The lecture hall's clock ticked softly as Dr. Carmilla Crimson's voice drew to its end.
"…and thus, when individuals are forced to choose between two equally strong but conflicting beliefs, the resulting dissonance compels them to rationalize their decision—often at the expense of truth. That concludes today's lecture."
The screen behind her dimmed. Students released a collective sigh, some stretching stiff arms, others hurriedly typing the last fragments of notes. The scrape of chairs against the floor filled the air as they began to rise. Bags zipped. Tablets shut. The low hum of chatter grew as they prepared to spill out into the corridor, already discussing lunch, projects, or more gossip about last night's tournament.
"Remember," Carmilla added, her voice sharp enough to slice through the din, "next week's activity will be in groups. Psychological experiments based on real-world behavioral responses. I expect rigor. No excuses."
The students muttered, groaning softly, but her authority was ironclad. Even their complaints held the tone of obedience.
As the tide of bodies surged toward the doors, Carmilla's eyes, cool and sharp behind her glasses, tracked a single figure unmoving in the far back corner.
Francis Mount.
He sat still, chin resting against his hand, gaze locked not on the room but on the patch of sky visible through the window. He did not stir with the rest, did not rise, did not shuffle books into bags. He seemed carved out of stillness itself, as though the world's noise could never reach him.
Carmilla tapped her tablet, switched it off, and spoke, her voice carrying clear across the half-empty hall.
"Francis. Stay a moment."
The chatter of departing students faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of whispers spread instantly.
"She called him."
"Uh-oh. Did he do something?"
"Knowing him? He probably broke some unspoken rule of genius."
"Or maybe she's finally going to ask him why he keeps throwing away his perfect scores."
Francis finally shifted. His eyes flicked toward her, then back to the sky. Slowly, deliberately, he rose, collected his bag with one hand, and walked down the aisle. The whispers chased him until the last students trickled out, the door swinging shut with a dull thud.
Now the lecture hall was empty, silent except for the faint buzz of the ceiling lights.
Carmilla leaned against the podium, arms crossed, watching him approach. Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze burned with an intensity few could withstand.
Francis stopped a few steps from her, his face calm, unreadable as ever.
"You wanted to see me, Doctor."
Her lips curved slightly, though not into a smile—more the shadow of one. "I did."
Silence hung for a moment, heavy as stone. Then Carmilla pushed herself off the podium and circled him slowly, like a hawk appraising prey not yet understood.
"Francis Mount. Sophomore. General Studies. Highest marks in nearly every subject. Perfect in psychology. Exceptional in economics. Adept in sciences, law, governance. Some professors say you're the most promising student they've seen in a decade."
Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze directly.
"And yet," she continued, her voice sharpening, "you throw your exam papers into the trash the moment you receive them. Not once. Every time. As though they're meaningless."
Francis's eyes did not waver. "Because they are."
Carmilla tilted her head, studying him. "Is that arrogance or honesty?"
"Neither," he replied softly. "It's fact."
Her eyes narrowed. "Explain."
He let the silence stretch, his hands tucked into his pockets. When he spoke, his tone was even, detached, almost philosophical.
"Knowledge isn't a score on paper. The exam doesn't matter once the answer is written. Keeping it is like clinging to ashes after the fire has burned. What use is it?"
Carmilla crossed her arms. "Perhaps. But symbols matter. Recognition matters. To discard them so carelessly is to spit on the system that measures achievement."
"The system is flawed," Francis said.
Her lips quirked again, amused. "Flawed, yes. But necessary. Without measurement, how does one compete? How does one know they've surpassed others?"
Francis's gaze flickered briefly to the window before returning to her. "Surpassing others isn't the point."
"Then what is the point?" she pressed, stepping closer, her eyes gleaming with challenge.
His answer was quiet, almost a whisper. "Transcendence."
The word hung in the air between them like a blade.
Carmilla studied him for a long moment, her sharp intellect sparking with interest. "You speak like someone carrying secrets. Tell me, Francis, who are you really?"
His eyes betrayed nothing. "A student."
Her brow arched. "A student who answers every question perfectly. Who dismantles every challenge without effort. Who stares at the sky while others struggle with the ground. That's not normal."
"Normal is irrelevant."
She leaned against the desk, folding her arms again. "You dodge with words, Francis. Cleverly. But not enough. I'm asking what drives you. What keeps you sitting here, day after day, when it's clear this university offers you no challenge?"
He shrugged lightly. "Routine."
Her voice sharpened. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'll give."
For the first time, a small laugh escaped her, low and genuine. "You're infuriating."
"And yet you keep asking," he replied.
Their eyes locked, a silent duel of wills. Carmilla's gaze was a scalpel, cutting, probing, but Francis's calm was impenetrable. His presence was not defensive, but unyielding—like a wall that neither resisted nor broke.
She circled him again, pacing slowly, her heels clicking like a metronome. "I've seen prodigies before. Brilliant minds who crumble under pressure. Geniuses who burn too bright and vanish. But you—you're different. Detached. Cold, even. As if nothing touches you."
Francis turned his gaze slightly, the faintest trace of weariness in his eyes. "Because nothing does."
"Not even victory?" she asked sharply. "I saw the headlines this morning. The whole world is talking about Franc Ount—the boy who destroyed Lumina Frost with a Royal Flush. The greatest upset in gambling history. Tell me, Francis, doesn't that thrill you? Doesn't that ignite something?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Carmilla's eyes narrowed. "Ah. There it is. That flicker. You try to hide it, but I see it. That was you, wasn't it?"
Francis's face remained calm, his expression unchanged. "Speculation is dangerous, Doctor."
Her lips curved once more, sharper this time. "Dodging again. But your silence tells me more than your words."
He stepped back slightly, his voice soft, final. "Then perhaps you should stop asking."
The lecture hall was still. For a long moment, neither spoke. The faint hum of the lights filled the air like static.
Finally, Carmilla exhaled, a slow breath of resignation—or perhaps amusement. "You're a fortress, Francis. A fortress with no doors, no windows. But I'll say this: even fortresses fall. One day, you'll have to let someone in."
Francis turned toward the door, his hand resting lightly on his bag strap. He spoke without looking back.
"Or perhaps the world will learn to stop knocking."
With that, he walked away, his footsteps soft, steady, unhurried. The door opened with a faint creak and shut behind him with finality.
Carmilla stood in the empty hall, her arms crossed, her eyes thoughtful. A smile ghosted her lips—not of triumph, but of intrigue.
"Francis Mount," she murmured to herself. "What are you hiding?"
The echo of her words lingered long after he had gone.
Outside, Francis walked the corridor once more, the chatter of students rushing past him like waves. He did not glance at them, nor did he hear their gossip. His eyes were fixed ahead, his mind elsewhere—on the horizon, on the sky, on a silence deeper than words.
For Francis Mount, the game had never ended. It had only just begun.
The corridor outside Dr. Carmilla's lecture hall pulsed with noise. Students bustled about, voices rising and falling in waves—plans for lunch, laughter echoing, fragments of gossip scattering into the air like sparks. But Francis Mount drifted through them as though he were made of another element, as if his presence did not stir the air at all. He moved with an almost spectral calm, hands tucked into his pockets, bag slung loosely over one shoulder.
No one dared to block his way. The bravest among them whispered his name as he passed. Others stole glances, wondering if the rumors about last night's gambling match could be true. But Francis neither turned his head nor acknowledged a soul. He walked steadily toward the stairwell, the one students rarely used—the one that led to the rooftop.
The iron door groaned faintly as he pushed it open. A rush of morning air swept over him, crisp and sharp, tinged with the faint industrial scent of Manila's heart below. The rooftop stretched wide and empty, the hum of the city below softened by height and distance. The early sun climbed, casting pale light across the concrete expanse.
Francis exhaled, and for the first time since leaving the classroom, his shoulders loosened. Here, the world was quiet. Here, no questions clawed at him, no eyes tried to pry open the fortress of his silence.
He crossed to the far side, near the weathered railing where rust had eaten small scars into the metal. Setting his bag down with a dull thud, he unzipped it. Inside, nestled beneath books and papers, lay a bottle of liquor—its amber contents glinting faintly in the light—and a pack of cigarettes, unopened but already familiar.
Francis pulled out the bottle first, twisted the cap, and raised it to his lips. The burn slid down his throat, warm, sharp, almost cleansing. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sting. Then he set the bottle aside, fished out the cigarettes, and tapped one free. With a flick of his lighter, flame kissed tobacco. Smoke curled upward in thin, gray tendrils, swirling against the sky.
He inhaled deeply, then released the smoke with a slow, deliberate breath. Each exhale felt like a fragment of thought, a piece of the boredom and weight he carried sliding free into the air.
He stood like that for a long while, smoking, drinking, staring at nothing. Then, as though compelled by some inner pressure, he began to speak. His voice was low, steady, carrying a rhythm more measured than conversation. Words shaped themselves into verse.
---
Darkenfinity
I walk through corridors of sound, yet hear no call my own,
A thousand voices brush my skin, but leave me cold, alone.
The books, the scores, the endless games, they fall into the void,
What use is brilliance, endless thought, when meaning is destroyed?
The sky is wide, the earth is loud, but silence binds my core,
Each answer known, each riddle solved, yet questions sprout once more.
A crown of cards, a hand of fate, the cheers that never stay,
What worth is triumph's fleeting spark when dawn dissolves to gray?
Oh boredom, cruel and endless sea, that drowns without a wave,
Each breath a stone, each step a chain, each hour another grave.
I drink to taste a bitter fire, I smoke to watch it fade,
For in this dance of ash and flame, at least a mark is made.
So let the world proclaim its noise, let others chase the fight,
I'll carve my words in smoke and dust, then vanish out of sight.
---
The words hung in the air, carried softly by the breeze, dissipating like the smoke itself. Francis did not smile. His face remained calm, almost hollow, as he drew another breath from the cigarette and exhaled. He looked down at the city, the tide of buildings stretching endlessly, and lifted the bottle again.
But he did not know he was not alone.
Behind him, just past the rooftop door, Dr. Carmilla Crimson stood silently. She had followed with careful steps, curiosity pulling her along after their exchange in the lecture hall. She had intended to speak, to press further, but when she heard the cadence of his voice rise into verse, she stopped.
And listened.
The words cut into her with a precision she had not expected. They were heavy, raw, each syllable carrying the weight of boredom not as mere complaint but as an existential wound. She had studied hundreds of students, had mapped the psyche of prodigies and failures alike, but never had she heard such distilled despair spoken with such calm detachment.
Her hand tightened around the railing near the door. She did not move forward. She simply listened, letting the poem etch itself into her memory.
When Francis's final line dissolved into silence, Carmilla took a slow step forward. The click of her heel echoed faintly across the rooftop.
Francis did not turn. He only spoke, his voice calm. "How long have you been there?"
Carmilla's lips curved faintly. "Long enough."
He finally turned, smoke drifting from his cigarette, eyes calm but unbothered. "Eavesdropping isn't very professional, Doctor."
She approached slowly, arms crossed. "Neither is drinking and smoking on university property."
He raised the bottle slightly in mock salute. "Then we're both guilty."
Her eyes narrowed, though not in anger. "That poem… Did you write it?"
Francis shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"It matters because it reveals more than any exam, more than any conversation. You may dodge my questions, Francis, but your words betray you."
He exhaled another stream of smoke, gaze fixed on her. "Or perhaps I simply speak in riddles."
Carmilla stopped a few paces from him, studying his face. The wind teased strands of her dark hair, but her eyes remained sharp, unwavering. "No. That wasn't a riddle. That was honesty, carved in bitterness. You're bored. Restless. Detached from everything around you. Even victory, even brilliance, feels empty."
Francis's silence confirmed more than words ever could.
She continued, her tone softer now, almost probing. "Why? With your mind, your talent, your abilities—you could conquer any field. Science. Politics. Economics. Why does it all bore you?"
Francis tapped ash from his cigarette, then crushed it underfoot. "Because they're all the same. Systems, rules, boundaries. I see the patterns, the flaws, the outcomes. There's nothing left to surprise me."
Carmilla tilted her head, intrigued. "And yet you still play."
He took another drink, the liquor sliding down his throat. "Because even a hollow game is better than silence."
Her gaze softened, though her expression remained guarded. "You speak like someone carrying a weight. But I wonder, is it truly boredom? Or is it fear?"
Francis chuckled, low and humorless. "Fear of what?"
"Of meaning," she replied without hesitation. "Because once you admit something matters, you can lose it. And that terrifies you more than boredom ever could."
For the first time, Francis's eyes flickered—not in surprise, but in acknowledgment of the strike. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned back to the railing, watching the city below.
"You analyze too much, Doctor."
"It's my profession," she said lightly.
"It's also a flaw," he countered.
Carmilla stepped closer, standing beside him now, her arms resting on the railing. She glanced sideways at him. "Perhaps. But flaws reveal truths."
The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the city below and the occasional rustle of wind.
Finally, Francis spoke again, his tone quieter. "Tell me, Doctor. Do you ever feel it? The emptiness?"
Carmilla's gaze lingered on him. "Of course. Everyone does. The difference is, most people fill it—with love, with ambition, with faith. You, Francis… you choose to feed it with smoke and liquor."
He smirked faintly, though the expression carried no real humor. "At least they don't lie."
"No," she said softly. "They just kill you slowly."
Their eyes met again, unflinching. The rooftop seemed to shrink around them, the space between their words tightening with each exchange.
Francis lifted his bottle once more, but before he drank, he said quietly, "Better slow death than a hollow life."
Carmilla did not argue. She only watched him, the sunlight glinting off her glasses, her mind cataloging every word, every gesture.
And yet, deep inside, she felt something stir—not just professional intrigue, but something sharper, more personal.
Francis Mount was a puzzle. And Carmilla Crimson had never been able to resist a puzzle.
The rooftop wind carried the last trace of his poem into the sky, dissolving into the morning air.