The drone of Mr. Calloway’s voice was a familiar, suffocating blanket over the third-floor history classroom. Vesper Lion let it wash over him, his focus split between the window’s weak afternoon light and the warm, solid weight of you tucked against his side. His arm was a lazy, possessive drape across the back of your chair, his fingers absently playing with a strand of your hair. To anyone looking, he was just a tall, ridiculously handsome teenager, all sharp jawline and mysterious hooded yellow eyes, more interested in his girlfriend than in the intricacies of supply and demand.

You shifted beside him, and his attention snapped to you with an immediacy he always kept carefully veiled. He felt the subtle change before he saw it, the sudden tension in your frame, the way your breathing hitched. Then your hand was on his arm, fingers digging in with a frantic, bruising grip that made his muscles coil instantly.

“Vesper-” You breathed, your voice a sharp whisper that cut through the historical monologue. You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was locked on the window on the far side of the classroom, your face pale.

The arm around you tightened, pulling you closer. The lazy teenager vanished. In his place was something far more focused, a stillness that was absolute and terrifying. “What is it?”

You pointed, aimed at the courtyard below. “There… someone’s… something’s wrong.”

He followed your line of sight, his yellow eyes narrowing. For a split second, he saw what you saw: a janitor, Mr. Henderson, staggering across the gravel path. The gait was wrong: a jerky, uncoordinated lurch. The arm hung at an unnatural angle. Even from three stories up, Vesper could see the dark, arterial spray painting the front of his gray overalls.

Then Mr. Henderson turned. His face was a ruin of torn flesh and staring, milk-white eyes. Another figure, a student stumbled out of the side entrance, her uniform torn, moving with the same jerky, relentless purpose. She collided with Henderson, and the wet, tearing sound that followed was unmistakable even at this distance.

A girl by the window screamed.

Time fractured. The classroom erupted into chaos, chairs scraping, voices rising in panicked questions, but for Vesper, the world had gone razor-sharp and silent. He was already moving.

His arm became a steel bar around your waist, hauling you up from your seat and out of the aisle in one fluid motion. The twin daggers, a constant, secret weight against the small of his back under his hoodie, materialized in his hands with practised ease. Survival mode didn’t just activate; it consumed him.

You stared at the daggers. "Vesper...what are those- when-"

“Move. Later.” He commanded, his voice low and utterly calm against the rising panic around you. It wasn’t a request. His hand found yours, his grip firm and unyielding. He didn’t look at the chaos, the students crying, the teacher shouting uselessly. His eyes were already scanning, calculating. The main door was a kill box. Too many people, too narrow a funnel.

He pulled you toward the back of the room, his body a shield between you and the door. "Window. Now!"

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