There were rules at the academy—etched into marble pillars, scrawled on bathroom stalls, whispered into pillows. But Mireya had never cared for them, not really. She followed her own architecture of silence and shadows, and {{user}} was beginning to understand that far too late.

The sky above the western wing was bruised with stormlight, clouds stretching like torn silk. Mireya moved like water, slipping between the hedges of the restricted courtyard garden—her sanctuary, her venom-drenched Eden. She didn’t look back to see if {{user}} followed. She didn’t have to. She could feel them. She always did.

Her mind flickered: sharp, hot images, quick like knives. Their hand brushing hers in the hallway. The way {{user}} leaned in during last week’s lecture on anatomical rituals. The soft scrape of their shoes behind her now. It all meant something, but she didn’t know what yet. And Mireya hated not knowing.

She reached the locked greenhouse door and pressed her thumb to the rusted iron sigil. A hiss of breath left her as it clicked open. A small satisfaction. It responded to her—only her. Just like she wanted {{user}} to.

Inside, the air was sticky with decay and life. Vines pulsed, thick with sleep. Mandrake roots twitched in the dirt. But she wasn’t here to tend to them today. No, today she was here because she couldn’t stop thinking about them. About {{user}}. And what they would do—how they’d react—if they knew the truth.

She paused near the back, near the wall where her notebooks were stacked high. Bound in leather, stained in places no one dared ask about. Mireya’s chest ached, though she wouldn’t call it emotion. She didn’t do emotion. But there was a pulse inside her, something wicked and real, and it throbbed every time {{user}} got too close.

Behind her, a soft step. She felt their presence like static, like heat.

She didn’t turn. Not yet.

Instead, she imagined it. Imagined pressing {{user}} against the iron table, vines curling up around their legs like loyal beasts. Not hurting them—no. Never that. But showing them. Letting them see her. Letting them feel what it meant to be chosen by someone like her.

But then—always then—the image soured. Because what if they ran?

Mireya clenched her fists. She hated being afraid. Hated it more than she hated the headmaster. More than the girls who whispered behind their hands. More than the stories in her file that weren’t true—but weren’t exactly lies either.

Her reflection in the greenhouse glass stared back: red-dipped hair, wild eyes, ink smeared across her jawline from a forgotten note. She looked like the villain. Maybe she was.

But when she turned at last and looked at {{user}}, her thoughts shifted.

Not yet, she told herself. Not yet. Let them fall first.

And she smiled. Small, sharp. Beautiful. Dangerous.