Transition
972 Words
The registration hall was loud, hot, and crowded. Students pushed and shuffled in long lines, clutching files, forms, and admission letters like lifelines. The scent of sweat, paper, and freshly polished floors mixed uneasily in the air.
I was half-distracted, staring at the endless queue ahead, when I saw him.
For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks again.
He stood near the exit — tall, composed, sunlight spilling across his hair like a golden halo. His profile was sharp, familiar, and utterly impossible. When he turned slightly, his eyes caught the light — azure blue, unmistakable.
My heart stuttered.
“Zane…” I breathed, barely audible.
He was there — the same calm aura, the same quiet grace I had seen in my dreams a hundred times over. But this wasn’t Luminia. This wasn’t the celestial realm. This was the university registration hall — noisy, real, and impossibly ordinary.
I tried to move toward him, pushing through the crowd, but the press of students held me back. By the time I reached the corridor, he was gone.
For the rest of the day, I told myself I had imagined it. That it was just another echo from my dreams — the final trick my mind was playing before I stepped fully into reality.
But the next morning proved me wrong.
---
Classes hadn’t even begun, yet the campus already felt alive — laughter echoing down walkways, students posing for pictures near the fountain, others dragging suitcases toward their hostels.
I was walking back from the administrative office when I saw him again.
This time, it was through the tinted window of a sleek black car parked near the faculty building. He was in the back seat, leaning against the glass, his gaze distant — lost somewhere far beyond the present world.
The car engine purred softly. I took a hesitant step forward.
And then, just like before — he was gone.
The car slipped into the distance, leaving me staring at my faint reflection on the glass door beside me.
He was real.
And suddenly, curiosity — or maybe something older, deeper — took hold of me.
---
At first, I told myself I wasn’t stalking him. I was just… curious.
But curiosity has a way of turning into gravity.
I began noticing things: the way he always walked alone after lectures, his habit of visiting the library every evening, the quiet spot he favored beneath the old maple tree in the courtyard — where he would sit for hours, staring at the sunset as if waiting for it to speak.
He moved like a man half-bound to another world. Too calm, too self-contained. Even the air around him seemed gentler, as if light itself refused to leave his presence.
Days turned into weeks, and my curiosity grew restless.
I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
The boy who looked exactly like the man from my dreams.
At first, it was innocent — simple curiosity. But curiosity has teeth, and before long, it started gnawing at me. I began following him. Watching. Waiting. Trying to find pieces of the dream in his reality.
His name was Zane Kingsley, son of one of the wealthiest families in the world — a dynasty of cold-eyed capitalists who built their empire on power and greed. Rumor had it that his father could buy an entire city and sell it before sunset.
But beneath the glamour, there was a darker story.
From everything I’d heard, Zane was arrogant, dangerous — a spoiled heir with a cruel streak. A playboy who saw women as fleeting amusements, trophies to be discarded once their shine faded.
Yet none of that matched the Zane from my dreams — the gentle immortal whose eyes held mercy instead of malice.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t stop.
---
On a certain afternoon, I found myself at the university park, half-hidden under the shade of a sycamore tree. I wore dark sunglasses, a long scarf wrapped around my head — a poor disguise, but it made me feel invisible enough.
Across the lawn, Zane sat on a bench, laughing with two friends. His posture was relaxed, confident. The kind of presence that drew attention without asking for it.
I raised my phone, pretending to check a message, and quietly took another picture. My tenth for the day — maybe the twentieth this week.
“This is crazy,” I whispered to myself, forcing a small laugh. “You’re officially a stalker now, Lillian.”
Just as I lowered my phone, I caught sight of two large men in black approaching from across the park. Their movements were too deliberate, too synchronized.
They stopped right in front of me.
“Miss Lillian,” one of them said, his voice low and even. “Our boss would like to have a little chat with you.”
I blinked, confused. “Your boss?”
They exchanged a glance. “Mr. Kingsley,” the other replied.
My pulse quickened. Zane?
“Why would he want to see me?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “I don’t even know him.”
Neither of them answered.
Instead, one stepped closer — the glint of a scar ran from his temple down to his jaw, sharp and pale against his dark skin.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said softly. “Orders are orders.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but before the words could form, he struck the side of my neck with the flat of his hand.
The world tilted.
My phone slipped from my grasp as everything blurred — colors bleeding into shadow, sounds melting into a dull hum.
The last thing I saw was Scarface reaching out to catch me as I fell, his expression unreadable.
Then — darkness.
- Writer
