Glass and Shadows

Aria**

I slipped into the lecture hall early, like I always do on the first day of a new semester. The kind of early where the silence hasn't been broken yet, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights is the only sound. It was a small defiance—arriving before the noise and eyes could find me. 

The seat I chose— second row from the back, right near the glass window— had become some sort of ritual. The fabric on the cushion was worn thin, and the wooden desk groaned when I lowered it, but the isolation it offered was worth the discomfort. Outside, the world still moved slowly, wrapped in the dull grey haze of early morning.

Moscow's chill crept beneath the heavy fabric of my coat, biting sharper than I'd expected for this time of year. I wrapped it tighter around me and slid into the back row near the window, craving the solitude that came with watching the city bleed into the pale morning light.

The classroom smelled of cold walls, stale paper, a faint smell of dry-erase marker residue lingering in the air—a scent so thick it pressed into your skin, layering onto the unease that always followed me. The professor arrived late, his tired eyes drifting across the room like he'd done it a hundred times before with the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to. His voice was rough, a rasp that filled the cold air as he launched into 'international sociopolitical dynamics,' which sounded like a brutal reminder of how tangled and broken the world could be.

I pulled out my notebook and pen, mimicking focus, though most of his words blurred behind the tight knot in my chest. It was easier to look busy than to invite questions I wasn't ready to answer. My gaze dropped to the pages, scribbling shorthand notes no one would ever read.

Students filtered in—half conversations, shuffling feet, whispered laughter folding into the space. I kept my head down, the only shield I had against unwanted attention. The only armour that ever really worked. Eye contact led to words, words led to assumptions and assumptions were dangerous.

When the lecture finally ended, the room flooded with people moving toward the doors, buzzing with post-class chatter. I gathered my things slowly, slipping my pen into the folds of my notebook, not rushing, glad I was done for the day.

 ********************************

It was supposed to be a shortcut.

One of my roommates told me the old admin wing connected to the main building, a way to cut five minutes off the freezing walk between lectures. They'd laughed when they said it—half joke, half dare.

I took it anyway.

The hallway was dim, silent. No signs. Just flickering overhead lights and the sound of my boots on worn tile.

Then I heard a thud.

Not loud—but sharp. Flesh meeting something solid.

I slowed, breath tightening. A door ahead—barely open—glowed faintly from within. Voices drifted out, low and tense. Russian, I thought. The words rolled too fast to catch.

I edged forward without thinking, drawn by instinct or maybe stupidity.

Through the sliver of open space, I saw them: two men, one standing still, the other slumped in a chair. The standing one moved like he was used to being obeyed—shoulders squared, hands calm even as they curled into fists.

I should've walked away. I should've backed out and never looked again.

But I didn't.

I watched—long enough to see him pull something from his coat and press it against the man's throat. Not a gun. A blade.

The light caught its edge.

The seated man whimpered. The standing one didn't flinch.

And then I did the one thing I shouldn't have.

I gasped.

Quiet. Barely audible.

But he heard it.

He turned.

Eyes like storm glass locked onto mine through the crack in the door.

I froze. One heartbeat. Two.

Then I ran.

Aleksei**

There was a sound.

Small. Inhale-sharp. Unmistakable.

I turned—and saw her.

Just a flash: a girl in a long coat, wide eyes, frozen in place like she'd stepped into a nightmare. Which, unfortunately, she had.

She didn't scream. Smart.

She ran.

Smarter.

But not smart enough.

I stepped outside the room, into the hallway, but she was already gone.

Who the hell was she?

I hadn't seen her before. She didn't belong to any of the usual circles—not student council, not internal surveillance, not any of the other polished, predictable little pawns who passed through this university pretending to understand power.

No. She was something new.

And now, she was a problem.

But problems can be... reshaped.

Or erased.

Depending on what they do next.