Fellon's pov:
New York City didn't just have weather; it had moods. Today, Manhattan was in a state of mourning.
From the window of the yellow taxi, the city was a blurred, bleeding watercolor of grey skyscrapers and neon brake lights.
The tires splashed through the oily puddles of the Upper East Side with a heavy, rhythmic shush, sounding like a predator prowling through the concrete jungle.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
The rain hammered against the taxi's metal roof—a relentless, metallic drumming that echoed the frantic beat of the nightmare I had woken from only hours ago.
I sat frozen in the middle of the backseat, my hands white-knuckled as I gripped the straps of my backpack. My breath came in shallow, jagged sips.
To any other student, this was just a gloomy morning, a typical welcome to the first day of university in the greatest city in the world.
To me, it was a trigger. It was the sound of metal crunching, of glass shattering, and of my father's voice screaming a name I had buried in the mud ten years ago.
"Okay, here we go! Operation: Conquer St. Jude's is officially a go!" Amber Rosewood chirped, her voice a bright, defiant spark against the gloom of the cab.
She reached for the door handle, and for a second, I felt the urge to grab her arm and beg the driver to just keep driving—to take us all the way to the airport, to somewhere where the sun actually shone.
The door swung open, and the roar of the New York storm flooded the cabin.
The smell hit me instantly—wet asphalt, exhaust, and ozone—and I flinched, pressing my back against the seat until the springs groaned.
The sight of the wet pavement and the grey sheets of water falling across the University gates felt like an invisible wall. My feet felt like lead, anchored to the floor of the car.
"Fellon?" Liliana Ashford's voice was gentle, cutting through the static in my head. She was already half-out of the car, but she stopped, her hazel-green eyes narrowing with concern. "We have to move, Fal. The Orientation Ceremony starts in fifteen minutes. They lock the doors once the Guest of Honor starts speaking."
"I... I can't," I whispered, the words barely audible over the rain. I was staring at a puddle on the sidewalk, watching the ripples from the raindrops. In my mind, those ripples were turning into blood.
Elsa Kingsley, sitting on my other side, didn't offer a hug or a sweet word. She simply leaned over, her platinum blonde hair shimmering like silver in the dim light of the cab. Her hazel eyes locked onto mine with a cold, clinical intensity that made me feel like an object under a microscope.
"Move," Elsa said. Her voice was flat, a frozen command that acted like a bucket of ice water over my panic. She didn't wait for a reply; she simply stepped out of the car, standing tall and indifferent to the rain drenching her expensive coat.
"Take my hand," Amber added, her voice softening. She reached back into the car, her yellow umbrella already blooming over the sidewalk like a giant, neon flower. "Don't look at the ground. Just look at the umbrella. Focus on the yellow."
With a ragged, trembling breath, I forced my body to obey. Every inch felt like moving through wet cement. I slid across the seat and stepped out.
The moment my shoe touched the wet Manhattan pavement, a violent shudder wracked my spine. I felt exposed, as if the rain were stripping away my skin.
The University was an architectural beast—a sprawling campus of gothic stone and high, jagged arches that looked out of place among the modern glass towers of New York. We moved as a unit.
Amber held the umbrella over me, her 5'5" frame working overtime to keep the water off my red hair.
Liliana kept a steady hand on my shoulder, and Elsa walked at point, her 5'8" frame clearing a path through the sea of soaking-wet students.
Elsa didn't use an umbrella; she just walked with her hands in her pockets, the rain sliding off her as if she were made of marble.
"Almost there," Liliana encouraged, guiding me toward the slick marble steps leading to the Great Hall.
That was when the atmosphere changed. It wasn't the wind or the rain; it was a sudden, heavy pressure in the air—a shift in gravity.
A black luxury sedan, sleek and terrifyingly expensive, glided to the curb near the faculty entrance. It stopped without a sound, looking like a shark in dark water.
The door opened, and the crowd near the gate seemed to draw a collective breath.
A man stepped out.
He didn't have an umbrella. He didn't even flinch at the downpour.
He stood there, 6'3" of tailored charcoal wool and pure, unadulterated power. His blonde hair was swept back from a face of sharp, aristocratic angles—a jawline that could cut glass.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. They were a dark, stormy grey—the exact color of the sky on the highway ten years ago.
"Who is that?" Amber whispered, her yellow umbrella tilting as she stared. "He looks like he owns the city."
"He probably does," Liliana muttered.
I couldn't answer.
My heart was a frantic drum. A sickening pull surged in my chest—a sense of familiarity so violent it made my head spin.
I felt like I was staring at a ghost that had finally grown skin.
I know those eyes, my soul screamed.
In my state of sensory overload, my foot found a patch of slick, moss-covered marble.
My heel skidded. Gravity vanished.
I felt myself tilting backward, the grey sky rushing to meet me. I braced for the impact, for the cold bite of the stone that would feel like the car crash all over again. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the pain.
It never came.
A hand, large and gloved in black leather, clamped around my waist with the strength of an iron vice. I was yanked forward with such force that my chest slammed into a torso that felt like solid marble.
The air left my lungs in a sharp, startled gasp.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent. The rain seemed to stop mid-air, the noise of the New York traffic fading into a dull hum.
I looked up, my face mere inches from his.
Up close, he was a masterpiece of cruel beauty, his skin flawless and pale against the dark wool of his coat.
His dark grey eyes bore into mine, cold and empty, yet for a split second, something flickered in them—a spark of recognition so sharp it felt like a physical blow.
I felt a jolt of electricity snap through my body where he touched me, a heat that defied the freezing rain and seeped through my layers of clothing.
My mind raced, reeling from the contact. Where have I seen him? It wasn't just a face; it was a feeling.
A deep, primal sense of déjà vu that reached back into the darkest corners of my memory.
I felt as though I had been in these arms before, or perhaps I had spent a lifetime running toward them—or away from them. The intensity of his gaze was a silent scream, echoing the hollow ache in my own chest.
He didn't say a word. He simply stared down at me with an expression that shifted from a flash of hidden shock to a mask of absolute, icy indifference. His silence was louder than the storm, heavy with a weight I didn't understand.
Then, just as quickly as he had caught me, he released me. He withdrew his hand so abruptly I nearly stumbled again, his eyes returning to their distant, stone-cold stare as if I were nothing more than an obstacle in his path.
"Thank y—," I was about to say, but even before I was able to complete the word, he went. He didn't wait for my gratitude.
Without a single glance back, he turned and walked toward the faculty entrance. The crowd parted for him like a retreating tide.
"Wow," Amber breathed. "He's like a villain from a movie."
Elsa stood a few feet away, her eyes fixed on his retreating back. "Dangerous," she muttered, her voice so low it was almost lost to the wind.
"Fellon, you're white as a sheet," Liliana said, stepping closer to me. "Did he grip you too hard?"
"No," I whispered, though my skin still burned where his leather-clad hand had gripped my waist. "I'm fine. I just... I need to get inside. Let's go."
"Come on," Liliana encouraged, guiding me toward the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall. "He was probably just some arrogant person. Forget him. We have seats to find."
But I couldn't forget him.
We stepped into the warmth of the hall, the sound of the haunting rain finally muffled.
But as we took our seats, I wasn't thinking about the start of the semester or the buzz of my first year in New York.
My mind was completely stuck on the stage, where that specific person—the man from the rain—was now sitting among the university elite.
I didn't know his name, I didn't know why he felt like a forgotten memory, but I couldn't stop staring at the way he sat there, cold and untouchable, watching the crowd as if he were waiting for something.
Or someone.