Chapter 1: The Late Arrival

Chapter 1: The Late Arrival

The Gothic spires of Blackwood Preparatory Academy clawed at the bruised twilight sky, mocking Leo Vance’s frantic pace. Each ragged breath he sucked in was a knife of icy air in his lungs. His worn sneakers slapped against the ancient, moss-kissed flagstones of the main quad, the sound swallowed whole by the oppressive silence of the campus.

He was late. Unforgivably, disastrously late.

The scholarship exam for Blackwood was his only chance. A full ride. The kind of opportunity that didn't just open doors but blasted them off their hinges for a kid from his neighborhood. It was the golden ticket that would lift the crushing weight of his mother’s medical bills, a weight he felt pressing down on his own shoulders with every step.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the ivy-choked walls, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. For a fleeting, nauseating moment, his mind replaced it with another smell—the sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic. He saw the pale, floral curtains of his mother's hospital room, heard the gentle, rhythmic beep of the machine that was her constant companion.

This is for her, he thought, shoving the image down and forcing more speed into his burning legs. This has to be for her.

The bus had broken down, of course. A plume of black smoke and a final, pathetic shudder a full two miles from the academy’s ornate iron gates. He’d run the whole way, his backpack bouncing against his spine like a punishing drumbeat.

He finally found the building—'Covington Hall' was etched in severe letters above a colossal oak door. Pushing it open, Leo stumbled into a cavernous, echoing lobby. The air inside was shockingly cold, smelling of old paper, floor polish, and something else, something vaguely metallic and unsettling that he couldn't quite place. The long, stone corridors stretched out like skeletal fingers, absorbing all sound. The rumors he'd dismissed as high school gossip about Blackwood—of strange disappearances and an unnerving atmosphere—suddenly felt a little too real.

Room 303. His hurried footsteps were the only sound as he took the grand, sweeping staircase two steps at a time. The third floor was even quieter, the portraits of stern-faced headmasters from centuries past watching his undignified scramble with cold, painted eyes.

He found it. Room 303. The door was a heavy slab of dark wood, slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he slipped inside, his apology already forming on his lips.

“I’m so sorry, the bus—it broke down, and I—”

The words died in his throat. The room was vast, with a vaulted ceiling and tall, arched windows that looked out onto the darkening grounds. But it was empty. Rows upon rows of vacant wooden desks sat in perfect, unnerving alignment. There were no other students, no rustling papers, no nervous coughs. There was only silence, and a single man standing at the front of the room.

He was a gaunt, severe-looking man, perhaps in his late fifties, stitched into a perfectly pressed, old-fashioned tweed suit. His thinning grey hair was combed neatly over a pale scalp, and his posture was unnaturally rigid, as if his spine were a steel rod. He held a gleaming silver stopwatch in one hand.

The man didn't look up immediately. He seemed to be studying the rhythmic swing of the stopwatch’s second hand, his thin lips curved into the faintest, cruelest hint of a smile. The soft click-click-click of the mechanism was the only sound, a tiny, sharp heartbeat in the tomb-like silence.

“You are Leo Vance,” the man stated. It wasn't a question. His voice was like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

The examiner finally lifted his head. His eyes were a piercing, cold grey, the color of a winter sky over a frozen lake. They held no warmth, no irritation, only a detached, analytical chill that made the hairs on Leo’s arms stand up.

“Tardiness is a symptom of a disorderly mind, Mr. Vance. An indicator of failure before the task has even begun,” the man said, his gaze unwavering. “However, the rules of this particular examination are… flexible. Take the seat in the front row.”

Relief, potent and dizzying, washed over Leo. He hadn't blown it. He hurried to the desk, his backpack sliding to the floor with a soft thud. On the polished wood surface lay a single sheet of paper, face down.

“You may begin when instructed,” the examiner said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he began to pace slowly, silently, at the front of the room.

Leo took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic thumping in his chest. He clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. This was it. Physics, History, Advanced Calculus—whatever they threw at him, he was ready. He’d studied until his eyes burned. He could do this.

He turned the paper over.

His confidence evaporated, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. This wasn't a scholarship exam. The font was archaic, the layout strange. At the top of the page, instead of ‘Blackwood Academy Placement Examination,’ were two words in a severe, serif font:

APPLIED THANATOLOGY

What the hell was Thanatology? The word itself felt alien, dangerous. Below it, in crisp, block letters that seemed to mock him, was his own name.

[STUDENT: LEO VANCE]

His blood ran cold. He hadn’t written that. It was printed, part of the document itself. How could they know he’d be the one sitting at this specific desk?

“Sir,” Leo began, his voice cracking. “I think there’s been a mistake. This isn’t… this isn’t my subject.”

The examiner stopped his pacing directly beside Leo’s desk. He didn't look down at Leo, but instead at the large, institutional clock on the far wall. “There is no mistake, Mr. Vance. The paper before you is the one you are intended to complete.”

Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was wrong. All of it. The empty room, the cold examiner, this bizarre test paper. He had to get out, find a real proctor, explain the situation.

He pushed his chair back, ready to stand, but a sudden, sharp sound froze him in place.

CLICK.

The sound was as loud as a gunshot in the suffocating silence. Leo’s head snapped towards the door. The examiner was standing there now, his back to the room. He had just turned the heavy iron key in the lock. The finality of the sound echoed in the vast, empty space. He was trapped.

The examiner turned around slowly, the key now gone, presumably in his pocket. He walked back to his position at the front, raised the silver stopwatch, and looked directly at Leo. The cruel smile was back, wider this time.

“Ten minutes,” the examiner said, his voice a dry rustle of command. He clicked the button on top of the stopwatch. “Begin.”

The timer had started. Panicked, his gaze dropped back to the paper. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of the nonsensical situation. With a trembling hand, he focused on the first question, the words swimming before his eyes until they sharpened into horrifying clarity.

Question 1: The average adult human body contains approximately 5.6 liters of blood. Describe, in clinical detail, three methods of exsanguination that would maximize arterial spray while minimizing damage to the primary organs. Diagrams are encouraged.