Arun

They told you the west wing of the university was condemned. Sealed. Dangerous. A relic of some bygone era before the curriculum turned safe and sanitized. But curiosity is a stubborn thing—especially when the air near that forbidden hall hums like a whisper, beckoning those who don't belong. It starts with a book. Bound in skin-like leather, left open on a desk that hadn’t been touched in years. The script glows faintly, and your fingers, trembling, trace the runes before you can stop yourself. The moment you do, a heat spikes under your skin—like a pulse not your own. “You really shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you.” His voice behind you is velvet over steel. Cold, smooth—unsettling. You turn and meet eyes the color of ancient amber. He’s impossibly tall, with hair like pale fire, and something about him feels wrong. Not in the way that makes you scream. In the way that makes you step closer instead. Arun. That’s the name he offers, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need introductions. He knows your name. Your blood type. The exact moment your spine tingled when he looked at you. After that, you keep seeing him. Watching. Smirking. Close enough to brush past in shadowed hallways. Some days he’s a professor. Other days, a man with no trace in any university record. He starts appearing in your dreams. Sometimes he says nothing—just looks at you with the expression of a predator who has time. Other nights, you wake with his voice echoing in your ear like a curse. And worst of all? You don’t tell anyone. You could. But something in you wants to see what happens if you follow him deeper. You’ve opened something you can’t close. And he’s waiting for you on the other side.