Death isn't an option

By the time I cross the quad with my friends, preparing for my next year at uni, my shirt is plastered to my back and I’m ninety percent sure the sun is trying to kill me. “Welcome back to higher education,” Ian says, shifting the box in his arms. Ian's been my best friend since childhood--I can't remember a time where we weren't doing almost everything together. “Come for the degree, stay for the heat stroke.” “You’re the one who made us park in the cheap lot,” I say. “This is on you.” He snorts, dark hair falling into his eyes as he squints at the orientation signs ahead. They’re taped to lamp posts and trees—bold arrows, smiley faces, little slogans about “the journey beginning now.” Students swarm past us in a tide of backpacks and plastic totes. Parents hover. An RA in a neon shirt is yelling something about name tags. On my other side, Talia is vibrating. “Oh my god, look at that setup,” she says, pointing her phone toward the cluster of booths by the student center. “They have a rock wall. And a DJ. And a photo booth. June, we’re doing the photo booth.” “Pass,” I say. “You don’t get a vote,” she tells me. Talia's always been like this; quick to have fun, and she doesn't always adhere to common sense. “This is our first official day as juniors. We’re obligated to commemorate it with bad lighting and stupid props.” “Those are the rules,” Ian agrees solemnly. “Pretty sure the rules only apply to freshmen,” I say. “Emotionally, I’m a freshman,” Talia says. “I’m new here. I want the full cliché. Sweat, regret, and pizza grease.” She’s not technically new—we all transferred here this year—but she’s committed to the bit. She’s in a cropped university tee and high-waisted shorts, curls piled on top of her head, eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. If the DJ cranks the volume even a little, she’ll be the first one dancing. I, on the other hand, am here in a plain tank top, oversize flannel, and jeans, already thinking about how long I have to be social before I can go back to my dorm and sit in the quiet. “Safety briefing’s in ten,” Ian says, nodding toward the big brick building that looks like it used to be a church and now hosts intro psych and mandatory orientations. “They’re making it sound like we’ll be expelled if we skip.” “Free pizza after,” Talia says. “You can endure anything for free pizza. That’s just science.” We fall into the stream of bodies moving toward the building. The closer we get, the louder it is—voices bouncing off stone, laughter, the thump of bass from somewhere behind us. Someone drops a box; someone else swears. An orientation leader claps loudly, corralling people toward the double doors. A siren wails in the distance, high and thin. My shoulders lock before I can stop them. The hair on my arms stands up, and for a split second I’m not on a campus in late August. I’m seventeen again, blinking at warped metal and flashing red lights, trying to breathe around a crushed chest and strangers’ hands and— “Hey.” Ian’s voice cuts in, steady and low. A familiar hand brushes my elbow. “You good?” he asks. The siren drains away, swallowed by trees and buildings. I let out a slow breath. Force my shoulders to drop. “Fine,” I say. “It's just... loud.” His eyes stay on me a second longer than I like. He knows me too well. Childhood best friend, co-conspirator, the boy whose parents let me move into their guest room for a year when the world fell apart. He’d seen me on morphine and in a wheelchair and in his mom’s borrowed sweaters when all my clothes still smelled like hospital and smoke. He knows “fine” in my voice doesn’t always mean fine. “Orientation will be over quickly,” he says, which is a bald-faced lie but a kind one. Talia glances between us, awareness flickering across her face, then tilts her phone back up. “Okay, but after the boring part, we’re doing everything,” she says. “Clubs, booths, frat flyers—” “I draw the line at frat flyers,” I say. “We’ll see,” she sings. We’re swept up through the doors into cool, recycled air. The building swallows the sun; the overhead lights are a little too bright, the hallway a little too narrow. Volunteers with lanyards and fake smiles wave us toward the auditorium. Inside, the space is already half full. Rows of chairs fan out from a small stage flanked by big screens. The air hums with chatter and the soft thuds of people bumping knees and bags. I clock three exits without meaning to: the main doors behind us, two smaller ones on either side of the stage. I angle toward the end of a row near the far aisle. Ian doesn’t say anything about it. He never does. He just follows, sliding into the seat beside mine. Talia drops into the next one over, tossing her tote under the chair and stretching her legs out like she owns the place. “Ugh, this is going to take forever,” she mutters. “Who wants to hear old people talk about rules?” “Some of us respect rules,” Ian says. “Some of us have personalities,” she shoots back. I lean back, letting their bickering wash over me, and look up at the stage. A banner stretches across the back wall: WELCOME TO GREYSTONE UNIVERSITY in bold, institutional letters. Someone has tried to soften it with fairy lights. It almost works... but the scene is a bit too imposing for my liking. This is it, I tell myself. My life's chapter three. Chapter one was growing up in a nice, normal house with parents who believed in things like family dinners and saving for college and arguing over curfews. Chapter two was the differentiator between before and after. Twisted metal, hospital ceilings, and a sternum cut open and wired back together. One year in Ian’s house, learning how to walk uphill without gasping and how to sleep in a bed that wasn’t mine. Chapter three is supposed to be different. Not better—nothing is better than what I had—but something that isn’t just grief and recovery. A campus in another town, a major that isn’t what I originally planned, a chance to be something other than the girl whose parents died on the highway. I smooth my hand down the front of my tank top, fingertips catching on the faint ridge under the fabric. Scar tissue. The doctors said the tightness and nerve twinges would fade with time. Three years later, it still feels like a thin, inflexible line right over my heart, a seam that never quite softened. The lights dim. Conversations taper off. The glow of phones blinks out in patches as people shove them into pockets. A woman in a blazer walks onto the stage to polite applause, smiling with all her teeth. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she says into the mic. Her voice booms overhead through the speakers. “Welcome to Greystone.” She introduces herself as the Vice President of Student Affairs and launches into the standard speech: diversity, opportunity, resources. A slideshow clicks through photos of students in lab coats and on hiking trails and in front of whiteboards with too many equations. Talia whispers commentary about the hotness of various upperclassmen in the photos. Ian occasionally huffs a quiet laugh. I try to pay attention and fail. My mind drifts, as it always does, to dumb details. How long the emergency exit signs would stay lit if the power went out. How many chairs would block the aisle if everyone got up at once. How fast I could get Ian and Talia to the door if something—anything—went wrong. I tell myself it’s just caution. That if you’ve already lived through one worst-case scenario, your brain overcorrects. I don’t tell myself it’s weird, even though I know it is. “And now,” the VP says, “I want to speak about something that matters more than any exam or extracurricular. Your safety.” The word drops into the room like a stone into water. Heads lift. Everyone's attention sharpens. “We know the world can be a scary place,” she continues. “But here at Greystone, we take your well-being seriously. You are not alone on this campus. You are part of a community, and we are committed to protecting you.” My fingers tighten around the edge of the seat. “We have invested heavily in new systems, protocols, and partnerships,” she says. “Because you are safe here. We will do everything in our power to keep you safe.” The ache hits like a thumb pressed hard into my sternum. I suck in a breath. Pain lances through the line of the scar—quick, sharp, too precise to be random. For half a heartbeat the air feels thick, sound going slightly muffled, as if someone has thrown a blanket over the room. On stage, the VP’s voice warps and then snaps back into clarity. Something flutters at the edge of my vision. A shimmer between her and the crowd, almost like a fine strand of spider silk catching the light and then vanishing when I blink. I press my palm flat against my chest, fingertips finding the ridge beneath cotton. Nerve weirdness, I tell myself. Phantom pain. Nothing. The part of me that remembers metal crumpling like paper mutters, No one can promise that. “Hey,” Ian whispers, leaning closer. “You okay?” “Yeah. Just… scar being annoying.” I keep my gaze on the stage. “It does that sometimes in new chairs.” “Your scar has opinions now?” he murmurs. I huff a laugh I don’t quite feel. “Apparently.” He watches me one more beat, then leans back. I drag my hand away from my chest and rest it on my thigh. The VP wraps up with a joke that gets a polite ripple of laughter, then clears the stage. “And to tell you more about those new systems,” she says, “please welcome our campus safety liaison and partner in this initiative, Mr. Knox Graves.” The name hits something in the back of my brain. Graves. The syllable lands heavy, like it should mean something. It doesn’t. Just morbid coincidence. A man walks out onto the stage. He doesn’t look like he belongs here. He’s in a dark suit that fits like it was made for him, not pulled off a rack. Broad shoulders, tall, easy posture. No nervous fidget, no overdone smile for the kids. His dark hair is neatly cut, jaw clean-shaven, expression composed in a way that makes my spine straighten without my permission. He steps up to the podium. The lights catch on the metal of his watch when he adjusts the mic. “Afternoon,” he says. His voice is low. Not booming, not theatrically warm. Just steady, unhurried, somehow filling the room without effort. The murmur in the crowd dies down a notch without anyone being told to quiet. “I’m Knox Graves,” he says. “My company manages campus security and infrastructure for Greystone and several other institutions in the region. I’m here to give you a quick overview of how we intend to keep this place as boring as possible.” A scatter of laughter. The corner of his mouth tips up, barely. “If your time here is uneventful,” he says, “we’re doing our job.” He talks about practical things: emergency call boxes, night shuttles, patrol routes. The big screens flash infographics—numbers, heat maps, icons. He mentions an app that lets you hit a panic button that summons campus police or escorts. He doesn’t pace or gesture much. He just talks, hands loose on either side of the podium, and it feels weirdly like he owns the stage, the room, the air. I feel the moment his gaze hits me. One second he’s scanning the crowd in general, the next his attention pins to my row. To my seat. To me. My pulse stutters. He doesn’t look away. His eyes meet mine, and it’s like the rest of the noise falls a few feet back. Those eyes are cool, assessing, some shade I can’t read from this distance—dark, maybe, or just shadowed by the lights. Not hungry, not leering. Just… intent. There’s nothing strictly inappropriate about it. He isn’t ogling. He isn’t smiling. He’s just looking, like he’s cataloging something. My skin prickles anyway. Heat climbs up my throat into my cheeks. Look away, I tell myself. I don’t. Something else tightens, lower in my stomach; an unwelcome, traitorous response. Great. Perfect. Exactly what I need: my body deciding that the intense older man in a suit giving a safety briefing is worth noticing. As if on cue, Knox shifts his gaze on, down the row, back across the room. The spell—if that’s what it was—breaks. I exhale, realize I’d been holding it. Ian leans in. “New crush?” he whispers. “Shut up,” I mutter, perhaps too fast. Talia, on my other side, is oblivious, engrossed in her phone under the lip of her bag. “Because if you’re going for older men now, we need to have a budget talk,” Ian continues under his breath. “That watch alone probably costs more than my car.” “That’s not hard,” I say. “Your car is held together by tape and vibes.” He smothers a laugh. I stare resolutely at the screen, not at the man on stage. Knox doesn’t joke much. He doesn’t need to. When he talks about not walking alone into the wooded areas at night, he doesn’t smile. When he mentions “local wildlife,” there’s a flicker in his tone no one else seems to catch. “If you see any large animals on the outskirts of campus,” he says, “do not approach. Do not try to take pictures. Call campus security immediately.” A couple of students snicker. Someone mutters something about frat guys. He doesn’t react. My scar twinges again, faintly this time. Not pain—more like pressure, an awareness. I press my hand flat against my chest again. Tell myself it’s just the AC blowing too cold on old scar tissue. Tell myself he’s just another authority figure making big promises and bigger threats. The safety overview wraps faster than I expect. He ends with, “If you remember nothing else, remember this: your instincts matter. If something feels wrong, get somewhere safe and call us. We’d rather respond to a false alarm than miss a real one.” He says it like he’s seen what happens when people don’t. “Thank you,” he finishes. No smile, no bow. Just a short nod before he steps away from the podium to muted applause. I realize my hands are gripping the underside of the seat. I loosen them, flex my fingers. “Okay, that was… intense,” Talia says. “Is he here every year? Because if so, I’m suddenly invested in campus safety.” “Please don’t hit on the security guy,” Ian says. “I don’t want to be banned from the shuttle because of you.” “Relax,” she says. “I’ll be subtle.” “You don’t know what that word means.” The lights come up. People stand, stretching, reaching for bags. The VP comes back to announce where the free pizza is and to plug the evening mixer. There’s a minor stampede toward the exits. “Pizza,” Talia says, already halfway out of her seat. “Let’s go.” “I think I’m going to pass,” I say, standing more slowly. “I need air.” “And food,” Ian adds. Talia pouts at us. “You’re both eighty.” “You didn’t complain when my eighty-year-old ass carried your box up three flights of stairs,” Ian says. “That was different,” she says. “That was chivalry. This is social cowardice.” “You go,” I say. “Make new friends. Seduce campus safety. We’ll catch up.” She flicks her hand at me. “You’re missing out, Cole. This is prime people-watching.” “I have all semester to watch people,” I say. “I only have so many sensory spoons.” She wrinkles her nose. “Nerd.” But she leans in, squeezes my arm briefly—a small, wordless I see you I don’t expect—and then lets the crowd carry her toward the promise of greasy cheese. Ian and I join the flow going the opposite direction, toward the main doors. The aisle feels narrow with so many bodies pressing forward, but the line keeps moving. At the front, security staff stand by the doors in dark polos, checking the crowd in that general way that means they’re really watching for specific things. One of them nods to someone in the corner. It’s him. Knox Graves stands by the right-hand door, no podium between him and everyone else now. Up close, he’s even more out of place—too sharp for the scuffed tile and aging paint, like someone cut a piece out of a higher-resolution world and pasted him into this one. He’s talking quietly to a campus cop type, then glancing over the heads of the students pouring past. His gaze moves, assessing, efficient. It lands on me again like he’s been tracking my position the whole time. For a second, the crowd narrows to a tunnel between us. The buzz of voices blurs. I’m aware, in excruciating detail, of my heartbeat, the heat of my face, the way my scar feels suddenly present under my shirt. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. His expression doesn’t give me anything to work with. But there’s a micro-shift—eyelids narrowing, chin angling—as if he’s confirming a guess. I tell myself I’m imagining it. The line inches forward. Ian steps ahead, then glances back when I don’t immediately follow. “You spacing out on me?” he asks. “Just thinking,” I say. “Dangerous habit.” “Someone has to balance you out.” We reach the doorway. As I pass, Knox’s attention doesn’t slide away. It stays on me, direct and unhurried. Up close, his eyes are a dark, cool gray—not warm, not soft, but not empty either. Just… watchful. “Miss Cole,” he says quietly. The sound of my name in his mouth steals whatever words I might have had. I don’t remember giving it to him. Maybe it was on a roster, a clipboard, in the security app he mentioned. Maybe the VP said it when I was too busy counting exits to listen. It still feels like a hand closing around a thread I didn’t know was hanging loose. “Hi,” I say, because my brain is apparently useless under pressure. His gaze flicks briefly to where my hand hovers near my chest, then back to my face. The whole thing takes less than a second, but it leaves a strange, crawling awareness in its wake. “Welcome to Greystone,” he says. “Enjoy the evening.” It’s neutral. Polite. Something he could say to anyone. It doesn’t feel like he’s saying it to anyone. “Thanks,” I manage. Ian’s shoulder bumps mine, gently herding me forward. The humid evening air hits my face like a blessing as we step out onto the steps. Voices explode around us—laughing, yelling, calling friends’ names. Music thumps faintly from somewhere across the quad. I breathe in. Out. My heart rate starts to come down. “Do you know him?” Ian asks, eyes sharp. “No,” I say too fast. I force a shrug. “Probably just reading name tags. I’m not that interesting.” “Mm.” He does not sound convinced. “Well, in case I die of secondhand intensity, tell my parents I loved them.” “I lived in your house for a year,” I say. “They’ll be relieved.” He snorts. We start down the steps. The sky is a hazy blue-pink, clouds smudged like chalk. Students crisscross the lawn; flyers flutter on bulletin boards. A girl on a skateboard nearly wipes out, then laughs it off. Somewhere, someone pops open a can. Normal, I tell myself. This is normal. I can do normal. Some part of me—the part that has never quite stopped bracing for impact—doesn’t believe it. It’s still stuck on the weight of a stranger’s gaze and the way my scar burned when someone promised safety. Against my better judgment, I glance back. Knox is still at the door. He stands half in shadow, suit a dark line against the bright strip of light inside. Students ebb around him. He doesn’t look at them. His attention is fixed on me, like I’m a variable he hasn’t decided what to do with yet. For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away. Then Ian nudges my shoulder. “Come on, Cole,” he says. “Let’s go find you some food that isn’t a tragedy.” I tear my gaze away from the doorway. From him. “Yeah,” I say. “New campus. New semester. Minimal tragedy.” He bumps me again, an affectionate shoulder check. I let him steer me across the quad, away from the auditorium, the banners, the man in the doorway. New chapter, I tell myself. Somewhere between my lungs and my scar, something tightens like a drawn thread. It doesn’t feel like the beginning of anything I chose.