Four Roommates

The third night at Blackthorne Academy laid down a bone-chilling fog that cut straight to the marrow. Room 104 was soaked in a pale, murky gray glow cast by the lonely storm lantern out in the rain-slicked yard, where the steady patter of water tapped against the windowpane of the arched window fitted with iron bars. Past the seventh bell, the entire dormitory entered a total shutdown, with not a single oil lamp permitted to be lit.

Ronald Fisk lay curled up in his blanket, but his eyes were wide open, staring fixedly up into the darkness of the ceiling. He turned toward Cassian, speaking non-stop in an urgent whisper, as though his chest might burst if he didn't let it out:

"The Chosen... they've got privileges we couldn't even dream of. I heard upperclassmen whispering that they get to go home mid-semester. Every week they even get fresh meat for Sunday dinner. And most importantly... they aren't bound by the Night Law at all. They can freely walk the hallways past seven p.m. without fearing whatever is hunting out in the dark."

From the adjacent bed, Karl Brandt let out a cold, dismissive scoff. Resting his chin on his hand, Karl was meticulously wiping every smudge off the iron bed frame with a towel:

"Stop talking nonsense, Fisk. Your mindset never strays far from chicken thighs and stupid freshman ghost stories."

Adjusting his posture, Karl spoke in a scholarly tone, as fluidly as if reading straight from an Academy history textbook:

"The Prefects and 'The Chosen' were established back in 1902 under Headmaster Reginald Sterling. The original goal was to create a self-governing elite among students with noble bloodlines and outstanding academic records. They represent the order and discipline of Blackthorne. Their curfew exemption is designed so they can carry out monitoring duties, not so they can go joyriding at night like you're imagining."

Albert Sterling, sitting with his knees pulled up at the corner of his bed while clutching his ceramic jar with both hands, suddenly let out a sharp snort. He pushed his thick glasses all the way up the bridge of his nose, declaring in a haughty, pompous tone:

"Why bother talking so much? The reality is that some people... are destined from birth to be 'The Chosen'."

Albert shot Cassian a look of raw contempt, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth:

"My family, the Sterlings, have our name engraved on the bronze plaque in the main hall. Meanwhile, some people... only set foot in here because their own father signed papers selling them off. No matter how hard they try, they'll spend their whole lives serving as nothing more than worm food."

Cassian gritted his teeth hard, his knuckles popping as his fists tightened. He turned his face toward the stone wall, forcing down the rage boiling in his chest to keep from lunging over and tearing Albert's arrogant face apart.

Throughout the three-way debate, Leo remained completely silent. He lay on his side on the bed right by the window, his back pressed against the freezing stone wall, looking almost like a permanent fixture of this grim Gothic architecture. Ever since Cassian had walked into Room 104, Leo hadn't uttered more than five words.

Cassian shifted on the scratchy straw mattress. A rusty iron bar protruding from the corner of the bed frame suddenly jabbed deep into the edge of his hand.

"Agh..."

Cassian clamped his lips tight, suppressing a groan of pain. A deep gash had opened across his palm, fresh blood instantly welling up and dripping onto the hem of his gray cloak. Cassian hurriedly used his sleeve to press tight against the wound, green veins bulging along his wrist.

Right at that second, a soft, padded object flew through the quiet dark air and landed with a quiet thud right on Cassian's chest. It was a cotton handkerchief, ash-white, clean, and neatly pressed.

Startled, Cassian looked up. Leo had already tucked his hand back under his thin blanket, turning his back toward him, his face pressed close to the stone wall as though nothing had happened. The motion of tossing the handkerchief was swift, quiet, and offered without a single word of explanation.

Cassian looked down at the handkerchief in his hand, then at Leo's motionless back. This tiny yet strange act of help from someone who constantly kept a deadpan face stirred a deep sense of suspicion in his heart.

"Thanks," Cassian whispered softly as he wrapped his bleeding hand tight, but Leo didn't move or offer a response.

Seeing Cassian busy with his injury, Ronald slid back over to sit near the edge of his bed. Ronald's eyes were filled with the relentless curiosity of a restless kid:

"Hey Hale... how come you enrolled two weeks later than the main schedule? The kids in the other class said you're a special late-addition case."

"My mom's in the hospital," Cassian wrapped the knot on the handkerchief tight, his voice clipped and ice-cold.

Ronald blinked, hesitating:

"What happened to her? Can't you call home to check on her?"

Karl poked his chin up from the other bed, chiming in with an authoritative, warning tone:

"It's useless, Fisk. Blackthorne rules demand total isolation of information. Once you step through that iron gate, no news gets in or out from the outside world. Mail is censored, devices are confiscated. Even if he cries his eyes out, his mom won't hear a thing."

Ronald waited for Karl to turn away, then leaned in close to Cassian's ear, whispering in a voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz:

"Actually... there's still a way."

Cassian froze, his sharp eyes snapping around to look at Ronald:

"What way?"

"Old man Pike," Ronald whispered, his eyes darting covertly toward the room door. "The old mail guard in the wooden shack by the western fence. He sorts the mail and supplies sent in by the postal truck. I heard a few upperclassmen say... he takes off-the-books letters to send outside."

Right at that moment, from the black stone chapel tower, that bizarre hymn began to rise once again. The mournful sound slithered through the thick fog, creeping through the cracked wooden door, and filling Room 104. Countless voices blended together—warped, raspy, chanting in that distorted Latin.

Albert Sterling suddenly went blank, his eyes behind his thick glasses turning strangely vacant. His lips began to mechanically mutter along with the bizarre syllables drifting in from outside:

"Sanguis... limen... custodi..."

Karl Brandt bolted upright immediately, waving his hand and barking in a panicked tone:

"Shut your mouth right now, Albert! Are you out of your mind? Don't sing along!"

Albert violently snapped out of it, as if waking from a nightmare. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, his face drained of all color, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. He hurriedly slammed his hands over his ears and buried his head deep under his blanket, frantically chanting Catholic prayers under his breath to ward off the horror.

Cassian took in every detail of Albert's dazed, terrified expression. He committed each subtle detail to memory: Albert's strange trance and Karl's knee-jerk outburst of fear. Clearly, this hymn wasn't just a local religious ritual—it held a form of dark magic or toxic psychological manipulation that terrified every kid here.

The chanting gradually faded, yielding to the steady patter of the night rain. Ronald leaned back in close to Cassian's ear, picking up the unfinished story from earlier in a deadly serious tone:

"Old man Pike has as many as ten old burner phones hidden under the floorboards of his wooden shack. He rents them out by the minute... or takes uncensored mail. But he's not doing charity work. Do you have any cash?"

Cassian went quiet for a beat. He reached down into the bottom pocket of his faded jeans—the only thing he still kept from Iowa. His fingers brushed against crumpled bills, damp with sweat. He pulled them out, counting quickly in the dim gloom: a twenty-dollar bill, a ten, a five, and three loose ones. His entire remaining net worth in this world: exactly 38 dollars.

Cassian squeezed the 38 dollars tight in his palm along with the slip of paper with the Mercy Hospital ICU number. He looked at Ronald and gave a slow nod:

"I have money. What time does Pike work?"