Patricia Bloom was always one of the last ones to leave.
It was a habit forged from quiet dedication — or perhaps the hollow ache of loneliness — staying long after the others had gone, grading papers beneath the sterile glow of her desk lamp, preparing lessons, organizing her classroom until the vast academy halls fell into an eerie, echoing silence and only the night cleaners haunted the corridors.
Tonight the campus felt heavier than usual. Vast. Oppressive. It took several long minutes before the wrongness clawed its way into her bones.
Distant sirens wailed like dying animals. Flashing red and blue lights danced across the windows. Muffled voices rose in raw panic somewhere far below.
She gathered her things, curiosity burning hotter than caution, and moved toward the door.
Her fingers brushed the handle.
The door exploded open.
A black blur of death flashed past her face.
