I forced my face into a neutral mask, even though my pulse was racing. I had rehearsed this lie in my head a hundred times. It was the only way to keep him from digging deeper.

"They're archaeologists," I said, the words coming out smoothly. "They travel constantly. Mostly in the Middle East and Egypt. They're rarely stateside."

It was a half-truth. My real parents had been academics, but they were gone. This lie made them distant, unavailable, and most importantly, it made me independent. A lonely college student with absent parents wasn't unusual.

Hannah's eyes went wide. "Archaeologists? Like Indiana Jones? That is so cool!"

I smiled, a tight, practiced expression. "Something like that. It's mostly dust and old rocks."

Dean chewed his steak slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. He was analyzing every micro-expression, every breath I took. I kept my hands steady on my lap, fighting the urge to fidget.

"So you grew up alone?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "While they were off digging up history?"

"Mostly," I said. "I lived with my grandmother until I was in high school. She passed away a few years ago. After that, I just... learned to take care of myself."

The memory of my real grandmother's funeral flashed in my mind, sharp and painful. I pushed it down, burying the emotion before it could show on my face. I needed to sound detached, like I was reciting a grocery list.

Hannah reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her eyes full of sympathy. "That must have been so hard. I'm so sorry, Chloe."

"It's fine," I said, pulling my hand back gently but firmly. "I'm used to it."

I took another sip of water, hoping the subject was closed. I had given them a tragic backstory, one that should make them pity me and leave me alone. People didn't usually push for details when it came to dead relatives.

But Dean wasn't most people. He stared at me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. Then, his expression shifted. The hard lines of his face softened, just a fraction. He set down his fork and leaned forward.

"You're very resilient, Chloe," he said, his voice quieter now, less interrogating and more... direct. "But you're my sister's roommate, living under the same roof. That makes your safety a concern of mine."

I froze. This wasn't right. This wasn't the reaction I wanted.

"Here at Blackwood, you can run into trouble you aren't prepared for," he continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "You can consider this a guarantee: if you have a problem, anything you can't handle, you contact me directly. I'll take care of it."

My stomach twisted into a knot. I had tried to push him away with a sad story, and instead, I had triggered his savior complex. In the novel, Dean Gibbs was a fixer. He saw a problem, and he dominated it. And right now, he saw me as a problem that needed fixing.

"Thank you, Mr. Gibbs," I said, my voice stiff. "But I can take care of myself. I always have."

"It's Dean," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm sure you can. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes."

Hannah beamed, clearly delighted that her brother was being so welcoming. "See? I told you he was great!"

I picked at my pasta, my appetite completely gone. I had played myself. I had tried to build a wall, and I had accidentally handed him a ladder.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced small talk and Hannah's cheerful chatter. I kept my answers short and my eyes down, trying to project an aura of complete unapproachability. But Dean's gaze kept returning to me, heavy and assessing.

When the check came, Dean paid without even glancing at the total. He stood up, helping Hannah with her coat, then turned to me. "I'll drive you back."

We walked out into the cool night air. Hannah skipped ahead, her heels clicking on the pavement as she answered a call from a friend. Dean slowed his pace, falling into step beside me. The silence between us was thick, charged with something I couldn't identify.

We reached the parking garage. The echo of our footsteps bounced off the concrete walls. Dean stopped walking. I stopped too, turning to face him. He was standing too close, his tall frame blocking out the overhead lights.

"You tell a very compelling story, Miss Carrillo," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My blood turned to ice. The words hung in the air, a clear threat. Did he know? Had he seen through my lie?

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. His face was unreadable, half-hidden in shadow. He could be complimenting my storytelling skills, or he could be calling me a liar to my face.

I didn't wait to find out. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and quickened my pace to catch up with Hannah. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back the entire way to the car.

I sat in the back seat of Dean's sedan, my body rigid against the leather. The car smelled like his cologne, a rich, woody scent that filled the enclosed space and made it hard to breathe. I pressed my temple against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights blur past.

Hannah was in the front seat, softly humming along to the radio. She was completely oblivious to the war raging inside my head. I hadn't spoken a word since we left the restaurant. My mind was spinning, replaying Dean's parting words over and over.

You tell a very compelling story.

Was it a warning? A threat? Or just a casual observation? I didn't know, and the uncertainty was killing me. I glanced up at the rearview mirror. Dean's eyes were already there, watching me. The reflection of the streetlights made his blue eyes look almost silver.

He wasn't just checking the traffic. He was studying me. Like a hawk watching a mouse in a field. The intensity of his gaze made my skin prickle. I quickly looked away, my hands clenching into fists in my lap.

This wasn't part of the plot. In the book, Dean barely noticed the roommate. She was furniture. But here, he was laser-focused on me. My presence, my lies, my background-everything about me had caught his attention. And that attention felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.

The car finally pulled up to the curb outside our dorm. I didn't wait for Dean to open the door. I grabbed the handle, shoved the door open, and practically jumped out onto the sidewalk.

"Goodnight!" I called out, already taking a step toward the building.

"Chloe."

Dean's voice cut through the night air, stopping me dead in my tracks. My body went rigid. I slowly turned around. He had stepped out of the car and was walking toward me. He moved with a predatory grace, his long strides eating up the distance between us in seconds.

He stopped right in front of me. The top of my head barely reached his shoulder. I had to tilt my head back to look at him, which only made me feel smaller and more vulnerable.

"My offer stands," he said, his voice low and serious. "Blackwood isn't just a school. It's a battlefield. And you're walking into it blind. Take care of yourself."

It sounded like a warning. Not a friendly piece of advice, but a statement of fact. He knew something about this place that I didn't. Something dangerous.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked back to the car. He said goodbye to Hannah, and then the sedan purred away, disappearing into the night. I stood on the sidewalk, my legs shaking, the cold wind biting through my thin jacket.

Hannah asked, looking down at her phone. "Did my brother say anything to you?" she asked, frowning. "You look like you've seen a ghost.""Just a little tired," I lied, grabbing my toiletries. "I'm going to shower."

I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the cold water. I splashed it over my face, gasping at the icy shock. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes wide with fear. I looked exactly like what I was: a prey animal that had just been cornered by a predator.

I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep letting Dean Gibbs corner me. His interest in me was growing, and if I didn't do something, I would be sucked into his world permanently. I had to cut ties. Completely.

I walked back into the room, my mind made up. I would ignore Hannah's invitations. I would avoid the places Dean frequented. I would become a ghost. A nobody. Just like the original Chloe was supposed to be.

I sat down at my desk, pulling out my phone to set an alarm for the next morning. Just as I unlocked the screen, it lit up on its own. A notification popped up at the top.

I frowned, my thumb hovering over the message from an unknown number. The preview on the lock screen showed a jumble of nonsensical words: "Lamb little hello..." Spam, probably. Some poorly translated phishing attempt. I swiped it away without another thought and tossed the phone onto my bed. I had bigger problems than a random text. I had to figure out how to disappear in plain sight.

I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling. I had to be strong. I had to stay away from the main characters.

My new strategy was simple: become invisible. If I wasn't in class, I was hiding. And the best place to hide on a college campus was the library.

Not the main floor, where students gathered to socialize and pretend to study. I went deep into the bowels of the building, to the Rare Books Room. It was a dusty, forgotten corner of the library, filled with old encyclopedias and manuscripts that no one ever looked at. The air smelled like old paper and leather. It was quiet. It was safe.

I spent three days there, tucked away in a corner carrel, reading ahead for my classes. I avoided the dining hall, living off granola bars I kept in my backpack. I timed my returns to the dorm so I would only be there when Hannah was asleep.

It was working. I was off the radar. Dean hadn't texted, and Hannah had stopped leaving me notes. I was finally a background character again.

On the fourth day, I was wandering the aisles, stretching my legs. The shelves were tall and cramped, blocking out the light from the overhead fixtures. I was alone. Or so I thought.

My foot kicked something solid. It skittered across the floor with a loud clatter, breaking the absolute silence. I jumped, my hand flying to my chest.

I looked down. Tucked between the bottom shelf and the baseboard was a small, black object. I bent down and picked it up. It was a phone. But not a smartphone. It was a cheap, plastic flip phone. A burner.

I turned it over in my hands, frowning. Who would leave a burner phone in the rare books room? It looked brand new, without a scratch on it. I should have taken it straight to the lost and found. That was the logical thing to do.

But a nagging curiosity itched at the back of my mind. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, glowing an eerie green in the dim light. The battery was full. There was no contacts list, no call history. The only thing on the phone was a single text message.

The sender was listed as "Unknown."

I stared at the screen. Every instinct told me to put it down, to walk away. But my thumb moved on its own, clicking the center button to open the message.

"Hello, Little Lamb."

The words stared back at me, cold and mocking. Little Lamb. A sick feeling washed over me. This wasn't a lost phone. This was left here for a reason.

My thumb hovered over the power button, ready to turn it off and throw it in the trash. But before I could, the phone vibrated in my hand. Another message popped up.

"I was wondering when you'd find it."

My blood ran cold. The phone nearly slipped from my trembling fingers. This wasn't a prank. This was deliberate. Someone had planted this phone here, in my secret hiding spot, and waited for me to find it.

They knew where I was.

I snapped my head up, scanning the aisles. The shadows between the shelves seemed darker, deeper. The silence was no longer comforting; it was suffocating. I was completely alone, but I felt eyes on the back of my neck.

My first thought was Dean. He had warned me. He had said he would be watching. Was this his way of showing me he could find me anywhere?

A wave of anger cut through my fear. I pressed the button to reply, my fingers shaking. "Who is this?" I typed, hitting send.

The response was instant. Not a text this time. A picture message.

I opened it. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.

It was a photo of me. Taken from above. I was looking down at the phone in my hands, my face a mask of shock and confusion. The angle was high, looking down from the ceiling.

I slowly raised my eyes to the ceiling. There, directly above me, was a metal ventilation grate. It was dark, impossible to see inside. But I knew. Someone was up there. Someone was watching me right now.

A scream tore from my throat. I threw the phone as hard as I could. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces. I didn't look back. I ran.

I sprinted down the aisle, my footsteps echoing like gunshots in the quiet room. I burst through the heavy wooden doors and didn't stop until I was outside, in the bright afternoon sun. Students milled around, laughing and talking, completely unaware of the panic consuming me.

I ran all the way back to the dorm. I fumbled with the key, my hands shaking so badly I dropped it twice. Finally, I shoved the door open, threw myself inside, and locked it behind me.

I slid down the door, my back against the wood, and pulled my knees to my chest. I was gasping for air, my lungs burning. The room was empty. Hannah was in class. But the silence didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a threat.

I looked around the room, my eyes darting from the closet to the space under the beds. Was there a camera in here too? Was I ever truly alone?

I had thought the main plot was the danger. I had thought Dean Gibbs was the monster I had to avoid. I was wrong. There was something else out there. Something hiding in the shadows. And it was hunting me.