The city light faded into streaks of color as I hurried home, the familiar chill of night clinging to my skin. My father, a name whispered with fear and reverence in some circles, had made me a target. I knew it, even if he hadn’t said it outright. Tonight, the knowledge felt especially acute.

A hand clamped over my mouth, silencing my scream before it could fully form. Panic clawed at my throat, and a stifled gasp escaped. The grip gave way and a strong arm, surprisingly gentle despite its force, grabbed me. Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks ripping through the night. I squeezed my eyes shut, shutting out the fear. When the gunfire stopped, I trembled, pressed against a hard, unyielding body. As the adrenaline subsided, I saw it: a compass, intricately detailed, etched into the back of the hand that had shielded my face. I couldn’t see its owner’s face because he had disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

The next day, in a philosophy class where Professor Damian was lecturing, my gaze drifted to the window. He was giving a lecture on existentialism. “Professor Weiser, what does that tattoo on your forearm mean?” A girl, more daring than the rest, asked, and her words caused him to unconsciously reveal a glimpse of… a compass tattooed on his forearm.

My breath caught. Every eye in the room, including mine, had seen it. He didn’t flinch, “I got it tattooed at some point in my life,” he explained simply, covering his arm simply and quickly, his expression unchanged, his gaze unwavering. The air grew thick for me as realization hit me.

Later, I found myself standing in front of his desk in the empty classroom. He was sitting behind his desk, his posture rigid, his expression intense. He offered no compliments, and he didn’t skirt around the subject.

“You… from last night,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the silence.

“Your father’s orders,” he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “He didn’t want you to know.”