By the time Ethan reached the bar, he had already called Lena more than a dozen times.
None of them had gone through.
No answer. No voicemail. Not even a missed-call notification bouncing back.
He'd run most of the way there, weaving through traffic and pedestrians, his phone clutched in his hand the entire time. The messages he'd sent piled up one after another. He'd lost count somewhere around eighty.
Please pick up.
Lena, answer me.
Don't scare me like this.
He stopped just inside the entrance, chest heaving, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt.
"Please," he muttered under his breath, shoving the phone into his pocket. "Don't do this to me."
The bar was dim, louder than he liked. Music pulsed low through the floor, lights shifting in lazy colors across the crowd. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
Couples clustered at small tables. Groups leaned shoulder to shoulder near the counter. Laughter rose and fell in uneven waves.
Ethan scanned the room.
Left side first. Then the right. Then the center.
Nothing.
He started moving, weaving between tables, leaning in just enough to check faces without being obvious. Or at least, he tried not to be obvious. A few people frowned at him. One guy shot him an annoyed look like Ethan had just insulted his outfit.
He didn't care.
He kept going.
One table. Then another. Then another.
His heart sank a little more with each step.
She wouldn't just disappear, he told himself. She wouldn't.
But the novel in his head whispered otherwise.
Upstairs, in a private booth overlooking the main floor, Laura Rowan swirled the ice in her glass and glanced sideways.
"So," she said lazily, "your family still bugging you about settling down?"
Clara Vaughn leaned back against the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest, wine glass held loosely between long fingers.
"They used to," she replied. "They've stopped."
Laura raised a brow. "That's new. What changed?"
"I told them I met someone overseas," Clara said, tone flat. "A boyfriend."
Laura blinked. Then laughed. "That lie's going to blow up in your face."
"If it does, it does," Clara said, unbothered. "I'll deal with it then."
Her tolerance was strong, but even so, the alcohol had begun to settle in. A warm haze sat behind her eyes, dulling the sharpest edges of the night. It had been a long time since she'd let herself drink like this. Too long.
Laura studied her with open appreciation.
Earlier in the evening, Clara had been composed, distant, immaculate. Now, with color rising faintly in her cheeks and her gaze a touch heavier, she looked… dangerous. Not soft. Not sloppy. Just charged.
Like something beautiful that knew exactly how sharp it was.
Laura clicked her tongue quietly. "God's unfair," she muttered. "Really makes you wonder what he took from you to balance this out."
Clara didn't respond.
Her attention had drifted.
Down below, on the main floor, a tall young man moved restlessly through the crowd. He stood out, not because he was flashy, but because he didn't belong. His posture was tense, eyes alert, expression openly anxious.
He was searching.
Laura noticed where Clara was looking and followed her gaze.
"Oh?" she said. "Another one of your students?"
Clara's eyes narrowed slightly as recognition set in.
"Yes," she said. "He's in my class."
Only now did she realize she'd been tracking him without meaning to.
"He looks like a college kid," Laura added. "That confused, earnest look. Same one we had back then."
Clara didn't disagree.
It was just past ten.
Laura checked the time. "Doesn't your school lock the dorms at eleven? Want me to have someone tell him to hurry up and get back?"
"No need," Clara said lightly. "If he misses curfew, he'll figure something out."
Laura snorted. "You're a great professor."
"They're adults," Clara replied. "Not teenagers."
"Still," Laura said, shaking her head, "cold."
She leaned forward again, excitement flickering across her face. "Hey, I learned a couple of new cocktails recently. Want to try one?"
"I'm done for tonight," Clara said, waving her off.
Laura sighed, then brightened suddenly as her eyes dropped back to the main floor.
"Well," she said slowly, smiling, "we could always have him try."
Clara turned sharply. "You're drunk."
"Who says?" Laura protested. "I just need a test subject. I want an honest opinion."
Clara lifted a brow. "So you were planning to use me."
Laura flushed, whether from alcohol or being caught, it was hard to tell.
Downstairs, Ethan finished another lap of the room.
Nothing.
His gaze drifted upward.
The second floor.
His chest tightened.
According to the story he remembered, this was exactly how it went. Clara met Lena. Took her upstairs. And then—
He clenched his jaw.
No. Not yet.
Up in the booth, Clara's eyes lowered.
The lighting was dim, but she could feel it. The moment his gaze landed on the second floor. On her.
"Laura," she asked quietly, "are you sure this glass is one-way?"
"Absolutely," Laura said without hesitation.
The next second, Ethan bolted for the stairs.
Clara's grip tightened imperceptibly around her glass.
Footsteps approached.
A knock sounded against the door.
"Come in," Laura called easily.
Ethan stepped inside.
Two women sat on the sofa.
One of them was turned away from him, reclining with casual elegance, wine glass lifted, dark hair spilling down her back. The curve of her shoulder, the relaxed line of her posture—it was unmistakable.
The other woman watched him with open curiosity.
That had to be Laura Rowan.
"Lost, kid?" Laura asked, amused. "How'd you end up here?"
Ethan straightened. "Ms. Rowan," he said politely. "I'm looking for someone."
Laura's smile widened. "Oh? I don't think I have who you're looking for."
Ethan's eyes swept the room. No Lena. But his instincts screamed that he was close.
He pulled out his phone, opened a photo, and stepped forward.
"Have you seen this woman?" he asked. "She's about five-six. White dress. She was here earlier."
Laura leaned in, squinting. "Hard to see. Come closer."
He did.
The moment she saw the picture, recognition flashed.
The girl had left not long ago, walking out with her friends.
Laura glanced at Clara.
Clara didn't react.
"Who is she to you?" Laura asked. "Girlfriend?"
"My sister," Ethan said quickly.
That confirmed it.
Laura smiled.
Clara remained silent.
"Professor Vaughn," Ethan said, relief creeping into his voice. "I thought that was you. I knew the back looked familiar."
He hesitated, then asked, "Have you seen my sister?"
"She's gone back to campus," Clara replied calmly.
Ethan didn't believe her.
Before he could respond, Laura leaned forward eagerly.
"Hold on," she said. "Don't listen to her. She's lying."
Clara finally looked over, eyes sharp. What are you doing?
Laura gave her a look that said Relax.
She stood and waved Ethan over to the bar counter inside the booth.
Ethan followed, wary but desperate.
"Ethan," Clara said firmly, "I told you the truth."
"Don't trust her," Laura said cheerfully. "She's trouble."
She mixed quickly, hands practiced. A few minutes later, three glasses slid across the counter.
"Drink these," Laura said. "Then I'll tell you where your sister is."
Ethan stared. "I don't drink much."
"Barely any alcohol," Laura promised. "Less than beer. Just taste."
He hesitated, then drank.
One glass. Then another. Then the third.
Laura clapped. "Not bad."
Ethan wiped his mouth. "Where's my sister?"
Laura grinned. "Your professor was right."
Ethan froze.
"She already left."
"…Damn it."
—
Three glasses in.
That was all it took.
The moment the last cocktail went down, Ethan felt his vision explode into sparks. The room tilted hard to the side, then spun like someone had grabbed the world and shaken it for fun.
The buzz hit late, fast, and vicious.
Laura Rowan now had multiple afterimages. One Laura became two. Two became three. They overlapped and drifted apart, like a badly rendered game glitch.
She was talking to Clara. Or maybe yelling. Or laughing.
Ethan tried to focus, tried to catch the words, but they slipped through his fingers. He shook his head, hard, as if that might force the noise to line up.
It didn't help.
"Wait," Laura said suddenly, disbelief sharp in her voice. "Did I hear that right? Did this kid just swear at me?"
"What did you give him?" Clara demanded.
She was already on her feet.
Ethan's condition was clearly wrong. This wasn't normal tipsy dizziness. This was full-on system failure.
"I—uh—just one of my new cocktails," Laura said quickly. Then froze. "Oh. Oh shit. I used the wrong base."
Clara didn't even bother replying.
She shot up from the couch, barefoot, shoes forgotten, and crossed the room in three quick strides. The wine glass was abandoned on the table.
"I—" Ethan tried to speak.
His head felt like it was splitting open from the inside.
Before he could finish the thought, he collapsed forward, forehead landing on the table with a dull thump. The pressure helped. Lying flat was the only way the spinning eased even a little.
"Ethan," Clara said sharply, one hand pressing against his back. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
"This is fine," Laura said, waving a hand. "He's just drunk."
"Shut up," Clara snapped.
Laura flinched.
"If you hadn't messed with him, this wouldn't have happened," Clara continued coldly. "You think this is funny?"
"…I really didn't mean to," Laura muttered, suddenly very aware she was in trouble. "It was an accident."
"Laura Rowan," Ethan slurred, lifting his head just enough to speak. "Where the hell is my sister…"
"Huh?" Laura leaned in. This time she heard it clearly. "Oh. Yeah. He is cursing at me."
"Enough," Clara said sharply. Then she bent closer to Ethan, lowering her voice. "She already went back to campus. Calm down."
"See?" Laura said lightly. "These siblings are weirdly close."
"You still have time to shut up," Clara said flatly.
Laura raised both hands. "Okay, okay. So what now?"
"Think," Clara said. "You did this."
"Well… we can't send him back to campus. Curfew's passed," Laura said, thinking out loud. "What if we just stick him in an internet café overnight?"
Clara stared at her.
"He's drunk," she said slowly. "And you want to dump him alone in a public place?"
"…Fair," Laura admitted. "Then you deal with it. You're his professor."
"That's not an excuse," Clara shot back. "You're the one who poured the drinks."
Laura opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
"Ah—speaking of which," she said quickly, backing away, "I just remembered I've got an emergency at home. Real urgent. Gotta go."
And just like that, she vanished.
Ten minutes later.
Parking lot outside the bar.
"Hello, designated driver."
"Get in."
Clara sat in the back seat.
Ethan slumped beside her.
Two minutes later, the car pulled away according to the navigation.
Clara leaned back, exhaustion seeping in. She'd had alcohol too. Not enough to lose control, but enough to dull the edges of what should have been a good night.
If not for this.
Ethan Moore.
This student unsettled her.
He was afraid of her. Not mildly. Not cautiously.
Deeply.
And she couldn't figure out why.
She was strict, yes. She kept a distance. That usually intimidated students a little.
But Ethan treated her like she might bite.
That piano lesson earlier had been the perfect example. Careful to the point of tension. Watching her face, her tone, her reactions. Like one wrong move would end him.
And earlier, in the booth—
She'd told him twice that his sister had gone back to campus.
He hadn't believed her.
Instead, he trusted Laura. A stranger. And look how that turned out.
Students were supposed to trust their professors.
So where did that mistrust come from?
"Clara Vaughn!"
The sudden shout jolted her.
She turned.
Ethan was frowning deeply, eyes squeezed shut, like he was trapped in a nightmare.
Had he just—
Did he just shout her full name?
The driver glanced nervously into the rearview mirror.
"…?" Clara stared.
Ethan didn't stop there.
The entire ride, he was restless. Mumbling. Shouting. Waving his arms. At one point he yelled something completely incoherent.
The driver finally pointed at his own head and asked carefully, "Uh… is he… okay?"
"…I don't know," Clara said honestly.
—
Half an hour later.
Clara's Apartment Complex.
The driver ended the ride with the most uncomfortable look Clara had seen all night.
She ignored it.
Ethan was out cold now, head tilted against the seat, breathing even.
For a moment, Clara seriously considered leaving him there.
Let him sleep it off. Let fate handle the rest.
She hated taking care of kids. Loud. Messy. Always grabbing things they shouldn't.
She sat there a few seconds longer.
Then sighed.
She got out first, went around, and hooked an arm under Ethan's shoulder to pull him upright.
The second she touched him—
"Smells good…" he murmured.
His eyes snapped open.
They locked.
"—What the hell, Clara Vaughn!"
He shoved her.
Clara stumbled back a step, barely catching her balance.
Before she could scold him, Ethan leaned against the car, hands raised, chanting nonsense.
"Evil spirits, go away. Evil spirits, go away…"
He repeated it several times.
Then his body went slack.
And he slid down the side of the car and fell asleep on the concrete.
Just like that.
Clara stared down at him, fury flickering across her face.
She crouched and slapped his cheek lightly. Then harder.
Nothing.
After five or six tries, she gave up.
Dragging him upright again, she half-carried, half-dragged him toward the building.
She was starting to think she owed him something from a past life.
Otherwise, why would she be dealing with this kind of student?
—
Eighth floor.
Apartment 805.
She unlocked the door with her fingerprint, guided Ethan to the entryway bench, and sat him down before changing her shoes.
He didn't need to change. She could mop later.
The moment she straightened—
Their eyes met again.
"Clara Vaughn!"
"Die already!"
"Ex—calibur! Sword of Victory!"
Ethan grabbed a nearby umbrella and swung.
Crash.
A framed painting fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.
Clara froze.
Then slowly closed her eyes.
"…I really should've left you on the street."