The next morning, Calla didn't show up for breakfast.
Ronan checked her dorm — locked.
Texted her — no reply.
The only reason he didn't kick the door in was because he saw her light flicker on through the window.
So she was alive.
Just… not answering.
"The mark's settling," said the wolf. "Her energy's dripping like a leaky faucet. That thing's making a home."
Ronan wanted to punch a wall. Or himself.
Instead, he went to class.
And that's when things got weird.
Professor Lorne taught Ancient Civilizations. Most of the time, he wore the same tired corduroy blazer, smelled like chalk and peppermint tea, and talked like he'd been alive during half the things he taught.
That day, he was different.
Not in what he wore — still corduroy, still tea — but in how he looked at Ronan.
Right at him.
Too long.
Like he knew something.
Like he was trying to say something without words.
And then, halfway through lecture, he paused.
Just stopped mid-sentence, eyes drifting toward the hallway outside the open door.
And said, softly: "If it followed her, it can follow you."
Ronan blinked. "What?"
The professor turned back to the board like nothing happened.
Nobody else reacted.
"That was a warning," the wolf said. "Or bait."
"He knows."
After class, Ronan chased him down the hallway.
"Professor!"
Lorne turned, calm. Too calm.
"I need to know what you meant," Ronan said. "Back in class."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You said—if it followed her, it can follow me."
Professor Lorne gave a tight smile. "Sometimes we speak in metaphors, Mr. Black. Sometimes students read too much into them."
Then he walked away.
But Ronan saw it.
The scarf.
Bright red. Worn like a bandage around the man's wrist.
And he remembered Calla saying it — the night after she went to the lab.
"There was someone else. I couldn't see his face. But I remember the red."
Later that day, Ronan sat under a tree near the edge of campus, trying to piece things together.
Calla was fading.
Someone or something was feeding on her.
And at least one professor knew more than he was saying.
"We're in over our heads," the wolf said.
"I know."
"But if we don't act, she's gone."
"I know."
He rubbed his face.
This wasn't his fight. He never wanted any of this. He just wanted to get through one year without being jumped, bloodied, or haunted.
But now Calla was marked.
Because she tried to protect him.
And he couldn't walk away from that.
Not anymore.
That night, he went back to her dorm.
This time, when he knocked, she opened the door.
And for a second, he barely recognized her.
Eyes sunken. Skin dull. Like something was pulling her down from the inside.
"You look like hell," he said.
"I feel like it," she whispered.
He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
"We're going to fix this," he said.
Calla stared at him. "How?"
"We find the leech," the wolf said. "And we rip it out before it becomes something worse."