Blood and Ink

Amara strode through the university halls, her head high despite the whispers crawling after her like relentless vines. She could feel them—those judgmental stares, the murmurs dripping with accusation and scorn. Each step felt heavier, but she refused to falter. She refused to let them see her break.

The moment she turned the corner, she came face-to-face with a group of students blocking her path. Five of them. Their gazes held nothing but cruel amusement, their smiles sharp like daggers waiting to cut.

"Well, if it isn't the professor's little favorite." The voice belonged to Lillian, a tall blonde with an air of superiority, her arms crossed as she regarded Amara with mocking curiosity.

Amara's jaw tightened. "Move."

"Move?" Lillian echoed, feigning offense. "But we just wanted to understand. How exactly does one get… special attention from a professor?"

A ripple of laughter followed. Another girl, dark-haired and equally venomous, leaned in closer. "Must be quite the talent," she whispered with a smirk. "Late-night visits, private meetings… you're not very discreet, are you?"

Amara exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to remain composed. "I don't have time for this."

"Of course not," Lillian said, stepping in front of her again. "You must be busy. Office hours can be so… demanding."

Before Amara could react, a cold splash hit her chest.

A sharp gasp tore from her lips. The shock of ice-cold water spread across her blouse, clinging to her skin in an instant. Laughter erupted around her, the sound deafening in the hallway.

"There," Lillian said with a satisfied grin. "Now you look the part."

Amara's fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath uneven. The sting of the water was nothing compared to the humiliation pressing down on her like a weight.

But then—silence.

A presence.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Professor Rafael stood at the other end of the corridor, arms folded across his chest, his expression unreadable. The tension in the air shifted immediately. Students shrank under his gaze, shifting awkwardly, glancing at one another. The cruel amusement drained from their faces.

For a fleeting moment, Amara thought maybe—just maybe—he would say something to end this, to dismiss them like the nuisances they were.

But when he spoke, his voice was mild, almost conversational. "Miss Varela, it seems you've garnered quite a bit of attention lately."

Amara stiffened. There was no reprimand in his tone. No concern. Just cool observation.

"I don't believe this is an appropriate use of university facilities," he continued, gesturing vaguely at the gathered students. "Wouldn't you all agree?"

A few of them shifted uncomfortably. One of the girls muttered something before quickly retreating, the others following suit, albeit reluctantly. Lillian lingered the longest, throwing Amara a final sneer before sauntering away.

The hallway emptied until it was just the two of them.

Amara swallowed against the lump in her throat. "You didn't have to do that."

Professor Rafael arched a brow. "Do what?"

She hated how calm he sounded. How detached.

"You know what."

His gaze flickered down to her soaked blouse before returning to her face. "I thought you preferred handling things yourself."

Amara straightened. "I do."

"Then consider this a test," he said smoothly. "To see just how long that resolve lasts."

Her fingers twitched at her sides. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

His lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, not quite amusement. "You assume too much, Miss Amara."

Her breath was shallow, her chest still damp and chilled, but she held his gaze. "If you're expecting me to come crawling for help, you'll be disappointed."

Rafael tilted his head slightly. "We'll see."

She turned on her heel and walked away, her steps firm, her pulse pounding.

His voice followed her. "You know where to find me when you change your mind."

Amara didn't look back.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Amara slammed the door behind her, the sound reverberating through her small apartment. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she pressed her back against the wooden frame, her fingers trembling at her sides.

The cold sensation of her damp blouse against her skin sent a fresh wave of humiliation through her. She clenched her jaw, blinking rapidly to fight off the sting in her eyes. She wouldn't cry. She refused.

But then—her phone buzzed.

Her breath hitched.

The screen lit up with a name that sent a shiver down her spine.

Mystery Man.

Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second too long before she finally answered. "Hello?"

A pause. Then his deep, velvety voice filled the silence, smooth but edged with something unreadable. "You sound upset."

She exhaled sharply, forcing her tone to remain even. "It's nothing."

A moment of silence. Heavy. Charged.

Then—"You're lying."

Her eyes fluttered shut, her grip tightening around the phone. How did he always know? Even when she kept her voice steady, even when she masked the cracks beneath her carefully composed exterior, he always saw through it.

"Talk to me," he urged, his voice softer now, patient. "Tell me what's wrong."

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand against her forehead. The weight of everything she had endured today bore down on her, threatening to crush her. The whispers, the laughter, the water soaking her skin, the sharp sting of Rafael's words… It clawed at her, suffocating.

And for a fleeting second, she wanted to tell him.

She wanted to unravel, to let someone hold the pieces before they shattered completely.

But she couldn't.

Not to him.

So she forced a brittle laugh. "It's just been a long day."

His silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Then, he sighed. "You're too proud for your own good."

A bitter smile ghosted her lips. "Yeah. So I've been told."

Another pause. Then—"Is that why you're crying?"

She stiffened.

Her fingers immediately went to her cheeks. She hadn't even realized.

Damn him.

She quickly wiped the wetness away with the back of her hand, but it didn't stop the tightness in her chest, the way her throat ached from holding it all in.

"I'm not," she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't respond right away. And that silence—his silence—made her stomach twist.

Then, his voice dropped lower, quieter, like a thread pulling her in. "You don't have to do this alone, Amara."

Her breath hitched.

She shook her head, as if he could see her. "I don't need help."

"No?" He hummed, thoughtful. "Then why does your voice sound so small?"

Something inside her cracked.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her free hand clenching into a fist against her thigh. "Because I hate this," she whispered, barely able to keep her voice steady. "I hate that no matter what I do, it's never enough. I hate that people think they know me, that they think they can tear me down just because they can." Her voice broke on the last words, and she bit her lip, trying to steady herself.

"And I hate that you're hearing this," she added, her voice barely audible now.

Another beat of silence. Then—"I don't."

Her throat tightened.

"You always sound so strong," he murmured. "So untouchable. But even steel bends under enough pressure."

She let out a shuddering breath. "I don't know how much more I can take."

"Then stop carrying it all alone."

She blinked, staring at the dimly lit apartment in front of her, her vision blurring at the edges.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can." His voice was firm now. "You just don't want to."

She bit down on her lip, hard enough to sting.

"I'm not weak."

"No, you're not." A pause. Then—"But even the strongest people need a hand sometimes."

Her fingers curled around the fabric of her blouse, gripping it as if it could hold her together. "Why do you care?" she asked, barely above a breath.

A sharp exhale. "Why do you think?"

Her pulse stuttered.

He never answered things directly. Never gave her more than breadcrumbs. But tonight, there was something raw in his voice. Something almost—desperate.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I don't know anything anymore."

His voice softened. "Then let me remind you."

And for the first time that night, as the silence stretched between them, she wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to run from it.

Next day the university hall was packed. The air buzzed with anticipation as students murmured among themselves, their voices a blend of excitement and nervous energy. Professors stood near the front, their expressions carefully composed, while the university dean sat in the center of the stage, waiting for silence.

Amara sat in the middle row, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She hadn't wanted to be here. She hated these events—public gatherings where students fawned over opportunities they would never share with someone like her. But something about this announcement had unsettled her, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

She shifted in her seat as the dean finally stood up, clearing his throat into the microphone.

"Students, today we have an extraordinary announcement," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "As you all know, our university has been in collaboration with some of the world's top institutions. But today, we are honored to be the first university chosen for a unique opportunity."

A hush fell over the crowd.

The dean smiled. "Professor Daniel Lenz's research is one of the most sought-after studies in literary academia. His work on Dante's exploration of love and desire has changed the way scholars approach classical romance literature. And now, Harvard University is giving one of our students the opportunity to complete it."

The words slammed into Amara like a physical blow.

Her hands turned ice cold. Her breath hitched.

Her father's research?

The room around her blurred, her ears ringing as the dean continued.

"We will be conducting a special examination in the coming weeks. The chosen student will be granted a full scholarship and will work under Harvard's top professor, who collaborated with Dr. Lenz before his passing. This is an unprecedented honor, one that will change the future of whoever is selected."

Applause erupted, but Amara couldn't move.

She felt sick.

They were giving away her father's research.

Her father's legacy.

Under someone else's name.

Her fingers dug into her arms, nails pressing so hard against her skin that it stung.

Someone behind her whispered, "Can you imagine? Whoever gets this is set for life."

Another voice. "I heard Professor Lenz's research on Dante's view of love was never fully completed. Whoever finishes it will be making history."

A sharp laugh. "Guess that means we'll actually have to study. Harvard professors don't mess around."

Amara couldn't breathe.

Her mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, anger, and something far worse—betrayal.

They were treating her father's work like a prize. Something to be won.

Like he had never existed.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

How could they do this?

Her father had spent his life pouring over Dante's poetry, tracing the evolution of romance through time, uncovering hidden meanings in the verses of La Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy. He had dedicated everything—his life, his soul—to this research.

And now they were handing it off to some student.

They were acting as if his work had been unfinished because he lacked the brilliance to complete it. As if he were just another scholar who left a puzzle behind for someone else to solve.

As if his daughter—his only family, his only student—didn't exist.

Her nails pressed deeper into her skin, her body shaking with the effort to stay composed.

This was a game to them. A competition. They didn't know the years of dedication, the sleepless nights, the way her father had poured his entire soul into his work. They didn't know what it had cost him.

Her lips trembled, her teeth clenched so hard it hurt.

They weren't taking this from her.

They could pretend this research belonged to the university, to Harvard, to anyone but the man who had truly built it.

But she wouldn't.

Her father's blood ran through her veins, and she would not stand by and let them erase him.

She took a slow, shaking breath.

The dean's voice broke through her thoughts again.

"Our guest from Harvard, will be arriving next week to oversee the selection process. This will be a rigorous test, designed to find the brightest mind capable of completing this work. Prepare yourselves."

A murmur spread through the crowd, excitement palpable.

Amara's nails bit into her palms.

Brightest mind? Capable?

This was her father's work.

Who else could possibly understand it better than her?

She had grown up watching him, absorbing his passion, listening to him talk about Dante's poetry late into the night. She had seen the moments of doubt, the breakthroughs, the brilliance behind his every idea.

And yet, she wasn't even acknowledged.

Her gaze burned as she stared at the stage.

This wasn't just about some scholarship.

It was about what was hers.

After the Announcement

The hall emptied slowly, students leaving in groups, buzzing with excitement about the test.

Amara didn't move.

She sat, unmoving, staring at the floor, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

A familiar voice broke through her trance.

"Amara?"

She flinched at the sound.

Professor Callahan stood beside her, brows furrowed with concern. "Are you alright?"

She forced a nod. "Yeah. Just… processing."

He hesitated. "You knew about this, didn't you?"

A hollow laugh escaped her lips. "No. I didn't."

Callahan sighed, rubbing his temple. "I assumed they would have told you, considering—" He stopped himself, but she already knew what he meant.

Considering it was her father's work.

She let out a slow breath. "Well, they didn't."

A silence stretched between them.

Callahan shifted, glancing around before lowering his voice. "You should take the test."

She looked up at him sharply.

"I mean it," he said firmly. "No one else has a better chance than you."

Her throat tightened. "But they won't pick me."

His jaw clenched. "Then make it impossible for them to ignore you."

Her fingers curled around the edge of her seat.

Make it impossible.

Could she?

She exhaled slowly, her mind racing.

Her father's work belonged to her.

And maybe—just maybe—she would prove it