The Variable

*— Rowan Hale's POV —*

---

Rowan Hale wasn't stupid.

He knew people changed. Life cracked them, bent them, reshaped them into things they didn't recognize in the mirror.

But **Elara Voss**...

She hadn't changed.

She'd **mutated.**

---

It started small.

She stopped double-knotting her shoelaces like she used to.

She drank her coffee black now — no sugar, no cream.

She stared too long at quiet corners.

And she smiled at people like she was remembering things they'd forgotten.

Once, she laughed at a joke she hadn't heard.

Another time, she looked at a professor and her jaw clenched like she was fighting gravity.

He saw all of it.

And said nothing.

---

But this morning?

This morning shook something loose.

He found a red envelope — half-shredded — in the faculty lounge trash bin while waiting to meet his advisor.

He picked it up without thinking.

Gold wax. Thick paper. Burnt at the corner like someone tried to destroy it and changed their mind halfway.

His fingers went cold.

> *"Red Envelope Theory."*

He'd heard the whispers. Everyone had.

But he hadn't believed it.

Until now.

---

Back at the dorm, he paced the rooftop with a cigarette he didn't even light. He never smoked. Just held it. A bad habit he hadn't earned yet.

The sun was setting over the science block — shadows long and gold.

That's when she came up the stairs.

Hood up. Hands in her jacket. Quiet as always.

"El," he said.

She looked up at him, calm as ever. "Hm?"

He held up the envelope.

"Is this yours?"

Her eyes narrowed — just slightly. Not surprised. Not alarmed.

Calculated.

"Why would it be?"

"You tell me."

A silence fell between them — not awkward. Not angry.

**Heavy.**

Then she said, "What are you really asking, Rowan?"

He hesitated.

Then stepped forward, close enough to see the flecks of amber in her otherwise dark eyes.

> "Are you the one everyone's afraid of?"

> "Are you the ghost behind the whispers?"

> "Did you send it to him, Elara? Did you take him down?"

He didn't say any of those things.

He just asked:

> "What happened to you?"

---

She exhaled. Looked away. Looked *tired*, for the first time in weeks.

Then she said, quietly:

> "I survived."

---

He didn't press.

He didn't dare.

But he noticed something in her voice — not pain. Not guilt.

**Control.**

And something else.

**Loneliness.**

---

That night, he opened his notebook and scribbled in the margins:

> "Elara Voss is not the same."

> "I don't think she's dangerous."

> "I *know* she is."

> "But she only destroys people who deserve it."

Then he added, like a confession:

> "And I'm not sure I want to stop her."