The amphitheater was bathed in a dim light.
About a hundred students were seated on the tiered benches, pens, tablets, or sheets before them.
On the board, the professor wrote with precision, in an almost solemn silence.
A wide and complex equation was drawn in white chalk:
S = \int d^2\sigma , \sqrt{-\det(h_{ab})}
In clear letters, he had written at the top: Nambu-Goto Action.
Seated in the third row, Sakolomé, focused, carefully copied the formula into his notebook. His handwriting was neat, structured. Next to him, diagrams of vibrating strings, branes, and wrapped dimensions mingled with his annotations.
The professor, a tall, lean man with a wrinkled face, suddenly turned around:
— "Good. Can someone remind me exactly what the term here represents?"
A murmur ran through the room.
He scanned the room with his gaze, then pointed to a student at the back, slouched in his chair:
— "Mr. Kafando?"
The boy jumped.
— "Uh… I… isn't it… the metric of the… world, or something like that?"
The professor raised an eyebrow, visibly unconvinced.
— "Something like that," you say?
That's not quite what I expected.
Then, turning toward the front of the room, his eyes stopped on Sakolomé:
— "And you, sir… Sakolomé, is that correct?"
Sakolomé calmly lifted his head, without haste.
— "Yes, sir."
— "Do you have an idea?"
Sakolomé put down his pen and answered in a calm but confident tone:
— "Yes.
The term represents the induced metric on the worldsheet swept out by the string in spacetime.
In other words, it is the pullback of the spacetime metric via the immersion .
It is what allows expressing the action in terms of the internal coordinates of the string."
Silence settled.
The professor looked at him for a moment, impressed.
— "Very correct.
It's… a clear and rigorous answer. Thank you."
Sakolomé gave a discreet smile, then resumed his notes as if nothing had happened.
A few rows above, a girl whispered to her neighbor:
— "Where does he come from? He's like, understood everything from the start..."
The amphitheater calmed down.
The class continued.
They talked about Calabi-Yau compactification, broken supersymmetry, string vibrations as origins of elementary particles.
Sakolomé took notes, annotated, synthesized. Nothing seemed to disturb him.
At that precise moment, one would have sworn he was just another student.
A young man focused on his future, diligent, attentive.
The soft bell rang in the amphitheater.
The professor put down the chalk with a satisfied sigh.
— "Good, we will stop here for today.
For the next session, I want you to read the chapter on extra dimensions and compactifications in 10 and 11 dimensions.
And think about the structure of D-p branes within the framework of type IIA theory."
Sighs rose in the room.
The students began to pack their things amid a diffuse noise of scraping chairs, zippers, and chatter.
Sakolomé calmly finished putting away his pens and closed his notebook with a methodical gesture. He put on his beige jacket, scanned the room with his gaze, then descended the steps to exit.
He passed through the amphitheater door in silence.
In the hallway, scientific posters lined the walls: conferences, theses, debates on quantum physics, cosmology, string theory.
One in particular caught his attention for a moment.
It showed the smiling face of a middle-aged man in a white coat, surrounded by students:
Dr. Grijan – Founder of the Department of Theoretical Transversality. Disappeared five years ago.
Conference in his memory – Friday 6 p.m., Einstein Hall.
Sakolomé froze for a moment.
A sad grimace touched his lips.
— "Dr. Grijan…"
He looked away. No one around knew what had become of him.
But he did. He had seen the fall. Heard the screams.
He knew that Grijan had not simply disappeared: he had been torn from the world, swallowed by what he thought he could control.
And yet… it was here, in this university, that Sakolomé had chosen to continue his studies.
One foot in the real world, the other in the memories of war.
He left the building.
The air was cool. The sky, covered with pearl-gray clouds, breathed an almost incongruous peace.
He descended the campus steps, hands in pockets. Students dispersed around him, laughing, chatting, calling to each other from corner to corner.
But he walked in silence, his steps leading him home.
Five years.
It had been five years since the chaos had ceased.
Five years since the war against the off-weave entities, the tearing of domains, broken pacts, exiles, resurrections, and sacrifices.
Five years since he had resumed a… nearly normal life.
Now, he was twenty-one years old.
He was in the first year of a Master's in theoretical physics, in a section specialized in quantum gravity and non-commutative dimensions.
No more high school.
No more uniforms.
No more demons… at least on the surface.
The February sky was clear but sharp. The dry air carried a light breeze, just enough to whip Sakolomé's hair strands. He left the university with a brisk step, his mind elsewhere. Nothing mattered today, nothing except this.
He smiled slightly, alone. A crooked smile, deeper than the simple satisfaction of a successful class.
Today was February 20.
Five years to the day.
And today, the sealed pages of Sally's journal would finally open.
That notebook… she had given it to him as a gift, trembling, her pale face as she took her last breath.
She had affixed a seal, black and red, engraved with demonic runes.
Sy666 imprisoning hundreds of pages.
A delayed infernal magic. The pages were locked in time. And today, finally, they would speak.
Sakolomé had never been so eager to go home.
But as he descended the last step of the main campus porch, a whisper interrupted him:
— "Uh… Sakolomé?"
He turned, surprised by the voice he knew… and did not expect to hear today.
Leyla.
She stood there, awkward.
Her green hair hastily tied back, strands falling in front of her slightly fogged glasses.
She clutched the strap of her bag against her chest, like a child holding a stuffed animal for comfort.
— "Are you… going somewhere?" she asked, in an almost inaudible voice.
Sakolomé blinked. It wasn't that she often approached him. In fact… she mostly had the habit of throwing sharp remarks at him.
"Ah, another Satsujin Otoko who thinks he knows everything."
"No wonder you're cold. With a lineage like that."
And yet. She had never really been cruel. Hurtful, yes.
But there had always been, behind her sarcasm, a palpable awkwardness, as if she was trying to protect herself from herself.
He raised an eyebrow, remaining polite:
— "Why do you ask me that?"
Leyla took a deep breath, almost as if she was about to dive underwater.
— "I… I know I haven't been nice to you. Not often, anyway.
But today, I'd like… to try to be a little less stupid."
She looked away, blushing:
— "I booked a table. Just something simple, in a quiet corner. Tonight.
I'd like… to eat with you. Talk a little. Make peace."
She immediately lowered her head, as if she already regretted it.
Silence settled.
Sakolomé froze.
Part of him wanted to say no.
There was the journal.
He had waited five years. It was tonight. Maybe revelations. Truths. Farewells.
But he looked at her.
Leyla, trembling, dignified despite the awkwardness.
She, who had never had to speak to him. And yet, was here now, with that clumsy courage he didn't know she had.
He sighed softly. Then sketched a tired smile.
— "…You picked the worst day, you know."
Leyla looked up, worried.
— "Ah… I'm sorry! I didn't know! I can cancel, if you want… It was stupid of me, I—"
— "It's okay, Leyla."
He raised a hand to calm her.
— "I have… important things tonight, but…"
He looked at her. And for the first time, he did not see an enemy. Not an opponent.
Just a girl.
A girl who had grown up, too.
Like him.
— "…I'll come."
Leyla froze, as if her brain needed time to interpret the answer. Then, slowly, she nodded. A fragile smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
— "Okay… Tonight. 7:30 p.m. Oswald's Café, behind the auditorium."
— "Sounds good," he said simply.
And without another word, she turned on her heels and walked away in small hurried steps, as if staying longer would have broken her resolve.
Sakolomé watched her leave.
Then he resumed his way, his gaze once again turned toward the horizon.
There was something soft… and heavy in the air.
Tonight, two truths would bloom.
One about Sally.
The other about Leyla.
But which one would be the most dangerous?