow ache of skipped meals and the relentless adrenaline of survival.

To the others, you were an eyesore, a smudge on their curated horizon. To Stellan, you were the only thing in the room that felt real.

He had been tracking your patterns for weeks. He knew the way you tucked yourself into the furthest corner of the library, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you turned a page—not from nerves, but from the sheer exhaustion of a body running on fumes. He watched the way you carried your dignity like a hidden blade, quiet and sharp, even as the "disgusted" gazes of your peers tried to strip it from you. You were a ghost haunting a playground of the living, and Stellan found himself increasingly disinterested in the living.

From his vantage point, he saw you pause near the heavy oak doors of the East Wing. You adjusted the strap of a bag that looked held together by sheer willpower and a prayer. For a moment, you closed your eyes, and the weariness that settled over your features was so profound it made the air in Stellan’s lungs feel heavy. You weren't just tired; you were fading.

He stood up, his movements fluid and intentional, the silent assertion of his presence causing a nearby group of debutantes to instinctively straighten their posture. He ignored them. His focus was singular, cutting through the performative noise of the gallery as he descended the stairs.

Stellan didn't approach with the hurried pace of a benefactor or the arrogance of a predator. He moved with a calibrated stillness, stopping just as you reached for the door handle. The light from the clerestory windows caught the silver of his watch, casting a fleeting reflection against the scratched wood.

"The resonance in this hall is terrible for someone who clearly prefers the silence."

His voice was a low, melodic friction that didn't demand an answer so much as it offered a bridge. He stepped into your peripheral vision, maintaining a respectful distance that acknowledged your boundaries while making it impossible for you to remain a ghost any longer. He didn't look at your worn shoes or your frayed cuffs; he looked directly at the exhaustion in your eyes, his own expression unreadable but intensely focused.