Saturday.
07:00 — Drill Grounds, St. Bernard's Academy
But rewind.
06:30 — Northwest Girls' Housing, Room 314
The buzzer blared like an air raid siren. Sharp. Unforgiving. Cruel.
The room looked like a battlefield from a war no one remembered joining.
Zuri was half-on, half-off Tessa—diagonally stretched across the bed with one knee jammed into the hardwood floor and the other elbow deep in Tessa's hair. Tessa, in turn, had her pajama top halfway up her back. Her glasses were nowhere in sight.
Alia was upside down on her own bed, long legs kicked up against the wall, hair in disarray, her hoodie bunched up at the neck like a noose. An empty ramyeon bowl was tipped beside her pillow—licked clean. No shame, no crumbs, just the whisper of sodium and regret.
The second buzzer hit.
Zuri jerked awake and blinked at the ceiling like it betrayed her. She groaned something guttural. Her knee made a sound that should've been illegal.
Tessa's eyes cracked open behind puffy lids.
"…What day is it," she croaked.
Alia slid her legs off the wall like they were made of cement.
"Judgement," she murmured.
The three of them moved with the coordination of crash test dummies. They bumped shoulders, swapped towels in silence, passed deodorant like contraband. No one said anything beyond half-hummed curses and monosyllabic noises of pain.
"Mmfh?" Zuri asked, pointing at her knees.
"Yeah," Alia grunted. "Red. Like, marooned in hell red."
Tessa opened her drawer and stared inside like it owed her rent.
"…My glasses are gone," she whispered.
Zuri chucked a spare contact case at her. It hit her forehead.
They dressed in record slow-motion. Alia gagged mid-shirt change.
"I swear I ate like four people last night…"
"Ugh," Zuri replied, wringing her hair into a bun.
Tessa blinked both eyes open, now sporting one contact.
"Left lens' in my hand. I think I dropped the right one."
No one moved to help.
By 06:58, they were standing in front of the mirror looking like the bootleg, post-war version of their usual selves. Dark circles. Bedhead. Pain.
They left the room at 07:00 sharp.
They didn't walk to drills.
They limped. Like gladiators.
Four hours to go.
God help them all.
---
12:23 PM — Northwest Girls' Housing
They didn't crawl back to their rooms.
But it was close.
The halls echoed with pained groans, shuffling slippers, the occasional "I can't feel my spine," and girls leaning against walls like post-apocalyptic survivors. Every room they passed was filled with the low hum of weekend chaos—curling irons hissing, gossip spilling, bowls clinking in the kitchen.
The common room looked like a battlefield of fleece blankets and twisted socks. Someone had collapsed mid-stretch on the carpet. The laundry room door creaked open and a cloud of steam puffed out like a dramatic sigh.
Zuri paused.
"Weekends here are like some kinda girl cult fallout."
Alia snorted, toeing her boots off.
"Better than weekdays executions."
Tessa groaned something about losing a toenail as she flopped face–down into her pillow.
After a half-hearted debate over who was showering first (Zuri won), they took turns freshening up, then immediately returned to their comfort zones: blankets, oversized hoodies, and stretchy pants.
And then–it began.
The candy heist.
With quiet grins and slightly bruised egos, they plotted their attack on the vending machine on Level Two. Zuri typed in a few codes Alia pretended not to recognize, and soon their little hoard of sugar–gummies, strawberry wafers, sour belts, gum, and three kinds of chocolate–was piled on the bed between them like contraband.
They ate like they hadn't had flavor in months. Tessa chewed until her jaw hurt. Alia popped sour candy like they were pills. Zuri bit a wafer and closed her eyes like it was a religious experience.
Their beds looked like nests of girlhood. Empty wrappers. Open notebooks. Phones with cracked screens. Lip gloss tubes. One lost sock.
Then Tessa's phone buzzed. Loud. Startling.
Zuri turned slowly.
"If that's a protocol alert, I'm setting this bed on fire."
Tessa blinked down at her screen.
"It's Malik."
Zuri raised a brow.
Alia leaned in without shame.
Tessa picked up.
"Hey…" she said, suddenly all soft-voiced and girlish.
Malik's voice came in low, slightly crackling on speaker.
"Hey, T. You good? Thought I'd check in. Saw y'all at drills. You looked like someone beat you with a textbook."
Alia slapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a snort.
Tessa blushed. Visibly. Instantly. She became a tomato in 4K.
"We survived," she said, voice lilting with a shy giggle. "Barely."
Zuri mouthed, barely?
Malik laughed on the other end.
"Tell your roommates I said hi."
Alia, with a mouth full of sour strings:
"Hi Malik."
Zuri:
"You're lucky she still has teeth to say 'hi' with."
Tessa buried her face in a pillow.
"Ignore them."
Malik chuckled.
"I'll let you rest. Just wanted to say hi."
"Okay," she whispered, biting a smile. "Thanks for calling."
Call ended.
Three seconds passed in perfect silence.
Then—
"YOU SOOO LIKE HIMMMM," Alia sang, immediately dramatic.
"Tomato girl confirmed," Zuri said.
Tessa buried deeper into her blanket cave.
"Leave me alone!"
"No can do," Alia said, tossing a wrapper at her. "We've been waiting for this subplot to kick off!"
"And it's kicking hard," Zuri added. "He called just to check in. That's boyfriend-coded behavior."
Tessa groaned again, but this time it was from being emotionally flustered, not physically ruined.
The candy pile grew smaller. The room got warmer. The laughter stayed.
Saturday afternoons in the Northwest Housing were sacred.
They were loud, soft, dumb, dramatic. They were safety.
And Alia, despite everything lingering in the back of her mind—Carmen, Cade, Dualism—let herself enjoy it.
For now.
---
Saturday Evening.
17:38 — The Stack, Top Floor
Zuri had somehow—somehow—convinced them to study. She claimed it was "necessary preparation" for Sunday's Weekly Assessment, which affected all students regardless of year. Alia, for one, thought the assessments were glorified academic Hunger Games, but even she couldn't deny the weight they carried on rankings.
So by 19:14, the three of them had wandered into The Stack–St. Bernard's ancient library-meets-cathedral of knowledge, with its ten towering floors, mechanical ladders, wrought-iron railings, and soft, eternal smell of old paper and ink.
They climbed to the top floor because Zuri claimed it had "better silence" (which was code for "fewer distractions"). And it did. The windows up here filtered in golden dusk light. Dust floated in the air like secret codes waiting to be read.
Alia and Zuri busied themselves browsing rows of spines—flipping through theory books on House Law, Strategy, and Inter-House Diplomacy. Occasionally, they'd point to a line in a book and scoff together like the baddies they were.
Tessa, on the other hand, had started spacing out halfway through the second shelf. She leaned her elbows on the wooden bannister that overlooked the entire Stack like a queen surveying her loyal (and tired) subjects.
That was when she saw it.
"Wait," she said, squinting. "Why is Carmen barefoot?"
Zuri and Alia froze.
"What?"
"She's like… down there. Walking. Barefoot."
That got their attention. Both girls darted toward her side, crowding around the bannister like nosy pigeons on a ledge.
Alia leaned dangerously over, elbows planted, eyes squinting.
Zuri folded her arms across the rail, posture perfect and judging.
And there she was.
Carmen.
Walking slowly between the lower rows, a book in one hand, the other ghosting along the tops of the shelves like she was tracing invisible lines. Her boots—identifiable, black, tall—were tucked under one of the long reading tables. She was barefoot. No socks. Just the quiet slap of skin against wood floor. The moment looked almost… sacred.
"Maybe she's casting a spell," Alia whispered. "Like a foot-based summoning ritual."
"Or she's trying to leave behind DNA for the Archivist to clone her," Zuri offered.
"Maybe she's a fae," Tessa whispered, eyes wide. "That would explain everything."
They were not quiet.
And unfortunately… Carmen looked up.
Their souls leapt out of their bodies. For a full second, all three of them flattened back against the bookcase like poorly-trained spies in a rom-com.
"She saw us," Zuri hissed. "You definitely cackled, Alia. You gave us away."
"She didn't see me," Alia defended, cheeks hot. "I was under the bannister line."
"No you weren't. You were doing lean in, elbows out, head tilt."
"Classic nosy stance," Tessa said.
"Says the one who spotted her first," Alia accused.
They bickered all the way down the stairs.
By the time they'd gathered their books and reached the exit, Zuri checked her pocket watch and groaned.
"We have like, six hours left to cram. I say we head to the common room, review everything while chewing gummy bears, then collapse by midnight."
"Agreed," Tessa yawned.
But as they passed through the exit, Alia paused.
"You guys go ahead," she said, casually stepping back. "I just… forgot something. Gonna check one more thing."
Zuri narrowed her eyes.
"Check what?"
"A thing. Just go."
"You're being weird."
"That's literally my brand."
Zuri snorted, but relented.
"Don't take too long. If I have to cover your turn with the flashcards, I'm rigging them to all be about taxes."
They left.
And Alia turned.
The Stack was quiet again. Whisper-quiet. Her boots padded softly against the floor as she descended one level, glancing around corners like a girl half-curious, half-masochist.
And sure enough, Carmen was still there.
Now seated at one of the long tables, legs folded underneath her, book splayed open before her. Her boots still sat neatly under the table, forgotten. Her hair was loosely braided, and the collar of her shirt was slightly askew. The million-dollar chain glinted from beneath it.
Alia watched for a second too long.
Then turned, pretending to browse another shelf.
But that image stayed with her: Carmen, barefoot, serene, untouchable. And for some reason, it made her heart twist in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine or sugar or drills.
She wasn't sure what it was.
But it had weight.