THE HUNTER .

I don't remember getting here.

Like, literally—I don't know when the fuck the bus came or how long the ride was or who sat beside me or if I even paid. My body just... moved. Got on. Got off. Walked through campus like I wasn't even inside it.

Now I'm sitting in class, in my usual chair near the window, with Clara Ma'am's voice echoing faintly in the background like a badly tuned radio. Something about tragic flaws in Shakespearean heroes.

Fucking ironic.

Because I'm sitting here in a puddle of wet clothes, heartbeat still crawling up my throat, brain locked on a face that shouldn't exist.

That man.

That biker.

That creature.

No, I don't think he was human. At least not fully. Not with that face. Not with that stare.

He looked like he was drawn, not born.

And it's not like I've never seen a good-looking guy. I've seen a lot. This campus is full of peacocks. Some of them have confessed to me. Some are the kind that girls write poems about. I know what pretty looks like.

Hell, Shadin, If hotness were a major, he'd graduate with honors and a fan club. His face alone could end a cold war.

But this guy?

That wasn't hot. That was unreal.

Like the universe decided to flex its power and create a walking paradox—beauty laced with danger, arrogance carved into bone. A red flag wrapped in black leather.

And I can't stop thinking about him.

Not the bike. Not the helmet. Not even the way he stared at me for a whole heartbeat like I was just a glitch in his day.

I'm thinking about how he pulled off the helmet. The way his fingers curled around the edge like he'd done it a thousand times but still made it look like slow fucking seduction.

I'm thinking about the smirk that didn't even happen. About the eyes that didn't even linger. And still—still—he branded himself into the folds of my mind like he fucking belonged there.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I don't even know him. I don't even know if he's real.

Maybe he's not. Maybe I finally snapped. Maybe I hit my mental limit after all the shit that went down this week—Cassandra, the Dean, the slap, the text, Shadin grabbing my hand like some hero out of a K-drama, and now this helmet god showing up like he stepped out of a fever dream just to destroy my last functioning brain cell.

And I swear to god, I've never felt this way before.

It's not like I'm a nun. I'm not anti-boys. I've had my fair share of attention. Been asked out more times than I care to count. Some of them were decent. Some had pretty faces, good grades, six-packs, even poetry skills.

But I never said yes.

Because none of them ever made me feel like this.

This... unhinged. This unsteady. This un-fucking-okay.

And now I'm sitting in class, not hearing a word, staring out the rain-drenched window like a ghost, because one stranger—one fucking stranger—looked at me and then looked away.

I don't even know his name.

But I know he has girlfriends.

Of course he does. Probably a whole goddamn rotation. Monday to Sunday, different flavors. Probably cheats on all of them too. He's a walking sex appeal ad—he has to be a playboy. The kind that fucks and forgets. The kind that gives you one look and ruins you forever but wouldn't even remember your name after.

And yet... I want him.

Fuck.

I want him.

Even though I know better. Even though every single neuron in my brain is flashing red and screaming do not enter, my body has already walked through the door, locked it, and thrown away the key.

And worst part?

I don't even know why.

I lean forward and slam my forehead against the desk, gently. Just once. A soft, silent thud that only I can hear.

My notebook sits open in front of me. The page is blank.

Fitting.

Shaiza's elbow nudges mine. "You good?"

I lift my head slowly, turn to her. I probably look insane.

She narrows her eyes. "You look like someone ran over your soul."

Ruby snorts beside her. "No, she looks like someone ran over her libido."

I glare at her, half-ready to throw a pencil at her nose.

But before I can respond, Clara Ma'am turns around, chalk in hand, and says, "Miss Mirza. You've been staring at that page like it owes you money. Care to share what's more fascinating than King Lear's descent into madness?"

God. The irony.

I straighten, force a shrug. "I'm just... appreciating the tragedy, ma'am."

Clara raises a brow, clearly unimpressed. But she moves on. Thank fuck.

Ruby leans in and whispers, "You're definitely not okay."

And she's right.

I'm not.

Because right now, the only tragedy I'm appreciating—is mine.

And I don't even know the name of the villain who started it.

I can't tell them.

I know I can't tell them.

If I open my mouth and say it out loud—tell Shaiza or Ruby or Ifrah that I am currently malfunctioning over a man I saw for maybe three seconds at a traffic stop—they'll think I'm either fucking with them or losing my mind.

Because I don't do this.

I don't talk about boys unless they're the punchline. Unless they're hot enough to be interesting or dumb enough to make fun of.

Even Shadin—I mean, he's my best friend, he flirts like it's his full-time job, but I've never once felt anything serious there. Never had to. Never wanted to.

And now?

Now I've seen a stranger's face once, and I can't get it out of my head.

That is the punchline.

I'm the joke.

God, I can't even tell Boo Boo. That fuzzy bastard will judge me too.

I stare ahead, not hearing Clara's voice anymore, not even aware of what the current slide on the projector is. She could be talking about Kafka or climate change—I'm not here.

I'm still there.

Stuck in that one look. That one moment.

And it wasn't even a look, was it? Not really.

He just glanced at me. Barely.

Didn't smile.

Didn't flirt.

Didn't care.

It's not like we locked eyes in a slow-motion, musical backdrop, destiny type of scene. It wasn't cinematic. It was brutal. Fast. Forgettable.

Except it fucking gutted me.

And I'm scared.

Not scared that he won't remember me.

Scared that I will remember him.

Forever.

I don't even know his name.

How the fuck do you obsess over someone whose name you don't even know?

I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots, trying to shake this out of my system. He's not even here. He's probably not even real. For all I know, he was a glitch in the universe. A hallucination in leather. A fever dream on two wheels.

I close my eyes, breathing out slow.

And that's when it hits me.

Like a slap.

The project.

FUCK.

My eyes snap open.

Holy fucking hell.

The project.

The one due today.

The one I was supposed to email Dr. Vaughan last night.

The one I didn't write because I spent the entire goddamn weekend spiraling and cursing at Boo Boo and sleeping like a fucking idiot.

I check my bag.

Notebook. Pen. Charger.

No laptop.

No printed file.

Not that it matters—I didn't even write a goddamn sentence.

I look at the clock on the wall above the whiteboard. The little red second hand is twitching like it's taunting me.

There's ten minutes left in this class.

And then next hour—

Next hour is Dr. Vaughan.

I feel cold.

Like my body just remembered I'm human and fragile and academically doomed.

Because when that lecture starts, the list of students who submitted their projects will appear on the screen, projected in high fucking definition for the entire class to see. Full name. Submission time.

And mine?

Won't be there.

And everyone will know.

Everyone will look.

Not because they care about me.

But because public humiliation is everyone's favorite sport.

And Vaughan?

She doesn't believe in late submissions.

She doesn't believe in excuses.

She doesn't even believe in mercy.

She'll shred me alive. In front of the class. Verbally gut me with that voice of hers—calm, disappointed, disappointed-er.

She won't yell. She won't insult.

She'll just… state facts. Slowly. Methodically. With pauses in between, so every fucking word can marinate in humiliation.

And then she'll say, "You are a Literature major. You couldn't even submit a 2,000 word analysis on time?"

And I will die.

Right there.

In that seat.

Under the air conditioning that always blows too hard and still doesn't cool the shame.

I clench my fists.

Why the fuck didn't I write it?

Why the fuck did I sleep?

Why the fuck did I spend Saturday talking to a cat and Sunday blacked out at my desk like some kind of caffeinated corpse?

Why did I let one stranger's face erase every single thing I was supposed to care about?

I could've typed something.

Bullshitted a thesis. Paraphrased Wikipedia. Lied. Copied. ANYTHING.

But no.

Instead, I wrote "fuck it" on a blank document and passed out like a moron.

Now I'm minutes away from academic suicide.

I lower my head to the desk, ignoring the amused side-eye Shaiza throws at me. She thinks I'm just tired. Ruby probably thinks I'm hungover. Ifrah's too busy highlighting Clara's notes in pastel to notice.

They don't know.

They don't know I'm about to walk into my own death sentence in ten minutes, and the worst part is—I fucking deserve it.

I whisper under my breath.

"Kill me now."

But the universe doesn't.

Because it's cruel.

Because instead of death, I get to survive.

And sit in that next class.

And wait for my name to not appear on the screen.

And maybe—just maybe—wish I could rewind to that traffic light. To that helmet. That face. That one second that destroyed my entire goddamn day and somehow managed to sabotage my future.

He doesn't know what he did.

But I do.

And I don't think I'll ever recover.

I lean toward Shaiza slowly.

My fingers tap once against her desk.

She turns, eyebrows pulled tight, still half-focused on Clara's lecture.

I nudge again—this time with more panic.

She finally looks at me.

I lower my voice to a whisper.

Tight. Dead serious.

"I didn't submit the project."

Her entire body goes still.

Her mouth parts slightly.

Eyes stretch wide.

And then—like a silent movie turned into horror—her hand slaps over her own mouth to keep from screaming.

"What the actual fuck?" she whisper-screams, voice muffled by her own palm. "Are you fucking insane? What do you mean you didn't submit?"

I stare at her, dead inside. "I mean… I didn't submit."

"You're kidding."

I shake my head slowly.

Shaiza looks like she's about to levitate.

She slams her elbow into Ruby's side without warning. Ruby turns, annoyed—until she sees my face. Then Shaiza leans in, dramatic as hell, and whispers something fast into Ruby's ear.

Ruby's expression goes from resting bitchface to:

Code Red.

"You didn't?" she hisses, her voice like a threat. "Are you dumb? Dead? Suicidal? What are you trying to prove, Arshila?!"

"I—"

"No. Don't even. I don't wanna hear it."

"Okay but like—"

"GO DIE."

I blink.

Ruby's not even mad. She's just giving instructions now. Practical ones.

"Go die," she repeats, matter-of-fact. "Jump out the window. Or run into traffic. Because Dr. Vaughan is going to rip your face off and wear it like a badge."

I whisper, "Can I act sick?"

Shaiza turns to me with the kind of look that says I've personally insulted her intelligence.

"Act sick?" she echoes. "Act sick? Bitch, no. This isn't a fucking soap opera. Acting sick now is like trying to fake cry at your own funeral. It's too late."

The bell rings.

My soul leaves my body.

Every cell in my bloodstream screams abort mission. My heart tries to file for emergency leave.

Footsteps echo in the corridor.

I'm shaking.

Ifrah turns around, brows drawn together. "Why do you guys look like you're about to piss yourselves?"

Shaiza deadpans, "She didn't submit her project."

Ifrah blinks. Looks at me. Processes.

Then says flatly, "Act dead."

"Already tried that," I whisper.

"Won't help," she adds, expression grim. "You're toast."

"Why do you always do this?" Shaiza hisses. "Why do you always make the scene now?! Friday we were at the fucking Dean's office. Almost expelled. And now, now, you pull this shit?"

"I didn't mean to—!"

"You're the drama. It's you. Hi. Nice to meet you."

My mouth opens to respond, but then—

The door opens.

And in walks death.

Clad in an ironed grey blouse, fitted skirt, and judgment sharper than God's own sword.

Dr. Vaughan.

Her heels click once. Twice.

And the room shifts into silence.

Not out of respect.

Out of fear.

She doesn't speak as she walks to the front of the room.

She doesn't look at us.

Just flips her folder open. Opens the laptop. Connects the projector wire like she's setting up a firing squad.

The screen flickers.

White background.

"Project Submissions – Mid Term."

And just like that—

I feel like I'm about to vomit on my shoes.

She clears her throat, not even bothering to look at us.

"I assume you all submitted your files by last night. As stated three weeks ago. In three different emails. And in person. And during class. Twice."

Silence.

The class nods.

Because no one's dumb enough to say otherwise.

Except me.

The dumbest bitch in the room.

The screen lights up with names. Roll numbers. Submission timestamps.

Scrolling down.

Faster.

Faster.

Looking for mine.

Looking—

Nope.

Not there.

Not. Fucking. There.

My chest caves inward.

Ruby leans in.

"Rest in peace," she whispers, eyes still on the screen. "Say hi to Jesus for me."

Shaiza's hands are folded like she's praying.

Ifrah's writing my imaginary obituary.

And I?

I'm just sitting here.

Waiting for Dr. Vaughan to call my name and publicly ruin my life.

God. Please kill me.

Just fucking smite me. Smite me now.

I bow my head low, forehead barely hovering above the desk. If this was a battlefield, I'd be the one lying face down, shot through the chest, waiting for the crows to start feasting.

My lips are pressed together, breath shallow.

Take my soul, God. Please. Do it fast. Let it be clean. One shot. No resurrection.

The projector light flickers on the board.

White screen. Black text.

Names. Submission times. Order.

Shaiza Azmi Fariha.

Ruby Kate Bennett.

Ifrah Samah Zubair.

Each name hits like a gavel.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

And then—

I remember him.

That fucking face.

Hair like sin. Eyes like murder. Brows made to wreck pride and purity in a single stare.

Why—

Why the fuck is my brain serving that face right now like it's comfort food during my execution?

This is not the time.

This is not the time to think about a stranger I saw for three fucking seconds at a traffic stop.

Not when I'm about to get publicly gutted by a woman who probably sleeps next to a red pen.

I push the image out of my skull. Or try to.

And then—

"Arshila Eshaal Mirza."

My entire skeleton jumps.

I flinch so violently, my knee slams the bottom of the desk. A sharp crack. My teeth snap shut.

Everyone turns.

I lift my head slowly. Slowly. Like I'm peeking into my own funeral.

Dr. Vaughan is staring directly at me. No smirk. No smile. Just those eyes—sharp, always sharp.

I nod once, tight. Gutted. Braced.

And then—

"You're the class coordinator," she says, tone clipped but clear. "Which means I expect more from you than most."

I swallow. Hard.

Here it comes.

"The class has eighty-eight students enrolled."

She turns to face the rest of the room now. Back straight, hands clasped in front of her like she's delivering divine judgment.

"Eighty of them submitted their projects on time."

My friends shift nervously. Even Ifrah blinks, confused.

Vaughan continues.

"Out of those eighty… only one project received an A-high."

My stomach knots.

Ifrah.

It has to be fucking Ifrah. She's the quiet genius with zero distractions and perfect scores and the soul of a fucking pencil sharpener.

"I'll admit," Vaughan says, her voice dropping, "I didn't expect it from her."

My brows furrow.

Wait.

Her?

Me?

"I've seen students write well. I've seen projects with depth. But this—"

She turns back to me.

"This one surprised me."

Okay, what the actual fuck?

I tilt my head slightly. Mouth dry. Hands clammy.

The projector shifts again. The top of the list appears.

Big. Bold.

Name: Arshila Eshaal Mirza

Time Submitted: 03:04 a.m.

My jaw drops open.

The class is staring at me.

I whip my head toward my friends. Wide-eyed. Dazed.

They're staring too.

Ruby: Is she serious?

Shaiza: You what?

Ifrah: …The fuck?

I shake my head. Tiny motion. Desperate.

No.

I didn't.

I. Fucking. Didn't.

This is some glitch. Some cruel, public prank. Maybe someone hacked the system and put my name there just for a laugh.

My friends are still staring, their expressions slowly morphing from confused to suspicious as hell.

I mouth to them, I swear I didn't.

Shaiza mouths back, You're high.

Ruby whispers, "Did you have a blackout or something?"

Ifrah just mutters, "This can't be real."

Vaughan steps forward, clicking through the file. The screen blinks again.

Text appears. Bold quotes. Annotated notes. Paragraphs upon paragraphs.

I recognize the style.

The sarcasm. The sharp metaphors. The cursed similes. The buried rage under poetic lines.

It's me.

That's my voice.

But I never wrote this.

Did I?

No.

No, I didn't.

Right?

"I was furious at the 3 a.m. timestamp," Vaughan says. "But then I read it. And…"

She breathes in, slow.

"…It stunned me."

The class is so silent, you could hear a breath hitch from across the room.

"I've never read a project that captured the complexity of grief, power, and feminine anger like this one did. Not in years. Maybe not ever."

I want to scream.

Or laugh.

Or throw up.

What the fuck is happening?

"I'm angry she didn't take my deadline seriously," Vaughan adds, then pauses—

"But I'm impressed. I thought she didn't pay attention. I thought she wasted her talent."

Then she looks at me again.

"But I was wrong."

She gestures toward me like I'm some statue people should admire in a museum of trauma.

"Stand up."

I don't move.

She repeats, "Stand up, Arshila."

My body moves before my brain agrees. I push myself up, slowly, stiffly. My legs shake.

"She deserves applause," Vaughan says simply.

No one claps.

Not at first.

They're too stunned.

Then slowly—Shaiza claps.

Ruby follows. Then Ifrah. Then the class joins in like they're at a funeral and someone's giving a eulogy and they're not sure if they should clap or cry.

I'm standing there like a ghost.

My brain is peeling apart.

The applause blurs out. My heart thumps so hard I feel it behind my eyes.

I'm not high. I'm not dreaming. I'm awake. I'm standing in this room and getting applauded for a project I didn't submit.

Or… maybe I did?

No.

I know I didn't.

But it's there.

In the system.

In her hands.

In front of everyone.

And the name?

It's mine.

---