A Room Full Of Smoke

The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the hidden lounge beneath the East Wing was the thick, cloying scent of incense—a smoky blend of something floral, something sharp. It hung in the air like a curtain, making the room feel surreal, detached from the crisp reality aboveground.

The lights were dim, tinted amber like melting candle wax, and the floor beneath my feet was not wood but a mosaic of black stone and shattered glass sealed in resin. Everything down here was sharp, secretive, and deliberate. The kind of place that didn't exist unless someone trusted you enough to show it.

And Julian—who had appeared beside me like smoke itself—had trusted me.

"I thought we weren't supposed to be seen together," I whispered, not daring to look him in the eye. My voice trembled just slightly, but I disguised it with a faint laugh. "Wasn't that the rule?"

He leaned closer, the scent of cedar clinging to him. "Rules don't mean anything down here. That's why I brought you."

The words settled in my chest with the weight of a secret too big to carry. I wasn't sure what stunned me more—that he'd brought me here, or that he said it like I was someone who belonged in his world.

Around us, students I recognized from afar but had never spoken to lounged in velvet chairs, played strange card games, passed glasses filled with golden liquor. Someone was reciting poetry in a slow, rhythmic voice that curled like smoke from an unseen corner. Another girl with silver-painted eyelids was sketching something in charcoal, glancing up occasionally at the crowd like we were her subjects.

Julian brushed past me, not waiting for permission, not even glancing back. And still—I followed.

We moved through a corridor lit only by red bulbs, past a curtained doorway, into a room filled with old film reels, mirrors, and a grand piano with broken keys. It wasn't a room that welcomed company. It was a place that held memories like ghosts.

He stopped by the piano and touched the chipped ivory of a single key. "My mother used to play here," he said quietly, so quietly I almost missed it. "Before everything changed."

I said nothing. Sometimes silence was the only respectful thing you could offer.

He turned toward me. "You're wondering why I brought you here."

I nodded. "Yes. And what this place even is."

He leaned against the piano. "It's not part of Ravencroft's official map, if that's what you're asking. This… is the part of the academy that was forgotten. Abandoned. Except by those who know how to remember."

I stared at him. "You mean like a secret society?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pushed open a small door behind the velvet curtain. Behind it: walls lined with old photographs—portraits of past students with names I didn't recognize, eyes too intense, expressions too knowing.

"Some say it started with them," Julian said. "The ones who built the school from within, not just stone and glass, but power. Influence. Quiet rebellions."

"And you're a part of it now?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

He didn't smile. Didn't joke. "I was born into it."

I felt a coldness creep along my spine. "Why me?" I whispered. "Why bring me here?"

He looked at me then—really looked. Not just with that charming smirk or those careful eyes he showed in public, but something stripped and raw.

"Because you see things you're not supposed to. And because whether you realize it or not… you're already part of this story."

I could barely breathe. "What does that mean?"

"It means there are things you haven't learned yet. About this school. About yourself. About me."

The door shut behind us on its own, heavy and final.

And I knew, in that instant, that this chapter of my life—whatever it was—was no longer mine alone.