The tapping of keys filled the sterile quiet of the observation room. Verity sat with her back straight, one hand poised over her keyboard, the other resting lightly on a closed folder marked Cssified – H.Luxura.

  The screen before her dispyed lines of data—metabolic rates, hematological changes, neurological adaptation charts—all anchored by one name:

  Everleigh, Hazel.

  She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Subject remains stable,” she dictated softly, recording her notes. “No signs of psychological degradation. Behavioral markers continue to suggest high cognitive retention and social adaptability. However…”

  She clicked to another file, one taken from clinic cameras. Hazel’s calm expression, the way she’d handled the blood with elegance, with reverence—it unsettled something in Verity.

  “She doesn’t just survive the virus,” Verity murmured, voice just above a whisper. “She wears it. They all do.”

  ***

  Hazel stepped into the light of the kitchen wearing a soft, deep plum turtleneck tucked into high-waisted bck trousers that framed her long legs with subtle elegance. The fabric clung just enough to hint at her form, but the overall effect was modest—graceful rather than showy.

  A tailored charcoal-gray overcoat draped over her arm, not yet worn, its lining a whisper of silk. Her hair, still damp at the ends from her morning shower, shimmered like ink under the warm lights.

  Stel blinked at her. “You look like you just stepped out of a magazine.”

  Hazel arched a brow, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Do I?”

  “Not fair,” Stel muttered, brushing crumbs from her hoodie. “I look like I crawled out of one of your nightmares.”

  “You’re radiant,” Hazel replied smoothly, stepping closer to adjust the colr of Stel’s jacket. “Even in mismatched socks.”

  “I knew it,” Stel groaned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I thought it was a statement,” Hazel said, her tone velvety with amusement.

  They left together soon after, Hazel’s coat now on her shoulders, flowing behind her with a quiet weight that matched the attention she always gathered—attention she never asked for, but never had to fight.

  The morning air carried the scent of early blossoms and damp pavement, a lingering trace of st night’s rain. Hazel walked beside Stel at an unhurried pace, the pair drawing brief gnces from students on their way to css.

  Her coat was undone now, the deep gray catching the breeze as they neared the cluster of buildings that made up the central academic block.

  “You sure you’ll be okay?” Stel asked, nudging Hazel’s arm lightly with her own. “Big crowd, bright lights, probably a few professors mentally taking notes on how not to faint.”

  Hazel tilted her head, amused. “You make it sound like a performance.”

  “Isn’t it?” Stel grinned. “You walk into a room and the temperature drops ten degrees. Everyone turns and stares.”

  Hazel’s lips curved faintly, eyes flicking toward the steps ahead. “If it’s a performance, I hope they brought tickets.”

  When they reached Stel’s cssroom door, Hazel gently nudged her toward it.

  “Go on. I’ll meet you after,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind Stel’s ear with practiced ease.

  Stel hesitated like she might say more—but then gave her a quick nod and slipped inside.

  Hazel turned and began toward her own building, boots silent against the walkway despite the low hum of students all around. As she passed beneath one of the campus breezeways, a voice called to her from just ahead.

  “Miss Everleigh?”

  She looked up to see a man approaching—a tall, salt-haired professor with wire-rimmed gsses and a sharp but not unkind expression. He walked with the careful ease of someone used to speaking to rooms full of eyes.

  “You’re Hazel Everleigh, correct?” he asked when he reached her.

  “I am,” Hazel said with a calm nod.

  “I’m Professor Darrin. You’re in my Comparative Physiology seminar.” He paused, gncing toward the building beside them. “Before we head in… I wanted to check with you first. I had pnned on a brief demonstration to illustrate reflex timing. I understand your case is… unique.”

  Hazel regarded him with a tilt of her head, the sun catching on the gold of her eyes. “You want me to participate?”

  “Only if you’re comfortable,” he said quickly. “We’re discussing adaptive response ranges today. Having you contribute could… offer perspective.”

  She considered for a moment—not out of hesitation, but because she understood the gravity of being watched, especially now.

  “I don’t mind,” Hazel said at st. “So long as it’s brief.”

  Relief flickered behind the professor’s gsses. “Thank you. And—feel free to decline on anything. I won’t press.”

  Hazel offered a polite smile. “I appreciate that.”

  Together, they entered the building. Ahead, doors opened into the spacious seminar room where her cssmates were already gathering.

  Hazel’s presence turned more than a few heads, and though she said nothing, the air around her shifted with a subtle gravity—pulling eyes, quieting voices, and reshaping the tone of the room before the lecture even began.

  Hazel took her seat near the middle of the room, setting her notebook neatly on the desk though she didn’t truly need it.

  Around her, students whispered behind cupped hands or peeked subtly over their shoulders, their curiosity poorly concealed.

  Her mere presence altered the rhythm of the space—no one wanted to be caught staring, yet no one could help but look.

  A few moments after the professor began, the door creaked open. Mia slipped in, breathless and apologetic, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. Her wide eyes scanned the rows until they met Hazel’s.

  Hazel inclined her head slightly, acknowledging her. Mia made her way toward her with a faint flush and slid into the seat beside her, trying not to draw attention but failing all the same.

  Professor Darrin looked up from the lectern, arching a brow, but continued without remark.

  “Today,” he said, tapping the whiteboard with a marker, “we’ll be examining comparative reflex responses across species. We’ve already covered most mammalian models, but in light of… recent developments, we have an opportunity to explore something far more immediate.”

  A wave of whispers broke across the css like wind on tall grass.

  “Some of you may already know Miss Hazel Everleigh,” he continued. “She’s recently rejoined us and has graciously agreed to assist with a brief demonstration. Miss Everleigh?”

  All eyes turned as Hazel rose from her seat in one fluid, unhurried motion. She walked to the front of the room without flinching under the attention, each step as quiet and composed as though she'd rehearsed them in silence.

  Mia looked nervous for her, biting her lip. Others leaned in, suddenly alert—some fascinated, some skeptical.

  Professor Darrin gestured to a simple testing apparatus set on the front table: a ruler, a pressure-sensitive board, and a device designed to track hand speed in reaction to visual prompts.

  “Let’s begin with a standard drop test,” he said. “Hold your hand above the sensor. When the light fshes, catch the object.”

  Hazel positioned herself beside the setup, lifting her hand into pce. The moment the light blinked red, the ruler fell.

  She caught it before it moved a full inch.

  A few gasps echoed across the room. The professor squinted at the sensor reading.

  “Again,” he murmured.

  The test repeated. Hazel caught it once more—this time without even looking directly at it.

  Professor Darrin exhaled a short breath. “To crify,” he said, turning to the css, “the average human response time ranges between 200 to 250 milliseconds. Miss Everleigh just recorded a response at under 60.”

  Another hum rippled through the cssroom.

  “Could you try something more... involved?” a voice called from the back. “Like movement or evasion?”

  Hazel gnced to the professor, who gave her a measured nod.

  She stepped back as he reset the table—this time with a second device, a lightweight ball rigged to shoot forward at random intervals. The goal: to dodge without foreknowledge.

  The ball unched.

  Hazel swayed to the side as if dancing. Another unch. She dipped away, barely shifting her posture.

  By the fourth test, the css was murmuring openly. A few students had started recording on their phones, though quietly. Mia’s hands were clenched tightly in her p, eyes flicking from Hazel to the glowing sensor readouts.

  “Thank you, Miss Everleigh,” Professor Darrin said, breaking the silence with calm authority. “That will suffice.”

  Hazel stepped back to her seat, expression unchanged, though she caught the looks—some impressed, others doubtful, and a few shadowed with unease.

  When she sat down, Mia leaned toward her, whispering just loud enough to be heard over the resumed lecture.

  “You made that look... too easy.”

  Hazel didn’t look at her. “That’s because it was.”

  Professor Darrin stood at the front, watching the numbers on the readout settle as Hazel returned to her seat. He folded his hands behind his back, thoughtful.

  “I want you all to consider what we’ve just seen,” he said. “We often discuss human limits in this css—how far the body can be pushed, the ceilings of cognition and reaction time. What Miss Everleigh has demonstrated today is not merely remarkable; it is revetory.”

  He turned to the board, writing out a comparison chart of average versus exceptional response ranges.

  “It’s one thing to read about viral mutation, enhanced neuromuscur output, and theoretical improvements. It’s another to see it manifest so clearly. Remember—Hemotropis luxura isn’t just a disease. It’s a restructuring. A redefinition of what a human body can do.”

  The css fell into a loaded silence.

  “And this—” he nodded slightly in Hazel’s direction, “—is just the surface.”

  He moved on to wrap up the lecture, discussing neurological re-mapping and cellur regeneration at a brisk pace, but most of the students were only half-listening now. Their eyes flicked repeatedly back to Hazel, some openly, others from the corners of their vision.

  When the css ended, chairs scraped and backpacks zipped in a staccato rhythm. Hazel calmly packed her things, entirely unbothered by the way attention clung to her like static. She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

  A small cluster of students lingered near the door, whispering.

  “I knew they could move fast, but that was insane.”

  “Did you see her eyes when the ball unched? She didn’t even blink.”

  “Yeah, well... that’s not natural. Nothing about that was.”

  Hazel passed them with a neutral smile, sharp enough to silence them without a word. The tension in the air didn’t leave—it only shifted, more cautious than before.

  She made it halfway down the hall before a girl with dark hair and a confident posture—someone who had kept mostly quiet during the demonstration—stepped up beside her.

  “That was something else,” the girl said, keeping her tone measured. “You’re like... a ballerina mixed with a weapon.”

  Hazel chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  The girl nodded, then hesitated. “Does it hurt? Being like that?”

  Hazel tilted her head. “Not anymore.”

  The girl didn’t follow after that, just watched as Hazel walked on—too graceful to be real, too poised to be entirely trusted.

  Further down the hall, a guy whispered under his breath to his friend, “I don’t care how pretty she is. That’s a damn predator.”

  Hazel didn’t stop walking. But she heard it. And her smile, briefly, lost a touch of warmth.

  Mia caught up moments ter, breathless again. “People are kind of freaking out. You okay?”

  Hazel gnced at her sidelong. “Should I not be?”

  “No, I mean—yeah, you’re fine. It’s just... they don’t know what to do with you.”

  Hazel’s smile returned, this time knowingly. “They don’t have to.”