Jel didn't just run, he bolted through the streets. He moved with the kind of careful, ugly control you learn when you're trying not to look like you're running from something everyone experiences, such— don't they. Short steps. Shallow pulls of air in and out. Eyes locked straight ahead, slightly towards the ground. Inside, panic was clawing at the bars, trying to escape, but he kept his teeth clamped on it, tighter and tighter, the way you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming. He passed the same old markers: fence with the busted slat, which was a little burnt, lamp that always tilted west like it was tired, the dip in the path where water pooled even when it hadn't rained in days.
Those things were real, not imagination. They stayed; they always stay. They don't lie. And his shadow… behaved, finally. That was the worst part. It trailed behind him exactly like it was supposed to—flat, obedient, nothing extra. He checked once, twice, thrice, and so on, pretending to stumble so he could glance back. Nothing. Just the normal dark smear on the ground. Then the house appeared. Normal. Plain. The only place that had ever felt like it belonged to him and hated him.
His fingers were clumsy blocks. He dropped the key, swore under his breath, scooped it up, jammed it in the lock, and shoved the door open. Slammed it behind him. The sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot from a simple pistol. He turned the key. Shot the bolt. Pressed his back to the oak door and waited for the world outside to try to come in.
Nothing.
His legs gave out, and sweat fell. He slid down the wood until he was sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled in tight. The hallway was dead dark. No sound except the rough, uneven rasp of his own disgusting breathing. Then tears came as usual. Not loud ones this time. Just a slow, ugly leak.
Air scraping past a throat that wanted to close. He pressed his face into his sleeve. Shoulders jerked like something inside was trying to break apart. The cloth soaked through and cooled against his skin. He wasn't crying because of that shadow. He was crying because he finally understood what the letter really meant for him and his future.
If the thing he saw was real, if the rot was already in him, then the Institute wasn't offering a place to learn. It was a sentence. They didn't teach people like that. They locked them. Watched them, drugged them quiet. Cut them open bit by bit while they wrote down how long it took for a mind to come apart.
Men like him didn't get classrooms. They got straps. They got years without names. His breath caught, sharp and painful.
"I can't," he whispered into the dark.
"I can't go." The words sat like lead in his stomach.
Eventually, the tears ran dry—not because he felt better, but because, because there was nothing left to give. He lifted his head. Stairs, shapes of furniture in the gloomy place. Nothing had moved, so why would he think it would move?
He stood on legs that felt broken. Climbed the majestically scary-looking stairs. Every creak of the wood made him stop; his ears strained for a step that never followed.
Halfway up, a random plan clicked into place—cold, simple, desperate as you like. If he were sick, they'd know the second he slipped. His body Shook. He gave a stare. A second too long looking at nothing. Any crack and he was finished. So, he wouldn't crack. He'd lie.
"I'm fine," Jel said to the empty stairwell.
"I'll go. I'll study. I'll pass. It's just words.
He kept repeating it, turning the sentence into a hammer, driving it deeper.
I'll lie. I'll study. I'll be fine.
He reached his room. Shut the door. His walls. His bed. His desk was messy and familiar. A thin thread of who he used to be came back into his body. He took a few steps forward. Then his head turned toward the window. Not because he wanted to. Because something pulled it. Outside, against the glass, his shadow stood upright. Terrifyingly tall. Very clean. Edges sharp enough to cut the moonlight even if it's morning. No movement. No blink from its white eyes. Face is just a rough sketch of a man. Its mouth moved.
"How?" it asked.
The sound ripped out of Jel—half choke, half gag. He tripped over the rug and crashed onto the bed. Limbs tangled, crazily, unwillingly. He grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around himself like armour, pulled it over his head, trying to block out the glass. The shadow did move closer; the thing that knew his name followed Jel through. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out. He didn't look again. He didn't answer. And behind the window, that shadow became dense.