The classroom was one of those tiered lecture halls that made every professor feel like they were performing Shakespeare. Noah set his bag down on the desk and looked out at the fifteen faces staring back at him, most of them clutching coffee cups like lifelines. But one face stood out: a girl with golden blond hair, nose and eyebrow piercings sparkling against clear, dark skin. Sitting in the back row with the kind of focused attention that either meant she was deeply engaged or plotting something that would probably end up on the news.
"All right, let's talk about psychological horror,' Noah began. His voice carried easily through the room despite the terrible acoustics and the heating system's low rumble. "What makes a story truly frightening isn't the monster under the bed, it's the monster inside the character's head. Take Poe's 'The Tell-Tale Heart.' The narrator isn't scared of the old man's eye; he's terrified of what that eye represents about his own deteriorating sanity, his own capacity for violence."
He continued his lecture, discussing the ways authors use unreliable narrators and internal conflict to create tension that lingered long after the last page. The blond-haired girl took notes with the intensity of someone cracking a code, her pen moving across the page in quick, precise strokes. Noah found himself directing parts of his lecture toward her, drawn by her obvious engagement with the material.
She caught his eye and smiled, not flirtatiously, just friendly, and Noah felt a familiar calculation begin in his mind.
No. Absolutely not. You're not doing this again.
Noah forced himself to look away, to focus on the lecture. He moved away from the podium, preferring to pace as he talked, his hands gesturing to emphasize his points. "The most effective horror stories," he continued, "don't rely on external threats. They make us question our own perceptions. When we can't trust the narrator, we can't trust our own experience of the story. That uncertainty, that sense that reality itself might be unreliable, is what keeps us awake at night."
Several students took notes, pens moving frantically across notebooks. As he shifted into the familiar rhythm of a lecture, Noah felt himself split in two. On the surface, he was Professor White, engaging and insightful, using examples from Poe and Gilman to illustrate how authors manipulate readers' perceptions. Underneath, he was running through calculations about Mai. About how to maintain control of the situation.
"Think about it," Noah continued, warming to his theme. "In 'The Yellow Wallpaper,' the real horror isn't the pattern on the wall; it's the protagonist's isolation, her inability to trust her own perceptions, the way everyone around her gaslights her into believing her own experience is invalid. Gilman understood that the most terrifying thing isn't what's hiding in the dark, it's the possibility that you can't trust your own mind to tell you what's real."
He glanced around the room, noting which students were engaged, which were struggling to keep up, and which were probably thinking about their weekend plans. "The real genius of psychological horror," Noah said, even as part of him recoiled from his own words, "is how it makes the reader complicit. We want to trust the narrator. We want to believe we're getting an accurate picture of reality. When that trust is violated, when we realize we've been manipulated, the horror becomes personal. We've been fooled. We've been used. And that violation of trust is more disturbing than any external threat."
His eyes kept returning to the blond-haired girl, now watching him with an expression that seemed to suggest she understood not just what he was saying, but what he wasn't saying.
When class ended, students filed out in their usual post-lecture haze, discussing weekend plans and complaining about upcoming assignments. But the blond-haired girl remained, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, studying him with the kind of smile that suggested she'd figured out something he didn't know he'd revealed.
"Impressive lecture, Professor." Her voice carried a slight rasp that made it sound like she'd spent the previous night at a concert. "I especially enjoyed your analysis of psychological manipulation in classic horror. The way you described how authors use unreliable narrators to mess with readers' heads. It's almost like you've done some manipulating yourself."
Noah raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or an accusation?"
"Maybe both," She pushed off the wall and walked toward him with calculated casualness, every movement deliberate. She was wearing ripped black jeans, combat boots that had seen actual combat, and a vintage band t-shirt for a group that had probably broken up before she was born. Silver rings covered her fingers, and her black nail polish was chipped in a way that looked intentional. "I'm Jasmine, by the way. Jasmine Cole. And I've been thinking about doing an independent study on the intersection of psychology and literature. Your insights could be quite valuable."
"Noah," he replied, though she obviously already knew that. "And I'm always happy to help curious students. But I have to ask, what's your major?"
Stop. Just recommend another professor and walk away.
Jasmine's grin widened, revealing teeth that were just slightly too sharp to be completely reassuring. "Double major, actually. Psychology and English Literature, with a minor in Theater Arts, because I like to keep things interesting. I'm also working on my honors thesis, which is where you come in." She paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become noticeable. "Want to grab coffee? I promise I won't psychoanalyze you too much. At least not on the first date."
First date?
"Is that what this is?" Noah asked. But he was already gathering his things, drawn by a combination of professional curiosity and something else he couldn't quite name. Or wouldn't name.
Part of him recognized this as dangerous territory. After all, this was how it always started: the recognition of a potential target, someone whose personality profile suggested they'd be receptive to his particular brand of influence. He hated how automatically his mind catalogued people and their vulnerabilities. This wasn't him. This was ORACLE's tool. The hunter that they made him into.
But he pressed on despite his natural reluctance, because the truth was, part of him needed to prove that he still could. After all, if he couldn't control his students, how could he handle what he needed to do to get close to Kozlov?
"Only if you want it to be," Jasmine said, linking her arm through his with the kind of easy familiarity that suggested she'd been doing this sort of thing for years. "But for now, let's just say I'm a student who's very interested in her professor's... expertise."
They walked through the hallways together. Noah became acutely aware of the looks they were getting from other students and faculty. Jasmine seemed to enjoy the attention, her step taking on almost theatrical quality as she guided him toward the main exit.
What the hell am I doing?
The campus coffee shop was closed for renovations, but there was a food truck parked near the student union that served decent espresso and had the added benefit of being far enough from the academic buildings that they were unlikely to run into anyone Noah knew.
"So," Jasmine said as they joined the line, "what's your poison? Something strong enough to keep up with me, or are you more of a decaf, play-it-safe kind of guy?"
Noah laughed, shaking his head. "Actually, I'm trying to cut back on my caffeine intake. Green tea is fine with me. I know, I know, it's not very professorial of me."
"On the contrary," Jasmine said, studying him with renewed interest. "It's unexpected. I like the unexpected." She ordered a triple-shot espresso that made the barista's eyebrows rise, then added Noah's green tea to the order. "My treat. Consider it payment for the private tutorial I'm about to request."
They found a bench in the corner of the quad, away from the clusters of undergraduates discussing their weekend plans and graduate students having what sounded like heated debates about post-structuralist theory. Jasmine wrapped her hands around her espresso cup like she was drawing warmth from it, even though the October day was still mild.
"So, Professor White," she began, her voice dropping slightly, "what made you decide to teach creative writing? I mean, I've read your work. Your novels have won international awards. You could probably make a living just writing novels. So why academia?"
Noah sipped his tea, considering his answer. It wasn't a question he got often, and when he did, he usually gave some polite answer about wanting to give back to the next generation of writers. But something about Jasmine's directness made him want to be honest. Or at least, a version of honest.
"You really want to know?" he asked, and when she nodded, he continued. "I've been writing for about six years now. And recently, my novels have been doing well, better than I expected, actually. But success can be its own kind of prison. I found myself with money, recognition, all the things I thought I wanted, and I was miserable. I went through a pretty dark period, questioning everything I'd written, wondering if any of it mattered."
Jasmine listened without interrupting, her green eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that was both flattering and slightly unnerving.
But what he didn't say was that the darkness had very little to do with his literary success and almost everything to do with watching his team die in a Georgian warehouse while carrying out missions that had slowly eroded whatever moral center he'd once possessed. It also didn't help that, after returning to his hometown, he was met with the growing realization that he'd become exactly the kind of monster he'd once sworn to fight.
He'd been unable to find any peace or joy in the acclaim and money his writing had brought him. Teaching had become a way to channel his dark compulsions into something that felt less destructive, though he sometimes wondered if that was just another lie he told himself.
He smiled casually, hiding his inner turmoil. "A friend suggested I try teaching," Noah continued. "She said it might help me get out of my own head, find some new perspective. And honestly? It's been the best decision I've made in years. Every student brings something different to the table, challenges me to see familiar things in new ways."
"Including me?" Jasmine asked, and there was something in her tone that made the question feel loaded.
"You...?" Noah said curiously. "Well, students like you ask the kind of questions that make me rethink my assumptions. So, yes. I guess so," he admitted
Jasmine smiled, and for a moment, it was genuinely warm instead of calculating. "Good. Because I have a proposition for you, Professor. For my honors thesis, I want to explore the psychological motivations behind famous fictional characters. Think of it as literary psychoanalysis. Digging into their behaviors, analyzing their decision-making processes, drawing parallels to real-world psychological disorders and personality types."
She leaned forward, her voice taking on an excited edge. "With your background in psychological literature, you could provide invaluable guidance. We could even co-author a paper, maybe even present at a conference. It would be amazing stuff, the kind of interdisciplinary study that could change how we approach character development in literature."
So, I guess she isn't just hitting on me? She's thought this through.
Noah found himself genuinely intrigued. "It's an interesting idea. But I have to ask, why me? There are plenty of professors in the Psychology or English department who could help with this kind of project."
"Because they're boring," Jasmine said bluntly. "They think in terms of textbooks and case studies. You think in terms of human expressions and the stories told through them. You understand that psychology isn't just about diagnosing disorders. It's about understanding what makes people tick, what drives them to do terrible or beautiful things." She paused, studying his face. "Plus, you're not exactly what I expected from a professor. Most of them are so... institutional. But you have this energy about you, like you're still figuring things out yourself."
Noah laughed, running a hand through his hair. "That's probably because I am. I'm the youngest professor in the department, and half the time I feel like I'm pretending to be a grown-up." The admission was honest. But he knew that even honesty could be a tool when used strategically.
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about." Jasmine clapped her hands together. "You're authentic in a way that most academics aren't. You haven't been completely absorbed by the institution yet." She leaned back in her chair, her expression becoming more serious. "So what do you say? Want to collaborate on something that could matter?"
Noah took a long sip of his tea, considering. Everything about Jasmine set off warning bells in his head. She was too confident, too sure of herself, too willing to push boundaries. But there was also something undeniably compelling about her proposal, and about her. She reminded him of himself, or at least the version of himself he'd been before Alexa had sunk her teeth into him.
"Before I answer," he said finally, "I have to ask, why do I get the distinct impression that I'm walking into a trap? That you're the spider and I'm the fly?"
Jasmine threw her head back and laughed, a sound that was both delighted and slightly dangerous. "Because you're perceptive, Professor. And because I am absolutely weaving a web around you. But it's a trap for your mind. I find myself drawn to people who challenge me intellectually, and you're proving to be quite the stimulating catch."
"And what if I'm not as easy to catch as you think?" Noah asked, surprised by his own growing boldness.
"Then this is going to be even more fun than I anticipated." Jasmine's eyes sparkled with mischief. "So what do you say? Ready to let yourself get tangled up in my web?"
This is a terrible idea. But Noah felt that after last night, something had shifted inside him, some long-dormant part waking up.
Maybe it was time to stop fighting what he was and start accepting it? Maybe, and this was the most dangerous thought of all, he could find a way to channel his nature into something that felt less predatory and more like a partnership?
"All right, Miss Cole. I accept your proposal. But fair warning, I'm not going down without a fight."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jasmine said, standing up and smoothing down her leather jacket. She paused, studying him with that calculating smile. "Let's meet tomorrow evening. I've got a place off campus where we can work without interruption."
They exchanged numbers. Then, before he could respond, she walked away, her hips swaying in a way that was too provocative to be anything but intentional. Noah watched her go, shaking his head and taking another sip of his tea. As he continued to sit and stare lazily at the clouds above, his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Jasmine: Hey, Prof., it's Jasmine. Just confirming, 442 Chow Ave, apt B16, tomorrow after 7 pm. You'd better come, or you might miss out on something special. Looking forward to our collaboration. ;-)
Noah stared at the message for a long moment, then saved the number to his contacts.
"Christ," he muttered to himself, "what did I just agree to?"