The page was close to tearing. Veyn had written over the same corner three times without meaning to, the ink pooling dark and wet. He stopped. Set the pen down. Looked at what he’d written and couldn’t say when he’d written it.

Outside the window, everything that wasn’t this building was ruins. An office block, maybe, or something that had been a hospital; it leaned against the orange sky, its upper floors open to weather that had been getting in for years. Snow sat in the gaps. Nothing moved.

He looked at it until it stopped meaning anything.

Voices in the corridor. Veyn heard them, snapping him off his thoughts. He turned to the door. His number was on his door. 2B.

He didn’t move. His legs had been bad for some days, the bruising deep enough that sitting down was the only position that didn’t cost him something. He stayed in his chair, and just gazed outside.

“Veyn Kmerst.”

It took him by surprise. He got up. It took a moment; he had to push off the desk with both hands, let the pain settle before he trusted his weight to his legs. He crossed the room and opened the door the width of his hand.

Two boys in blue. They looked at each other when they saw him, the way people did when they expected someone different. Someone larger, harder to drag.

“What,” he said.

“Are you Cold Wind?”

The corridor went quiet. Even the voices further down stopped, like sound itself had flinched.

The name rang in his ears once, twice and then his body moved before he decided anything. He crossed the room and slammed the door. A boot caught the frame. A hand caught his wrist.

“You’re coming to the main office,” the taller boy said, grip tightening. “We have questions regarding the murder of Tiuhar Reese.”

His arms couldn’t do anything with that grip and they both knew it. They walked him out into the corridor, the Academic Center opening up around them, its halls wide enough to swallow sound, built to hold thousands of teenagers and no one else, because there was no one else.

He kept up as well as he could.

⁂

“I don’t know.”

He said it the same way he’d said it the previous three times. The boy across the table exhaled and leaned back, then stood and came around and crouched until his face was level with Veyn’s.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” He almost managed a smile.

Veyn looked at him. “Or else.”

“Or else—”

The door opened. The boy who walked in was tall, formally dressed, the kind of person who moved like rooms were already his. Veyn’s eyes went to him.

The boy looked at the man crouching beside Veyn, then at Veyn.

“Or else what?” he said.

He didn’t raise his voice. He moved until he was between them, crouched where the man had been crouching, and said quietly:

“Last Tuesday was a warning. This is a murder case.” He let that sit for a moment. “So, you understand the difference.”

Veyn looked at him. His wrist was still in the man’s grip. His legs still hurt. None of that had changed.

“I understand it,” Veyn said. “Do you, Aare?”

The room went very quiet.

Aare’s face changed in the way faces do when someone says something that shouldn’t be possible. He was used to sir. He was used to pres. He was not used to his name, spoken flatly, by a fifteen-year-old with bruises on his wrist, four years his junior, looking up at him like the height difference meant nothing.

He grabbed Veyn’s face. Not a slap, just his hand, fingers pressing into his jaw.

“I went easy on you,” he said. “Understand that. I went easy.” He held it a moment longer. “This is a murder case. I will have you exiled. Out there.” He didn’t gesture at the window. He didn’t need to. “Do you understand what that means.”

He let go. The push came after, not hard. The chair tipped and Veyn went with it, one shoulder hitting the floor.

Aare straightened his jacket. Looked at the interrogator.

“Make sure he speaks, Trin.”

“Yes — yes, I will.”

Aare left. The door clicked shut behind him.

Trin stood there for a moment. Then he walked over to where Veyn was still on the floor and kicked him in the stomach.

Veyn gasped. The air left him and the sound that came out was small and involuntary and he hated that it was.

“Just confess,” he said. “Please, just — confess.”

“Why,” Veyn said, still bent, still catching his breath, “are you so desperate.”

“What?”

Veyn straightened slowly. His stomach was going to bruise. “You came here in a hurry.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’re student council.” Veyn looked at him. “But half your shirt isn’t tucked in. And you don’t have your glasses.”

Trin went still.

“How do you know I wear glasses.”

“Your nose was almost touching the sheet, that’s how close you kept the sheets. People do it when things are blurry.”

Silence.

Then Trin pulled the chair around and sat on it backwards, arms folded over the back, looking at Veyn with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“I get it now,” he said. “Why they call you that.”

Veyn didn’t say anything.

“Top of every exam. Knows everything about everything. Stays invisible, from everyone.” He leaned forward. “And now here you are.”

“I’m not them.”

“Sure.” He let the word sit. “Sure you’re not.”

A long pause. The room had no window. The light above them hummed.

“Is there even any evidence,” Veyn said.

“Oh, there’s evidence.”

“What kind.”

“Someone saw you. That night.”

Veyn looked at him. “That’s an eyewitness.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not evidence.”

Trin’s expression didn’t change. “It’s enough.”

“It isn’t.” Veyn leaned back slightly. “Before the collapse, courts existed. Proper ones. And in those courts, eyewitness testimony had the lowest credibility of any evidence type. A person can believe what they saw and still be wrong. Darkness. Distance. They see a shape and they fill in the rest themselves.”

Trin was quiet for a moment.

“Interesting,” he said. “So where were you? Ten to midnight, two nights ago.”

“My room. Reading.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.”

“No alibi.”

“No.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

“You know what that means,” he said.

Veyn didn’t answer.

Trin stood, moved to the door, and stopped with his hand on the frame.

“You’re finished,” he said, without turning around. “I’ll make sure of it. Until then—” he glanced back, “stay here.”

The door closed.

⁂

The room had one chair, one table, and four walls. Veyn touched each wall in turn, not looking for a way out; there wasn’t one.

Two nights ago. He retraced it without closing his eyes. Mess hall, then corridor, then his room. He hadn’t left after that. He was certain of it.

He sat. Pulled a blank sheet from the document pile, the printed side face-down, irrelevant, and found a pencil.

He wrote what he knew about Tiuhar Reese.

Popular. Athletic. The kind of boy who borrowed answers before exams, barely passing. Same classroom as Veyn, different atmosphere entirely. Tiuhar moved through rooms like he owned the air in them, laughing too loud, always three girls nearby, never seemingly aware that grades were something to worry about. He’d never once looked at Veyn’s scores. His were enough to keep him comfortable.

Veyn’s hand stopped.

Someone is framing me.

He wrote names underneath. Everyone he could place near Tiuhar in the last week. The list was short and insufficient and he knew it; no murder weapon, no location, no timeline beyond what Trin had given him, which was almost nothing.

“Like the murder weapon and place of death?”

He turned.

A girl was leaning in the doorway with her arms folded, head tilted, watching him like he was mildly interesting television. Pale. Silver bangs covering the left side of her face entirely. Her one visible eye was bright.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said, though he hadn’t said anything. She pushed off the frame and walked in like she’d been invited, glancing around the room with mild disappointment. “They really put you in this one. Charming.”

He looked at the open door.

“Sielsia Serebryakova.” She dropped into his chair without asking. “Head of Mist Tree. We’re a club. Very exclusive, very mysterious, the name’s a pun.” She picked up his pencil, looked at it, set it down. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“Okay, cool.” She spun the pencil once. “Then we need to fix this.”

She leaned over and looked at his notes sideways, hair falling across her face. “Body was in the bushes in front of the main building, by the way. Whoever did it was sloppy. Like, embarrassingly sloppy.”

“What else do you know.”

“Mmm.” She straightened. “Trin will give you the rest without meaning to. He’s not very good at this.”

“What do you mean, the rest. How much do you know.”

“Enough.” She grinned. “Enough to know it wasn’t you, anyway. The kill was sloppy. You’re not sloppy.” A pause. “Honestly it’s kind of a compliment.”

“Then help me.”

“Nope.”

He stared at her.

“I could,” she said, completely unbothered. “I’ve done it before, solved things, helped people, very noble, whatever. But you?” She pointed the pencil at him. “You can do this yourself. I know you well enough.”

“We’ve never met.”

She opened her mouth —

“SIELSIA.”

Trin in the doorway. Glasses on now. Face doing several things at once. His eyes went to her, to Veyn, to the open door, back to her.

“How are you in here.”

She turned and waved at him like he was very far away. “My friend’s in council? Ring any bells?”

He crossed the room toward her. She turned back to Veyn, and for just a second the grin was something quieter.

“Solve this,” she said. “And I’ll tell you something you’ve been looking for your whole life.”

Trin had her arm and she went with it, feet dragging, free hand waving lazily at Veyn over her shoulder as the door shut between them.

The room was quiet.

“So.” Trin straightened. “What did she say?”

Veyn was looking at the door. Lost in her words.

“Hey.”

“Nothing,” Veyn said. “She said nothing.”

Trin held his gaze a moment, then looked down at the sheet in Veyn’s hand. He took it, read it, crumpled it — document side, Veyn’s writing, everything — and dropped it on the floor.

“Your theories? Huh? None of those matters. We found the murder weapon.”

Veyn straightened.

The word sat in the room for a moment. Trin let it.

“A knife.” Trin watched his face. “With your fingerprints on it.”

A long moment.

“You think I’m stupid,” Veyn said.

“What?”

“Do you think Cold Wind is stupid.”

Trin didn’t answer.

“Because if I killed someone. if Cold Wind killed someone, why would I leave the knife? Why no gloves? Why not dispose of it properly?” He paused. “You’re telling me the person who has been terrorizing this entire academy for months forgot the most basic thing.”

Trin’s jaw tightened. “Fine,” he said, after a moment. “Maybe you’re not Cold Wind.” He pulled the chair out and sat down, slowly, like he was thinking while he did it. “But that doesn’t clear you of this. Maybe this was your first kill. Maybe you panicked. Maybe you made mistakes you wouldn’t make again.”

Veyn looked at him. “Where were you?”

“Excuse me?”

“During the time of the murder. Where were you.”

Trin leaned back. “You’re questioning me now.”

“You’re questioning me.”

“Upper front classrooms,” he said. “Six floors up. By the time I got down and back, the murder time window would have already closed. And I have witnesses who saw me leave.”

“Convenient,” Veyn said.

“Confess,” Trin said. The word came out flat, tired almost. “Just confess, and this gets easier for everyone.”

“I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.”

Trin stood. He didn’t rush — he pushed back the chair, stood, walked around the table with the same deliberate pace, like he had all the time there was. Veyn tracked him without turning his head.

Then Trin’s forearm was across his throat, pressing him back against the wall. Not violent, exactly. Controlled. Enough to make breathing require attention.

Veyn put his hands at his sides. There was nothing useful to do with them.

“Confess or don’t,” Trin said, close now. “It doesn’t matter as much as you think. I’ll find the truth either way.” A pause. “And when I do.”

He let it hang there, unfinished. Then stepped back.

Veyn’s breath came back in increments. He stayed against the wall for a moment before pushing off it.

Trin smoothed his jacket. Looked at the room like he was checking he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“You’re staying here.” He moved to the door, opened it, and said something to whoever was in the corridor. His voice was too low to catch. Then he walked out without looking back.

The door stayed open.

A boy appeared in the frame a moment later. Younger than Trin by at least two years, slight, standing with the careful posture of someone who had been corrected about it enough times that it had become habit. He looked at Veyn, then at the room, then at Veyn again.

“I’m Snirt,” he said. “I’ve been asked to—”

“I know,” Veyn said.

Snirt nodded. He came in and took a position near the wall. Standing, not sitting. Hands at his sides.

Veyn looked at the table. Then at the ceiling. Then he pulled the chair out, considered it, and lay flat on the table instead, arms folded over his chest, staring up at the light.

Snirt watched him.

Time passed. The light hummed.

“Why are you staring at me,” Veyn said, to the ceiling.

“I was told to keep an eye on you.”

“So you’re like Trin.”

Snirt shifted his weight. “What do you mean.”

“Strict about your duties.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Not really. I mean, Trin is dedicated, yeah. He worked hard to get where he is. Follows orders. I’m not like that.”

“Being dedicated to your work isn’t a bad thing.”

“No,” Snirt said. “It’s not. Until it starts showing up on other people.” A pause. “Like it did when he had a girlfriend.”

Veyn turned his head slightly on the table. “Had?” Veyn said.

“It’s… nothing. Forget I said—”

“They broke up.”

“I wish it were that simple.” The words came out before Snirt could stop them. He pressed his lips together.

Veyn waited.

“She cheated on him,” Snirt said, quieter.

“Oh.”

A long pause. Snirt looked at the door. Looked at his own hands. Kept going anyway, like the sentence had already started and stopping it now would be worse.

“But that’s not, the reason it wasn’t simple. He found out the same day she killed herself.”

The light hummed.

“Dvoly,” Snirt said. “You might know the name. Few months ago. Student council did the preliminary work. Mist Tree ruled it suicide.” He stopped. Then, almost to himself: “The reason nobody knows. Why she did it. Except Trin.”

Veyn said nothing.

“He saw the note at the scene. Read it. Just stood there. Then crumpled it and said, quiet, like he forgot I was right beside him, ‘so she was cheating on me the whole time.’” Snirt’s voice had gone careful, like he was only now hearing what he was saying. “He didn’t share it. But it didn’t matter. Suicide. No culprit.”

The silence lingered after Snirt stopped talking.

“No culprit,” Veyn said, still looking at the ceiling.

The silence stayed longer than it should have

 “Before the collapse,” he slowly started, “every country had its own laws.”

“That’s a given,” Snirt said. “Every functioning society needs them. Different regions, different laws.”

“True. But some laws were nearly uniform across all of them.”

Snirt thought about it. “Theft. Murder. Arson. Things that endanger people. Society can’t hold together if people are free to harm each other.”

“Yes. But there was also a law,” Veyn said, “that punished people for abetting someone’s suicide.”

Snirt was quiet for a moment. “Really.”

“I read the cases. Most of the time, that law was just a thread that led to something worse. Blackmail. Abuse. The suicide note alone was rarely enough to make the charge stick.”

“I mean, different people have different limits. You can’t always know what someone can take. Even a small argument.”

Veyn looked at his wrists. The skin there was still raised from earlier, the grip marks beginning to color. “That small argument wasn’t small for that person.” He paused. “You may never know how deep it went.”

“So what, we should walk on eggshells around everyone? Make sure nothing we say ever pushes anyone over, just to protect ourselves from punishment?”

“No.” Veyn looked at the door. “And that’s probably why that law was never absolute. An absolute law would make society revolt.”

A silence.

“Or,” he said, quieter, “when the people at the top are powerful enough, there’s no one left to revolt.”

Snirt followed his gaze to the locked door. He understood what Veyn meant and didn’t say so.

“Murder is something everyone hates,” Snirt said. “Don’t expect pity.”

“I didn’t kill Tiuhar.”

Snirt looked at him. Veyn’s eyes were dark-circled, the pupils wide in the dim room. But steady. Whatever was behind them wasn’t moving.

“Even if you didn’t,” Snirt said, “the evidence holds against you.”

The room sat with that. Veyn looked at the ceiling again. Snirt looked at the wall. Neither of them spoke.

“Where did Trin go?” Veyn said, eventually.

“Searching your room. For more evidence.”

Veyn’s eyes opened fully. He sat up from the table in one motion and looked at Snirt.

“What do you mean.”

“What, scared he’ll find something?”

He was off the table and at the door before Snirt finished the sentence. The handle didn’t move. He tried it again, both hands this time, his whole weight behind it, which wasn’t much.

“Trin has the key,” Snirt said, standing now. “You can’t—”

Veyn’s fist hit the door. Then again. The sound rang down the corridor outside and came back to them, and he kept going, palm flat now, the impact traveling up his arm into the shoulder he’d landed on earlier.

“Hey—”

“I can’t let them see it.” His voice had changed. The flatness was gone. “I can’t… please.” The last word came out small, almost without him meaning it, absorbed into the wood of the door.

The handle turned from the other side.

Veyn stepped back. The door opened, and Trin came in holding a sheet of paper. He looked at Veyn. Then at the door, which had clearly been taking a beating. Then back at Veyn.

He didn’t say anything yet. He just held the sheet, and looked at him, and waited.