NO REWRITE. NO FALSE LAYERS. JUST OPHELIA

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

A sparring match. That was all it was. That’s what she told herself as she stood under the cold spray of the dormitory shower, steam curling around her like the ghosts of things she didn’t want to feel.

But his smirk wouldn’t leave her head.

His voice — “I think you like me.”

Wrong. Absolutely wrong. Carl Maddox was everything she hated: arrogant, chaotic, disruptive in more ways than one.

And yet… when he touched her, her mind went quiet.

Too quiet.

She couldn’t hear the memories. Couldn’t feel the pull of other people’s stories. Her gift vanished when he made contact, and in that silence, she remembered what it was like to just be her.

No rewrites. No false layers. Just Ophelia.

And it scared the hell out of her.

She dried off, threw on her uniform, and stormed out of the bathroom, hoping she could outrun the thought of him.

“You’re distracted,” Lilith said over breakfast the next day, narrowing her eyes like a cat who’d smelled a secret.

Ophelia stabbed her scrambled eggs. “I’m not.”

“Then why did you just put salt in your orange juice?”

She looked down. Damn it.

Lilith smirked, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “Is this about Carl?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Ophelia sighed, pushing her tray away. “He gets under my skin.”

“He’s hot.”

“He’s infuriating.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

She glared. “Do you want to die?”

Lilith grinned wider. “Not before I see how this plays out.”

Before Ophelia could respond, the cafeteria lights flickered — once, then twice. A low hum rose in the air, followed by a sudden, sharp pulse of static that made everyone wince.

The screen behind the serving station blinked red.

“ATTENTION: Unauthorized Power Surge Detected in Sector C.”

Lilith stood. “That’s not good.”

Ophelia was already moving. Her dorm was in Sector C.

And something — no, someone — was trying to send a message.

By the time Ophelia reached her dorm, the air was thick with tension.

The door was ajar.

She moved carefully, fingers twitching with the readiness to strike, but her gift was already pinging — someone had tampered with her room, her things, her memories.

She stepped inside.

Everything looked intact. Her bed. Her shelves. The worn copy of Psychic Biowarfare: Vol 1 on her desk. But when she reached into her drawer, her notebook was gone.

The black one.

The one she’d hidden memories inside.

She spun just as a voice spoke from behind her.

“You shouldn’t leave things unprotected, Wolfe.”

Carl.

Of course.

He leaned against the frame of her window, notebook in hand, flipping it open like he had every right to.

Her blood boiled.

“You broke into my room?”

He held up a finger. “Correction. I neutralized the lock.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re hiding something.”

She marched toward him. “Give it. Back.”

“Tell me what’s in it.”

Her hand reached out to snatch it, but the second her fingers brushed the cover, he dropped it — and the pages scattered like feathers across the floor.

Dozens of memory fragments fluttered through the air — snapshots of voices, faces, secret missions, and one particular memory…

Of him.

Lips. Hands. Fire.

It wasn’t real — a planted scenario, an experiment she’d conducted on herself to test the limits of her powers. But it felt real enough now.

Carl’s eyes met hers, all the teasing gone.

“You rewrote me?”

She swallowed. “I erased it.”

“Then why does it still burn?”