Episode 3

The victory should have felt sweet. Winning the university’s painting competition was supposed to be my crowning moment of the week, the kind of success that made every late night and every aching hand worth it. Instead, I couldn’t even savor it. The pride was there, but it was tangled up with irritation so sharp it left me almost trembling.

By the time my name lit up the main announcement board, the whole university already knew. And instead of simple congratulations, people decided to make it theatrical. Obnoxious, even.

When I reached my locker that morning, a strange dread curdled in my stomach. The metal door was slightly ajar, its lock gone. My lock, the one I’d always trusted.

Inside wasn’t my tidy little storage space anymore—it was a chaotic shrine. Flowers crammed the shelves, roses, tulips, daisies, all jammed together in garish bouquets that clashed violently. Their perfumes collided in the cramped space, creating an almost nauseatingly sweet fog. Stuck between the flowers were little food offerings—cookies in ribboned boxes, imported chocolates wrapped like they belonged in a jewelry store, even slices of cheesecake in plastic containers.

It wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t cute. It was invasive. Someone, no—multiple someones—had broken into my private space to dump their affection on me. My skin prickled with the violation of it.

I spent nearly an hour dismantling the shrine. Every flower, every sweet, every box went back to its sender with a neat, pointed little note.

Thank you for the thought, but breaking into my locker is not acceptable. Please respect my boundaries in the future.

I made sure they were polite enough to avoid sounding cruel, but clear enough to sting. I refused to let them think I was flattered by this nonsense.

By the time I finally walked into the lecture hall, I was fuming. The weight of my anger pressed down on me, making each step sharp and purposeful.

Sasha was already by the window, her face lit by the glow of her phone. Her thumbs flew over the screen like she was solving a national crisis via text. I dropped my bag beside my desk, hard enough that she glanced up.

Her brow furrowed immediately. "Shouldn’t you be, like, blissfully happy today?" she said, voice lilting with fake cheer. "You just won first place. What happened? Did a rat eat your painting overnight?"

I cracked open my Art History textbook, trying to bury myself in the dense lines about Romanesque architecture. "Don’t make me angrier than I already am."

Her eyes narrowed, she pushed her chair back and came to sit beside me, leaning in. "Okay, what’s wrong? Existential crisis about brushstrokes? Or did you just have a bad bowel movement? Because, honestly, when I get diarrhea, I—"

"Stop!" I snapped, slamming the book shut so loudly that half the class turned to look. "Just stop."

Before she could reply, a timid voice interrupted. I looked up to see a girl from another section clutching a small bottle of paint.

"I—heard you won the competition," she said nervously. "Congratulations, Elara. You really deserved it. I want to make a beautiful painting like yours too, do you still use this brand?" she held the paint out, palms shaking.

For the first time all morning, my irritation cracked. Her gesture was simple, respectful and sweet. "Thank you," I said warmly. "But no, I don’t use that brand anymore. I prefer this one."

I pulled a tube of cadmium yellow oil paint from my bag and offered it to her. "Here, try this. It’s better."

Her eyes widened, lighting up like a child on Christmas. "Really? Oh, thank you! That’s so generous!" she held it close before scurrying back to her seat.

That moment—the genuine gratitude—actually soothed something raw in me. But Sasha, of course, leaned closer again, whispering. "Okay, fan club interaction aside, what’s actually going on?"

I sighed. "Some idiots broke into my locker and filled it with junk, flowers, chocolates. All of it."

Her mouth dropped open. "They what? That’s insane! You have to report it."

"I’m not reporting anyone," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "I’ve already dealt with it. But I’m still pissed."

Class started then, saving me from further interrogation. Professor Miles launched into his lecture with his usual calm enthusiasm, passing out printed fact sheets about Romanesque arches and Gothic cathedrals. His voice, steady and sure, slowly pulled me back into focus.

By the end of the day, when I returned to check my locker, something surprised me. The door was fixed. The lock was replaced, brand-new, sturdy as ever. And stuck to the front was a neon sticky note in Sasha’s loopy handwriting.

Fixed it. Hope this makes your day less crappy. See you tomorrow! XOXO.

For the first time since morning, I smiled.

...•••...

In the evening, I found myself wandering through a massive furniture store, the smell of varnish and polished wood filling the air. It reminded me of bookstores—new, clean, filled with possibilities. I picked out small things to brighten my apartment, sleek vases, simple picture frames, a modern wall clock. The cash prize had given me more freedom than I expected, though money had never been a pressing issue.

My parents, ever practical, had given me three rental apartments to manage before I moved here. Their way of ensuring I’d never go broke, and that I’d learn responsibility. It meant I didn’t need a part-time job. My bills were covered. My time belonged to me—and to my art.

By the time I got home, arms loaded with bags, I was tired but oddly satisfied. I spent hours rearranging my space, layering rugs, placing plants in corners, setting up the vases and frames. By nightfall, my apartment finally looked less like a temporary crash pad and more like a home.

Sasha called, wanting to celebrate, but I begged off, too exhausted. She didn’t push, just promised she had plans for us tomorrow.

I trusted her and always did. She was the kind of friend who fixed problems before I even finished complaining.

...•••...

Later that night, I lay on my sofa, the sky outside burning orange and violet as the sun slipped away. The room grew heavy with twilight shadows. That’s when it started—the thirst.

It wasn’t ordinary thirst. Not the kind solved with a glass of water. It was deeper, clawing at me from inside, urgent and wild.

I stumbled to the kitchen, draining water, juice, soda, anything I could find. Nothing worked. The thirst clung to me like a fever. My body broke into a cold sweat.

And then, as suddenly as it came, it vanished, gone. My breathing slowed. Relief trickled in, quickly replaced by fear. Something was wrong, very wrong.

I forced myself into a hot shower, trying to wash away the unease. I slipped into pajamas, curled on the sofa, half-watching some random streaming series while nibbling on apples and juice.

When sleep finally dragged me under, the dream was immediate.

He appeared out of darkness, tall, impossibly beautiful, hair like ink, features so sharp they looked carved by divine creatures. His eyes—gosh, his eyes. They shifted from warm to a blazing, terrifying red. His lips curved, revealing fangs.

Vampire.

The word pulsed in my mind like a warning.

"Elara," he whispered, his voice a low, velvet growl.

My name on his tongue was like a claim.

"Who are you? How do you know me?" my voice shook.

He didn’t answer. He only moved closer. Too fast, too smooth. When I tried to back away, he caught me, pulling me against his chest. His breath grazed my neck, hot and deliberate.

Then—pain, sharp, exquisite. His fangs sank deep.

I woke up screaming.

My living room swam into view, TV screen flickering silently. My hand shot to my neck—smooth. Untouched, no punctures.

But then my eyes landed on my painting.

The castle. The one that won.

It was different. The colors burned brighter, richer, alive. The stone looked sharper, almost three-dimensional. As if someone had come in just now and perfected it.

My blood froze.

I tore through my apartment, checking locks, windows, every corner. Nothing, no signs of intrusion.

Finally, shaking and exhausted, I crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over my head. Everything’s fine, I repeated to myself, a mantra against panic. Everything’s fine.

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