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THE END
QUINN
Ars longa,vita brevis.The words are etched into the stone above the entrance of Cypress University.Skillfulness takes time and life is short—a fitting motto for a college full of students eager to crack open the skulls of the criminally insane and dig around inside their amygdalae and prefrontal cortices.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. While it probablywouldbe kind of cool toliterallydig around in someone’s head, that’s not my major.
I’m a bigger fan of the phrasein vino veritas,but to each their own.
My shoes thud against the aged stone tiles, worn from decades of students trekking through the cavernous corridor that leads to the dean’s office. I’d wager that I’ve walked this hall more than others.
I can feel the gazes of my peers heavy against my skin, as unyielding as the stone walls of the ancient university. Some are filled with longing and jealousy, while others are just plain nosy. They all think that my close connection with the dean is some sort of advantageous thing. And to be fair, in a place like this—where secrets are as old as the ivy that clings to the gothic spires—most of the time it reallyisabout who you know, so I can't hold it against them for thinking that way.
I’ve never cared about what other people think of me, and I always roll my eyes at the students who only want to be friends with me for their own gain. People are too easy to read; they don’t want me, they want access to The Assembly.
The not-so-secret society is only mentioned in hushed, speculative whispers. There’s a constant exchange of knowing glances and cryptic hints, with students spreading false stories about the figures who control the town’s deepest mysteries—namely, my father.
Some claim The Assembly engages in strange rituals deep in the forest just beyond the university grounds, their torches flickering like phantoms in the night. Others say they’ve seen a symbol—a twisted, black sigil—scratched into hidden corners of campus buildings, the library, even the dorms. Most laugh it off as graffiti. A few believe it’s a warning.
The rumors get darker. Someone went missing three years ago, just vanished from campus. People still whisper that they crossed the wrong path with The Assembly. No body was found, no suspects, only a cryptic note that led nowhere. Still, no one ever speaks of it openly.
And that’s not even the only case of someone disappearing, not to mention the people who have beenfounddead.
Despite the fascination, no one outside of direct ties to the society truly knows its name or purpose. Those of us who do have direct ties? We’d die rather than reveal the truth—most out of fear and loyalty, but for me, it’s mostly shame.
So, the secret society within Cypress remains a ghostly presence, fueling late-night conversations and furtive glances. It exists more as a phantom of collective imagination than a verifiable identity—and a massive pain in my ass.
Regardless of any assumptions about the privileges I may have due to my bloodline, the reality is quite different from those perceptions. I’m not being shown any favoritism here, and this is a table they most definitely donotwant a seat at. I’ve spent my entire life trying to distance myself from my father’s shadow, yet here I am, constantly dragged back into it.
I don’t bother knocking on the dean’s office door, just shove the heavy door open and pad across the thick carpet. I reach the chair in front of his desk, purposefully slumping into it. He wants me to care about this meeting—wants me to be nervous, so I intentionally exude an air of not giving a shit. The door shuts with a definite click, the sound bouncing off the walls adding an extra layer of tension to the room. The leather cushion squeaks as I lean against it, enjoying the small victory because I know it irritates him.
Despite hating every second spent in his presence, I have no option but to come when he calls. Ignoring him only gives him more of a reason to find a way to make my life miserable later, a pastime he enjoys immensely.
His face pulls into a deep frown, the lines etched into his weathered skin only deepening, as if the weight of his self-importance has carved them there over the years. His thinning silver hair, meticulously combed back, does little to soften the sternness of his expression. The irritation in his narrowed eyes is more evident than if someone had taken a sharpie and written the words across his forehead.
“You’re late.” His voice drips with the kind of authority that expects to be obeyed without question.
I make a show of looking at the nonexistent watch on my wrist. “Only by a few minutes.”
He releases a line of air through his crooked nose. He permanently looks like someone punched him square in the faceand I often feel a pang of envy that it wasn’t me who had the honor.
“I don’t have time for your bullshit today, Quinn.” This is not the Marshall Ivor the rest of the student body sees as their beloved dean. He puts on a show for them.
I don’t get the courtesy.
It's all just a mask to hide the true person underneath. He's been carefully constructing this façade for years, even taking on this job as if he actually needs it. It's really not necessary for him to work at all—both of my parents come from wealthy families. But for appearances' sake, he has chosen to work at the local university, serving its students. It's more socially acceptable than leaving room for people to question his wealth, which has been a common trend for all those in The Assembly who came before him.
People speculate regardless, and they’re honestly not too far from the truth when those same hushed, speculative whispers include words likeextortionandtraffickingandcyber crimes.
I readjust in the chair, slumping further into it as I cross one ankle over the other and tilt my head toward the ceiling. “Get to the point, Dad. New semester, fresh hell. What do you want?”
The list of things he’s made up over the years to force me to speak to him is longer than my fucking arm, but there is nothing he can say to make me stick around any longer than necessary.
“Your mother isn’t well.” I snort. No beating around the bush this time, then.
She hasn’t been well for some time now. It changes nothing. I don’t look at him because I don’t care.From childhood's hour I have not been as others were.
