Marked by Monsters

Limits

Shiloh kept her head down because that was the only way to move through the building without being seen, without being called out, without becoming a story that other people told between classes.

Her folder was pressed to her chest like armor, her steps were quick and even, and she counted the tiles under her shoes because if she counted she wouldn’t have to listen to the way people whispered when she passed them in the corridor.

“Beltran!”

The voice cracked across the hallway like a slap, and it was loud in the way that was meant to make everyone stop and turn, which they did.

Stacy Monreal stood there with her group behind her, all of them in perfectly pressed uniforms and shoes that cost more than Shiloh’s monthly allowance, their bags slung over shoulders like they owned the building, and Stacy’s smile was the kind that never reached her eyes.

Shiloh didn’t stop walking, because stopping meant this would take longer.

Stacy moved anyway, cutting across the hall with two steps and planting herself directly in Shiloh’s path, arms crossed, chin lifted. “I’m talking to you.”

The hallway went quiet the way it always did when Stacy decided to make a scene, because everyone knew that Stacy Monreal’s father donated to the new business wing and that meant teachers looked the other way.

“What?” Shiloh said, because pretending she hadn’t heard would only make Stacy louder.

“Did you even turn in the group report, or did you just decide that the rest of us should carry you again?” Stacy asked, her voice dripping with something that was supposed to sound like concern but came out as mockery. “Because we got a 75, and that’s because you didn’t do your part.”

“It wasn’t my part,” Shiloh said evenly, though her fingers tightened around the folder until the edges bit into her palms. “Check the submission file. My section was uploaded on Tuesday.”

Stacy laughed, and it was a sharp, ugly sound that bounced off the lockers. “Right. The scholarship girl who thinks she’s better than everyone because she works at night and doesn’t have to come to parties.”

Someone behind Stacy snorted, and another girl whispered “freak” just loud enough to be heard.

Shiloh stepped to the side, trying to go around her, because she had a quiz in twenty minutes and she hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and she didn’t have time for this.

Stacy’s hand shot out and grabbed Shiloh’s arm, nails digging in through the thin fabric of her polo, and the touch was hot and wrong. “I’m not done talking to you.”

Shiloh stopped, and when she looked down at the hand on her arm and then back up at Stacy, her eyes were gray and empty in a way that made two of the girls behind Stacy take half a step back.

“Let go,” Shiloh said, and her voice was quiet, but it carried.

“Or what?” Stacy leaned in, close enough that Shiloh could smell her perfume, sweet and expensive. “You gonna cry? You gonna call your boss at the night market? Oh wait, you don’t have a real job, do you? You just sweep floors and count coins for people who actually matter.”

Something in Shiloh’s chest pulled tight, because for three years she had swallowed every word, every rumor, every “she doesn’t eat in the cafeteria” and “she’s always awake” and “what is wrong with her,” and she had learned how to breathe through it, how to count to ten, how to walk away.

But she was exhausted in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix, her body was running on coffee and spite, and her hands were shaking in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“Last warning,” Shiloh said, and even she could hear how thin her voice sounded.

Stacy grinned, because she thought quiet meant weak. “What are you gonna—”

She shoved Shiloh, hard, with both hands, and the back of Shiloh’s shoulders hit the metal lockers with a sound that made the whole hallway flinch.

The folder slipped from Shiloh’s hands and hit the floor, and pages scattered everywhere, and the noise in the hallway seemed to disappear all at once, like someone had turned the volume down.

All Shiloh could hear was her own heartbeat, too fast, too loud, and her vision narrowed until all she could see was the faint sheen of sweat on Stacy’s neck and the quick, irritated pulse at the base of her throat.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and her nails, which she kept trimmed short, suddenly felt too long, too sharp, and she took one step forward before she even realized she had moved.

---

“Ms. Monreal.”

The voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm and low and completely uninterested in being ignored.

Stacy spun around, and the smugness fell off her face immediately. “Professor Silas?”

Silas Varela.

New professor. Economics 301. He wore a black coat even in the heat, and his hair was always neat, and he had a way of looking at students that made them feel like he could see straight through their excuses.

He walked between them without hurrying, without raising his voice, and he didn’t look at Shiloh at all, which was worse somehow, because it meant he was choosing to deal with Stacy first.

“Is there a problem here?” Silas asked, and it wasn’t really a question.

Stacy straightened instantly, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “No, sir. We were just talking. It’s nothing.”

“Picking on a classmate in the middle of the hallway is not nothing,” Silas said, and his eyes finally flicked to Shiloh, just for a second, before returning to Stacy. “In my hallway.”

“It was her fault,” Stacy said quickly. “She started it. She always acts like—”

Silas held up one hand, and Stacy stopped talking.

He looked at Shiloh then, really looked, and Shiloh was still breathing too hard, her hands still at her sides, her papers still on the floor.

“Pick up your things, Ms. Beltran,” Silas said, and his tone wasn’t unkind, but it was firm in a way that didn’t allow for argument.

Shiloh knelt slowly, gathering the scattered pages with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling, and she didn’t know why her body was reacting like this when she hadn’t even done anything yet.

When she stood, Silas was already holding the door to Econ 301 open, his expression unreadable. “Come in. Both of you.”

---

Stacy sat in the front row with her arms crossed, looking like she had already won.

Shiloh sat in the very last row, staring at her shoes, because looking at anything else felt dangerous.

Silas closed the door behind them, and the click of the latch sounded too loud in the quiet room. He didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against it instead, arms folded, watching them both.

“Ms. Monreal,” Silas said. “Apologize.”

“What? Sir, she—”

“Apologize. Now,” Silas interrupted. “Or I send the CCTV footage from the hallway to the dean, along with my written report, and we can discuss academic integrity and student conduct for the next hour.”

Stacy’s face went red, and she looked down at her desk. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Louder,” Silas said, without raising his voice.

“Sorry!” Stacy snapped, and then she was out of the room before the door had even finished closing behind her.

Silence settled over the classroom, heavy and thick.

Silas turned then, and walked toward Shiloh, but he didn’t come too close. He stopped a few feet away and crouched so that he was at eye level with her while she was still sitting.

“You’re shaking,” Silas observed quietly.

Shiloh didn’t answer, because if she opened her mouth she wasn’t sure what would come out.

“Are you hurt?” Silas asked.

“No,” Shiloh managed.

Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze moving over her face, her hands, the way she was holding herself like she was bracing for another hit. “I’ve seen that look before,” he said, very softly. “Like you’re standing on the edge of something and you’re not sure if you want to step back or jump.”

Shiloh looked up then, because she didn’t like being read so easily. “I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

“Weren’t you?” Silas asked, and there was no judgment in the question, only curiosity.

Shiloh didn’t answer, because she didn’t know the answer.

Silas stood and walked to the whiteboard, where he wrote in neat, precise letters: *Office Hours: MWF 4-6pm. Room 204.*

“If they bother you again, you come here,” Silas said without turning around. “You don’t handle it alone. Not anymore.”

Shiloh stood, clutching her folder to her chest again. “Thank you, sir.”

She was almost to the door when his voice stopped her.

“Shiloh.”

She turned back.

“You have potential,” Silas said, and for the first time his expression softened, just a little. “More than any of them in this building. Don’t waste it on people who will never understand what it costs you to be here.”

Shiloh nodded once, because she didn’t trust herself to speak, and then she left.

Silas watched her go, and when the door closed he pulled his phone from his pocket. The hallway outside was empty.

He typed a message and stared at it for a long time before he deleted it without sending.

On the whiteboard, he underlined the word “potential” twice, and then he erased it.

---

Shiloh was behind the counter, counting cash with hands that were steady now, logging each amount in the book with careful, deliberate strokes.

Lena was wiping down the coffee machine, but her eyes kept drifting to Shiloh. “Rough day at school?”

“Stacy,” Shiloh said, because that was explanation enough.

Lena frowned. “That girl again? I told you to tell Dax if she kept—”

“New professor stopped it,” Shiloh interrupted. “Professor Silas. From Economics.”

Lena’s hand stilled on the rag. “Silas?”

“Yeah,” Shiloh said. “He’s... okay, I guess. He told me to go to his office if it happens again.”

Lena didn’t say anything for a long time. She just went back to cleaning, but her movements were slower now.

Shiloh finished her shift at 6am, went home, and slept for three hours before her first class.

---

Shiloh hadn’t planned to go to office hours, but Stacy’s friends had been waiting outside her last class, and the fastest way to avoid them was to take the long route through the faculty building.

Silas was there, alone, grading papers at his desk, and he looked up when she knocked.

“Ms. Beltran,” Silas said, and he sounded genuinely pleased to see her. “I was hoping you would come.”

“I just needed somewhere to sit for a while,” Shiloh admitted.

“Sit,” Silas said, and he gestured to the chair across from him before pushing a cup of coffee across the desk. It was black, no sugar, the way she drank it when she could afford it.

Shiloh took a sip. It tasted like nothing, but the warmth helped.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” Silas said. “But I can help. With Stacy. With the others. With anything you need.”

Shiloh looked at him, really looked, and tried to figure out what he wanted from her. “Why?”

Silas smiled, small and sharp. “Because students like you are rare. Students who work twice as hard and still come to class and still get perfect scores. That’s worth protecting.”

He didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t ask any more questions.

When Shiloh left, the hallway was empty, and for the first time in months she didn’t feel like someone was waiting to trip her.

In Room 204, Silas stood at the window and looked out over the city, over the lights of the market in the distance, and he whispered one word to the empty room.

“Soon.”