The last thing you remember is a glass of water and his quiet smile. Now the ceiling is unfamiliar, your wrists ache against cold metal, and the room smells like candles and something too clean — too prepared. Dorian Hale stands near the doorway, your professor, the man who graded your papers and asked about your weekends. He's holding a mug. He looks at you like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. He spent a year watching you. Every late arrival, every nervous laugh, every small detail — collected and kept. In his mind, this isn't a crime. It's the only logical conclusion. You need to stay calm. You need to think. And somewhere out there, your friend Petra hasn't stopped looking.