Chapter 9 - The Trials of Bajookiland

  Ezra had expected the White-Coat University to be rigorous.

  He had prepared himself for physical conditioning, for the kind of academic dismantling that would break him down and rebuild him in the White-Coat way. He had braced for sleepless nights, for incomprehensible equations, for grueling lectures that would turn theoretical physics into an art form only the insane could decipher.

  What he had not expected…

  Was Bajookiland.

  Before his mind could be destroyed, they first had to break his body.

  The first month of university wasn’t spent in a lecture hall or a laboratory but in the wilderness, running miles upon miles under the burning sun. The White-Coats believed that a weak body led to a weak mind, and if one’s cardio wasn’t perfect, then one was not prepared for the challenges of the universe.

  Ezra’s past in construction and electrical work had kept him physically strong, but this? This was a whole different beast.

  Day in, day out, he was forced to run obnoxious distances, carrying weighted backpacks, training alongside other students who looked just as miserable as he felt. The instructors—seasoned, terrifying individuals clad in stark white uniforms that never seemed to get dirty—pushed them harder with every passing week.

  One particularly cruel instructor, Professor Ulrich, had a fondness for making them run drills in full suits, claiming, "If you can’t run five miles while wearing a three-piece tuxedo, then you’ll never survive in high society."

  Ezra had no idea why this skill mattered, but at this point, questioning anything was pointless.

  By the end of the boot camp, Ezra had never felt more exhausted, but he had to admit—he had never been in better shape. And just when he thought things might settle into something normal, the real nightmare began.

  Ezra stared at his professor.

  His eyelids twitched. His mind tried to reject what was happening.

  The elderly man at the front of the small, dimly lit classroom wore a ceremonial white robe, trimmed with golden embroidery that shimmered faintly under the artificial lights. He held a wooden staff, its head carved into the unmistakable shape of a rubber chicken wearing a tiny crown.

  On the chalkboard behind him, written in perfect, swirling calligraphy, were the words:

  Ezra immediately regretted every choice that led him here.

  The professor, who had only introduced himself as Professor Baldric the Unyielding, stroked his beard and peered down at the class of eight students as if they were humble disciples waiting to receive forbidden knowledge.

  "Before we begin," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with gravitas, "you must understand one fundamental truth."

  A pause.

  "Bajookiland is eternal."

  Ezra pressed his fingers into his temples. Baldric continued, pacing slowly across the room. "It is older than the stars, yet it has never existed. It is the birthplace of kings, the forge of destiny, the cradle of civilization, and the final bastion against the Unholy Forces of the Anti-Bajookian League, otherwise known as the Tax Collectors."

  Ezra blinked. "I'm sorry. The what now?" Baldric ignored him.

  "Some say Bajookiland was once located in what modern maps call Antarctica. Others believe it was a floating kingdom that orbited Jupiter, only to be cast down to Earth by jealous gods. But the most enlightened among us"—he tapped his temple—"know the truth: Bajookiland is a state of mind."

  Ezra felt pain behind his eyes. Surely, this was a test. Surely, this wasn’t real history. And yet—None of the other students were objecting. Some even took notes, nodding solemnly, as if this were the most normal lesson in the world. Ezra glanced at Julie’s notes from history class back in community college. She had told him about this. The sheer level of nonsense was unbearable.

  Baldric continued.

  "Rome? Ah, yes, the great empire that spanned not just across Earth, but to the stars beyond." He spread his arms wide. "Before the fall of the Bajookian Senate, before the Great Ketchup War of 4002, before the Grand Migration of the Hamburger Nomads, Rome stretched from the lowliest European hilltop to the farthest reaches of the Andromeda system!"

  Ezra raised a hand. Baldric slowly turned to him, eyes sharp with divine irritation. "Yes, young apprentice?"

  Ezra cleared his throat. "Uh. Professor. Rome, like, the Roman Empire, right? The one from actual history? They never even went to the moon. Let alone to—"

  A student beside him gasped audibly. Baldric narrowed his eyes. "You dare question the annals of history?" Ezra fought the urge to scream.

  At first, Ezra resisted. He spent the next few lectures trying to grapple with reality, to find some semblance of logic in the nonsense he was being fed.

  But then—He realized something. This was a game. The more he played along, the more they encouraged him. So, the next time Professor Baldric ranted about how Mr. Jesus, the icon of outdated religion, had in fact ascended to godhood through the power of oil and cosmic real estate, Ezra nodded solemnly and added:

  "Yes, and it is said his Podcast of Divine Wisdom reached a billion subscribers before the fall of the Old Internet."

  Baldric beamed with approval. One of the students—a lanky guy named Marcus—even wrote it down. And Ezra realized the truth. The way to survive this wasn’t to resist. It was to bullshit back just as hard as they were bullshitting him. And suddenly, everything made sense.

  By the end of the semester, Ezra was no longer a passive observer. He actively participated, creating new historical events that his professor gleefully approved of.

  The Great Tax Rebellion of the Bajookian Golden Age?

  Ezra fabricated it on the spot.

  The 47-Hour Reign of King Cheeseburger XLVIII?

  Ezra added dramatic embellishments about his downfall due to dietary choices and betrayal by his salad-eating councilors.

  And the final test? A paper on "The Rise and Fall of the Bajookian Podcast Empire." Ezra turned it in with pride. He got an A+. Of course he did. Because none of this was real history.

  It was a trial.

  A trial that he had passed with flying colors. And as Ezra walked out of class that day, he finally understood what Julie had meant. These people weren’t scholars. They were cooks.

  And now, somehow, he was one of them.

  The semester had ended.

  Summer break was on the horizon. The students who had survived the boot camp of academia were already making plans—some to return home, others to internships in industries Ezra could barely comprehend.

  But Ezra? He was at his breaking point. This… all of this. There was no way this was real. For months, he had played along with the Bajookiland nonsense, crafting ridiculous tales about star-spanning Roman Empires, cosmic podcasts, and the divine right of fast-food monarchs.

  And they encouraged him.

  No, worse—they rewarded him.

  But the moment he stepped away from it, the moment he thought about it logically, something gnawed at him. Why the theatrics? Why the obnoxious rewriting of history? If this was just some rich people’s game, some elite intellectual club, why the hell were the White-Coats so deeply entrenched in real-world advancements?

  He needed answers. Which was why, instead of heading toward his dorm to pack, Ezra found himself standing outside Professor Baldric’s office long after school hours.

  And for the first time since joining the university, he was going to break the rules.

  The office door was cracked open. Ezra knocked anyway. A muffled, unbothered "Enter." He pushed the door wider, stepping into what looked less like an academic office and more like the living space of a medieval sorcerer who had long since stopped giving a damn.

  Candles flickered in the corners. Ancient scrolls and leather-bound tomes were stacked chaotically across the shelves. A kettle of tea boiled in the corner, the steam curling through the dimly lit room.

  And there, seated at his desk in what appeared to be a bathrobe, was Professor Baldric the Unyielding.

  Ezra stared. “Uh… you’re not in your normal robes.”

  Baldric took a slow sip of tea, not looking up. “It’s after hours, Mr. Key. I don’t wear official ceremonial garments when I’m off duty.”

  Ezra pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re bathrobes.”

  Baldric finally met his gaze, deadpan. "Every man is entitled to leisure, Mr.Ezra."

  Ezra exhaled. This was already off to a terrible start.

  Ezra knew he couldn’t just ask outright if any of this was real. That would be the fastest way to be thrown out on his ass—or worse, to be fed even more layers of bullshit. So instead, he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Professor,” he said slowly, “why is history so… different?”

  Baldric blinked once, setting his tea aside. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Ezra gestured vaguely. “I mean—there’s what I learned growing up, the actual history, and then there’s… this. The Bajookiland version of history.”

  Baldric smiled slightly. “Ah. You wish to know why the common people believe in a simpler, more linear narrative?” Ezra felt the trap but stepped forward anyway.

  “Yes.”

  Baldric steepled his fingers. “Because most people cannot think critically, Ezra. They do not wish to. They require a narrative, a structured story to rule over them. Something digestible.”

  Ezra frowned. "But then why Bajookiland? Wouldn’t… wouldn’t propaganda be easier? A more direct control of information?"

  Baldric lifted a brow, as if Ezra had missed the most obvious point.

  "Because," he said simply, "Bajookiland is eternal."

  Ezra squinted at him, waiting for elaboration.

  The professor sighed, standing from his chair. He walked over to one of the many shelves, scanning his fingers across a row of tattered books before pulling one out. He returned to his desk, placing the book in front of Ezra with deliberate care.

  Ezra picked it up. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked. The title was embossed in golden filigree, though the name had long since faded, leaving only a whisper of letters barely visible under the light.

  Baldric leaned in slightly. “You are correct to be skeptical,” he murmured. “But there is more to history than simple books.”

  Ezra slowly opened the cover, flipping through the first few pages. The writing was dense, handwritten, filled with meticulously detailed accounts of events that had no business existing. The more he read, the more absurd it became. It wasn’t just some random story about Bajookiland. It was a lifetime of work—someone had spent years, if not decades, building this world from scratch.

  And yet—There was something about the way it was written, the way the details interwove, that felt too cohesive to be mere fiction. Ezra looked up. Baldric’s expression had changed. The usual twinkle of amusement was gone, replaced with something colder, sharper, more real than anything Ezra had seen before.

  He wasn’t playing anymore.

  “There are kernels of truth to every story, every myth, every legend,” Baldric said softly.

  Ezra stayed quiet.

  “The White Wizard of Bajookiland—the one who created an unimaginably prosperous land, one ahead of its time—he was real.”

  Ezra’s breath hitched.

  Baldric’s eyes flickered with something almost reverent.

  "There are forces," he continued, voice lower now, "that neither you nor I could possibly comprehend. Those forces struck him down, tore apart what he built, erased him from history. But we—we—carry on his spirit."

  Ezra could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

  "The legends we tell, the ridiculousness we spin?" Baldric gestured around them. "They preserve what needs to be saved, and they make light of what is too heavy for one man to bear."

  Ezra swallowed. This was unreal. But these people—these White-Coats—they weren’t just meme-loving scholars. They had a goal.

  A real one.

  And that goal was to restore something lost. Something the world wasn’t ready to remember yet. Ezra finally found his voice. "If this is true… why the secrecy?"

  Baldric’s smirk returned. "Because if you told anyone, no one would believe you."

  Ezra exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Of course.

  The professor leaned forward again. "If you wish to remain here, you must make a pledge, Ezra."

  Ezra frowned. "A pledge?"

  Baldric nodded. “Swear yourself to Bajookiland. To the preservation of the stories, the myths, the nonsense that veils the truth.”

  Ezra hesitated. Then, after a long breath, he nodded once. "...Fine. I pledge."

  Baldric’s eyes gleamed. "Good." He leaned back, satisfied. "You may go now, Mr. Ezra. Enjoy your summer. Italy, wasn’t it?"

  Ezra barely processed it. He left the office, the book still heavy in his hands, his mind reeling with everything he had just learned. This was a grand make-believe dollhouse.

  And yet… Somewhere in the nonsense, in the absurdity of it all, there was something real. Something he wasn’t ready to understand just yet.

  The Italian countryside was bathed in gold, the setting sun stretching long shadows across the rolling hills. The air smelled of ripened vineyards, warm earth, and the distant scent of Nonna Francesca’s cooking drifting through the open windows of the villa.

  Ezra had been looking forward to this trip all year.

  Julie, Italy, time away from the ridiculousness of the White-Coats—just a moment to breathe, to be normal again.

  The moment he stepped through the villa’s creaky old door, Julie had launched herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck, lips crashing into his before he even had time to put his bags down.

  It didn’t take long before they were stumbling up the stairs, hands tangled in each other’s clothes, laughter breathless between kisses.

  They had a lot to catch up on.

  Their bedroom door had barely clicked shut before they were on each other again, Ezra pressing Julie against the door as she tugged his shirt over his head, her fingers tracing over the new definition in his muscles from the brutal training at the White-Coat university.

  Julie grinned against his lips, her voice breathless, teasing. "Damn, babe, they really put you through it, huh?"

  Ezra huffed a laugh, lifting her off the ground and carrying her to the bed. "You have no idea." The bed creaked under their combined weight, the old frame groaning as Ezra kissed his way down her neck, pressing into her, losing himself in her warmth, her laughter, her everything.

  God, he had missed her. Missed this.

  For months, he had been stuck in a world of lunacy, forced to memorize fabricated history and take an oath to a kingdom that didn’t exist. And yet, somehow, those White-Coat nutjobs held real power, and it drove him insane.

  Julie ran her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, making him groan against her skin. "What's on your mind?" she murmured.

  Ezra laughed into her shoulder. "You were right. You were so right."

  Julie grinned. "About what?"

  Ezra pulled back slightly, catching her gaze. "The White-Coats. They're unbearable. I want nothing to do with them once I graduate. I swear to God, if I have to hear one more lecture about the Cosmic Burger King War of 2042, I’m gonna throw myself off a bridge."

  Julie burst out laughing, wrapping her legs tighter around him. "I told you!" she teased. "They’re cooks, Ezra. Absolute madmen! But you didn’t listen!"

  Ezra groaned, collapsing against her as she continued to laugh in his ear. "I had to see it for myself. And now? Now I have to suffer."

  Julie kissed him again, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan, before flipping him over so she was straddling him, her hands planted firmly on his chest. "Well," she murmured, rolling her hips, making him suck in a sharp breath, "if you need me to help you forget about all that White-Coat nonsense, I think I can arrange something."

  Ezra let out a low chuckle, hands gripping her hips. "You better."

  And then? Then there was no more talking.

  Only heat.

  Only laughter, gasps, tangled sheets, and the groan of a bed frame that had not been built for this kind of abuse.

  The sunlight filtering through the old wooden shutters was too damn bright. Ezra groaned, burying his face into Julie’s hair, hoping that if he just stayed here long enough, the world outside their door would cease to exist.

  Julie was still half-asleep, her body curled against his, the warmth of the blankets a perfect cocoon. For a moment, everything was peaceful.

  Then, a knock at the door. Ezra tensed. Julie froze, then slowly turned her head toward the sound, half-lidded eyes meeting his in sleepy confusion. Another knock.

  Then—"Breakfast is ready! Also, congratulations on the passionate lovemaking, you two!"

  Ezra’s soul left his body. Julie went rigid, her face turning red so fast he thought she might combust. The voice outside the door?

  Nonna Francesca.

  Ezra stared at the ceiling, praying for death.

  Julie squeaked, burying her face into his chest as pure horror set in. "Ezra. Ezra. EZRA."

  He could only gasp for air. "She—she—"

  "SHE HEARD EVERYTHING!"

  The realization hit like a lightning bolt to the spine. But the humiliation didn’t stop there. Because as soon as they hesitantly descended the stairs, faces flushed, hands clasped together in silent "we do not speak of what happened last night" agreement… The entire family was waiting for them.

  Seth sat at the dining table, arms crossed, smirking like a man who had been waiting for this moment all his life. Nonna Francesca was buttering toast, completely unbothered, sipping her espresso like a woman who had heard worse in her time.

  And then there was Ciarra.

  Smiling. Beaming.

  Like she was watching the most wholesome, adorable scene of young love unfold before her eyes.

  Julie groaned, covering her entire face with her hands. "This is the worst day of my life."

  Ciarra, delighted, held up a cup of coffee. "Good morning, lovebirds!"

  Ezra felt his soul ascend to another plane of existence.

  Bruiser, had he been here, would be losing his mind with laughter. Seth, taking a slow sip of his coffee, finally spoke. "Son," he said casually, "I think it’s time you invest in a sturdier bed frame."

  Ezra dropped into a chair and died on the spot.

  By the time the laughter settled, by the time Julie stopped threatening to flee the country and never return, it became clear—

  This was going to be one of those stories.

  One of the legendary family tales, the kind that would never die, the kind that would be brought up at every possible gathering until the end of time.

  And, somehow… That was okay.

  As much as he wanted to bury himself alive at the thought, these moments—the ridiculous ones, the embarrassing ones, the ones filled with love and teasing and warmth— These were the moments that made life worth remembering. And maybe, just maybe…

  Even with the chaos that awaited him back at the White-Coat University, Ezra had found something far more important here in Italy.

  A place to always come back to. A place that felt like home.

  The morning sun was soft and golden, streaming through the old villa’s windows, illuminating the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. The summer air smelled of fresh herbs drying in the kitchen, of warm bread baking in Nonna’s old oven, of lavender carried on the breeze from the hills outside.

  Julie had taken to helping Nonna Francesca with house chores, keeping the older woman entertained with her endless historical debates as they sorted through vegetables and kneaded dough for lunch. Seth had gone to the market for some supplies, leaving the villa quiet and still.

  And, once again, it was just Ezra and Ciarra. Ezra sat at the dining table, nursing a cup of espresso, still recovering from the humiliation of last night. Ciarra, ever composed, sat across from him, watching him with far too much amusement. After a long sip of her tea, she sighed nostalgically.

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  "Ah, young love," she mused. "The thrill of passion, the foolish belief that no one can hear you, only to find out the next day that you’ve been thoroughly exposed…"

  Ezra closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Please," he said, voice tight. "Not you too."

  Ciarra only smiled, stirring her tea in slow circles. "Oh, my dear Ezra, I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t tell you that you handled it well."

  Ezra groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I’m never going to live this down."

  "Of course not," Ciarra said matter-of-factly. "That’s the fun of it."

  Ezra glared at her, but she only chuckled, setting her cup down and folding her hands over the table. "You know," she said, her voice turning thoughtful, "it reminds me of my own youth. Almost the exact same thing happened to me once."

  Ezra froze mid-sip. He lowered his cup slowly. "Ciarra—no."

  She tilted her head, clearly ignoring him. "It was at a barn," she continued, smiling wistfully. "There was a party outside, music so loud I thought it would cover everything up, but oh, was I wrong. Let me tell you, the moment I walked out, the entire town—"

  Ezra slammed his hand onto the table. "Ciarra!"

  She laughed, delighted. Ezra groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Why," he muttered, "why did Dad have to marry someone who enjoys torturing me?"

  Ciarra smirked. "Because he has impeccable taste."

  Ezra sighed deeply. The teasing died down, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping their drinks. The occasional sounds of Julie and Nonna chatting from the kitchen drifted in from down the hall, making the villa feel warm and full of life. Eventually, the conversation turned naturally, flowing the way easy conversations do. And somehow, it drifted toward the topic of children…

  Ezra, still half-distracted by his coffee, absently asked, "Did you ever have kids?"

  The air shifted.

  Ciarra’s fingers stilled against the rim of her cup, her expression momentarily far away.

  Ezra immediately regretted asking. Her smile faded just a fraction, but she nodded. "I did," she said softly.

  Ezra sat up a little, watching her carefully.

  Ciarra sighed, leaning back in her chair. "It was… a different time. I didn’t have a hospital to go to, so I had to give birth in the same barn where we—"

  Ezra shot his hands up immediately.

  "Bah-bah-bah—no need for messy details!"

  Ciarra laughed, her warm voice filling the space between them.

  "Poor Ezra," she teased, shaking her head. "You’re good at handling construction equipment, but the mere thought of childbirth sends you into a panic."

  Ezra scowled. "There are some things a man doesn’t need to hear about."

  Ciarra’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "Oh, you have no idea." Ezra groaned again, but despite the teasing, he could see something behind her laughter—something deeper, something nostalgic. She took a slow breath, gaze softening. "When I had her," she continued, her voice quieter, "I found a four-leaf clover that very same day."

  Ezra frowned. "Really?"

  Ciarra nodded. "It was the first bit of good luck I had in years. So I named her Clover."

  Ezra’s heart twisted. Ciarra’s expression turned distant, wistful. "For so long, people called me unlucky. Cursed, even. But Clover was… she was different. She was my one stroke of good luck."

  She smiled, but there was something behind it, something raw and deeply personal. Ezra, despite himself, reached out and gently placed a hand over hers. "You weren’t bad luck," he said quietly. Ciarra blinked, looking up at him with genuine surprise. Ezra gave her a small, honest smile. "You deserved good things too."

  For a moment, she just stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, her eyes glistened. Ezra had never seen her get emotional before, had never seen her without her usual knowing smirk or teasing grin. And yet, here she was, brushing at her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking her head with a soft chuckle.

  "Look at you," she murmured, voice a little thick with emotion. "Wiser than you realize."

  Ezra chuckled. "Don’t tell anyone."

  Ciarra let out a soft laugh, then, without hesitation, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  Ezra froze for a second, caught off guard.

  Then, slowly, he hugged her back. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t forced.

  It was… right.

  A piece of something falling into place.

  "Awwwwwwwww!"

  Ezra flinched so hard he nearly knocked over his coffee cup.

  Ciarra pulled back just in time to see Julie standing in the doorway, her hands clasped together, her entire face beaming with delight. Ezra immediately groaned. "Oh my god."

  Julie leaned against the doorframe, grinning like she had just won the lottery. "This is adorable. You two are so cute."

  Ciarra, to Ezra’s horror, joined in on the fun, smirking as she placed a hand over her heart. "It was a moment," she said dramatically.

  Ezra glared at her. "You’re not helping."

  Julie stifled a laugh. "Ezra, babe. This is just like high school all over again. The stage? The confession? I heard everything."

  Ezra tilted his head back and sighed loudly. "I am going to throw myself into the ocean."

  Julie giggled and walked over, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. "You love me too much to do that."

  Ezra just grumbled, crossing his arms as both women continued to laugh at his misery. But, despite the embarrassment, despite Julie’s relentless teasing, Ezra couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment, this summer, would be one he carried with him forever. And, maybe, just maybe…

  Ciarra really was meant to be part of their family after all.

  Returning to the White-Coat University after summer break felt like stepping back into a lucid fever dream. One moment, Ezra was in Italy, tangled in the warmth of Julie’s arms, the laughter of family, the comforts of home. The next?

  He was back in the madness.

  His first few days were spent catching up on technical courses, cramming advanced physics theories that had only just begun to be taught in prestigious civilian institutions. It was brutal—mentally grueling, even for someone like Ezra, who was no stranger to hard work.But it wasn’t the science that unnerved him.

  It was the rituals.

  The White-Coats had their own little strange traditions, some of which were harmless inside jokes that had been carried over from generations of scholars… and others that Ezra couldn’t quite make sense of.

  One night, under the cover of darkness, the students were gathered and led into the local woods. Ezra felt uneasy the entire walk there, watching as the others chatted excitedly, as if this was a normal part of their education.

  As they arrived at a large clearing, torches were already burning, casting long, flickering shadows against the trees. A great feast had been laid out on long wooden tables, and the smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine filled the air.

  It should have been comforting. But to Ezra? It looked like some Illuminati-type craziness.

  The scene bordered on absurdity. White-cloaked figures moved gracefully around the tables, setting plates, pouring drinks, laughing as if this were just another holiday celebration. They sang songs, deep-throated, eerie hymns in a language Ezra had never heard before. They raised their cups to some strange deity, their voices echoing into the night.

  "Kinyara, keeper of the eternal breath," one of the elders intoned.

  "Kerria, the ever-living flame," another followed.

  Ezra wasn’t paying attention. He was sticking to the back of the crowd, making damn sure no one was about to make him drink goat’s blood or chant something weird in Latin. He’d heard rumors of those kinds of parties, the Eyes Wide Shut insanity where things got real freaky real fast.

  And this?

  This was one naked weirdo away from turning into something he would have nightmares about forever.

  But, to his deep relief, it wasn’t that kind of gathering. There were no sacrifices. No eerie whispered invocations summoning some cosmic horror from beyond the void. Just… a weird cult-like dinner party, with entirely too much enthusiasm for a made-up country. At least, that’s what he thought.

  Until they called his name.

  Ezra’s stomach dropped when he realized that all eyes were turning to him.

  The newcomers were being called up one by one, forced to pledge themselves to Bajookiland in an official, ceremonial act. Ezra tried to slip away. Tried to make himself invisible.

  But then—

  "Ezra of the Key family," one of the elders announced, voice ringing through the clearing like a hammer on stone.

  Ezra froze.

  Shit.

  His pledge was unofficial, something he had been coaxed into back in Baldric’s office. But this? This was different. He swallowed hard, stepping toward the wooden podium at the center of the gathering. The torchlight flickered wildly, casting strange shadows across the faces of the gathered White-Coats.

  As he placed his hand over his heart, preparing to repeat the absurd pledge, something in his peripheral vision made him freeze.

  A figure.

  Lurking in the shadows just beyond the firelight. It wasn’t one of the White-Coats. No, it was something… wrong.

  Unlike the others, dressed in pristine white, this figure was clad in black from head to toe. The robes were long and heavy, the hood pulled forward, casting their face in deep shadow. Ezra’s blood ran cold. Because he could see something beneath the hood. A face.

  But it wasn’t human.

  At first, he thought it was a mask. The elongated features, the sharp, slanted eyes, the grooves in the skin that looked eerily unnatural. But then he realized—it wasn’t a mask at all.

  It was real.

  A goat-like face peered from beneath the hood, its expression impossible to read, its presence somehow heavier than the rest of the room combined. Ezra’s pulse pounded in his ears. His mind screamed at him to run, to get the hell out of there, to do anything but stand here like an idiot staring at something that clearly did not belong in this world.

  But he couldn’t. Because everyone was watching him. His hesitation had already lasted too long. Baldric, standing among the elders, arched a brow. A silent warning.

  Ezra clenched his fists. He had to keep it together. So he forced himself to finish the pledge, every word feeling like it was being pulled from his throat against his will.

  And when it was over? The merriment resumed. The White-Coats cheered. Ezra returned to his seat, his hands clammy, his breath uneven. And when he finally dared to glance back toward the shadows? The figure in black was gone. But the feeling it left behind? That would haunt him for a long, long time.

  The night after the White-Coat ritual, Ezra couldn’t sleep.

  Not because of the insanity of the pledge. Not because of the cult-like chanting or the feast under the moonlight. Not even because of the unsettling reverence the others had for the ridiculous mythos of Bajookiland.

  No.

  It was because of the figure in black. He couldn’t shake it. It had stood outside the firelight, completely still, watching. The white-robed scholars never acknowledged it, as if it was never there to begin with. At first, Ezra had thought it was some elaborate prank, a joke by the higher-ups to scare the newcomers into submission.

  But the more he thought about it, the more wrong it felt. It wasn’t just someone in a robe. It wasn’t just a mask.

  He had seen the details too clearly—the elongated, goat-like features, the glint of unnatural, horizontal pupils, the way its presence had made his skin crawl as if every cell in his body was rejecting what his eyes were seeing.

  And then there was the way it disappeared. One second, it had been there, watching. The next?

  Gone.

  Like it had never been there at all. And that…

  That was what kept Ezra wide awake, staring at his ceiling, counting the hours as the night dragged on too slowly.

  At some point, exhaustion won out.

  Ezra wasn’t sure when he drifted off—only that it happened in increments, his body fighting between wakefulness and sleep.

  Then—The bells rang.

  Deep. Heavy. The kind of sound that settled into the bones, vibrating in the marrow.

  Ezra shot upright, his breath catching in his throat.It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong in the modern world—too raw, too ancient, like something that had been forged from a forgotten time.

  Another toll.

  Then another.

  It felt like the whole building should be shaking, but everything around him remained still. Ezra turned toward his window, swallowing hard. What he saw outside? Made his stomach drop into a pit of ice. The moonlight was frozen. Not just dim—but literally suspended in the sky, locked in place like a photograph.

  The trees, the campus, the buildings… nothing moved. Everything was frozen except for the shadows. And they were crawling. Ezra’s pulse hammered as he realized that the shadows weren’t where they were supposed to be. They detached from their sources, shifting along the ground like living ink, bleeding into shapes that defied logic.

  And standing at the center of it all—The figure in black.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  For him.

  Ezra barely had time to react before the world lurched—And he was somewhere else.

  The smell of burning parchment and salt filled the air. Ezra stumbled forward, his boots hitting something smooth and unnatural beneath him. He was no longer in his dorm. He was… inside something massive.

  A city?

  No.

  It was bigger than that. Ezra looked up—And his breath caught in his throat.

  The sky above him wasn’t just sky. A star hovered at the center of it all, suspended in the vastness like the beating heart of a forgotten god. Cities stretched around him in every direction, bending at impossible angles, weaving into the very walls of this world, as if the entire structure of reality had folded in on itself to house them.

  It was a realm unto itself. And yet—It felt abandoned.

  No. Not abandoned. Something else lived here.

  Ezra turned, heart pounding—And then he saw them.

  The city wasn’t empty. The streets were flooded with figures that looked too perfect to be real. Tall. Elegant. Radiant. Their faces were eerily symmetrical, their expressions fixed in an almost unnatural stillness. At first, Ezra thought they were people, until he noticed the way they moved.

  They didn’t walk—they glided, their feet barely touching the ground, their bodies too fluid, too synchronized, as if they weren’t individuals at all, but part of a greater system.

  Ezra’s throat went dry. They were beautiful, but something felt wrong. They didn’t notice him. Didn’t even react to his presence. They just continued moving, carrying out whatever incomprehensible purpose this place demanded.

  And above them all—The star pulsed.

  Three short bursts.

  Three long bursts.

  Three more short bursts.

  Morse code. SOS. A distress signal. Ezra’s mind screamed at him. What the hell was this place? What was sending that signal?

  He took a step forward—And that’s when he heard the first scream.

  Ezra turned a corner and froze. In the darkened alleys of this impossible city, past the towering ivory buildings, were cages. Metal constructs stacked on top of one another, stretching into the shadows beyond his vision.

  And inside them—Were things that weren’t angels.

  Their skin was blackened, their eyes burned red, their bodies bound in glowing chains that hissed and crackled, searing into them. Ezra’s stomach twisted violently.

  Demons.

  Or at least, something that fit the description. They were hunched, gaunt, their wings tattered and ruined, their faces contorted in agony as they thrashed against their restraints.

  And then—The golden beings came for one of them.

  Ezra watched in horrified silence as two of the tall, elegant figures approached a cage, their glowing eyes calm, emotionless. They reached inside and pulled one of the creatures out, dragging it toward a massive obelisk at the center of the square.

  Ezra tried to step forward—tried to do anything—but his body wouldn’t move. He could only watch. The demon snarled, struggling, its voice twisting into something painful to hear—

  And then, without hesitation, one of the angels placed a golden hand against its forehead. Ezra expected an execution. He expected the creature to be put down, to be erased in some flash of holy light. But that wasn’t what happened.

  The demon began dissolving.

  Not like ash, not like flesh burned away—but as if it was being unwoven, its very essence peeled apart into something raw, something stripped of meaning. The angel absorbed it.

  The demon’s last cry faded into nothing. And the angel—It glowed brighter.

  Ezra felt sick. This wasn’t salvation. This was harvesting. This wasn’t heaven.

  It was a farm.

  "You shouldn’t be here."

  Ezra whipped around. The figure in black stood behind him. This time, its eyes were visible beneath the hood. They were watching him.

  "You weren’t supposed to see any of this," the voice said again.

  Ezra tried to speak—tried to demand answers—but the world shattered around him, the golden sky imploding, the city crumbling into dust.

  And the last thing he saw?

  The star. Pulsing. Still crying for help. Then—Darkness.

  Ezra’s eyes flew open, his breath ragged. He was back in his room. The bells were silent.

  But his hands—He lifted them slowly. They were covered in golden dust. And the only thing on his mind? What the hell had he just seen?

  Ezra had spent weeks trying to forget what he had seen. It was just a dream, right? Dreams weren’t supposed to stick with you this long. They weren’t supposed to haunt you in waking life, weren’t supposed to crawl under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t pull out.

  But this one had.

  Because normal dreams didn’t have distress signals embedded into the fabric of their reality. Normal dreams didn’t coat your hands in golden dust when you woke up. Ezra knew he couldn’t tell anyone. Not Julie. Not his professors. Not even Bruiser, who would probably crack some joke about Ezra finally losing his mind to the White-Coats’ madness.

  So, he kept it locked away, stuffing it deep down into that corner of his mind where all the unspoken things lived. But the dream followed him. It clung to him on the train ride to Italy, crept up on him as he watched the landscapes blur past, lingered in his thoughts even as he tried to focus on the joy of going home for Quarantinemas.

  For the first time in a long time, Ezra felt like he was standing at the edge of something huge. Something he didn’t understand yet. Something that terrified him.

  And then—He saw her.

  And just like that, the weight of his thoughts disappeared.

  She was waiting at the station, standing on the old stone platform, wrapped in a thick winter coat, her scarf pulled up over her nose to shield against the biting cold. But it wasn’t the coat or the scarf that Ezra noticed first.

  It was her belly. Big. Round. A perfect, undeniable reminder of the life they had created together. Ezra forgot the cold, forgot the train, forgot everything but her, striding forward faster than he meant to, closing the distance in just a few steps before she could even say his name.

  Julie barely had time to laugh before he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her shoulder, holding her as if she might slip away from him if he didn’t. She smelled like home, like lavender and something soft, warm, familiar. "You’re squishing me," she murmured against him, but she didn’t pull away.

  Ezra huffed out a laugh, loosening his grip just a little. "Sorry. Just… missed you."

  Julie pulled back slightly, her blue eyes searching his face, and for a second—just a second—he worried that she might see through him. That she might see the way his thoughts were knotted together, the way his mind had been chewing on something far too big for him to process alone.

  But she just smiled, soft and teasing. "I missed you too, dummy."

  Ezra let out a slow breath, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, before resting his hand gently over her stomach.

  "How’s our little terror doing?" he asked, grinning.

  Julie rolled her eyes. "She kicks like she’s trying to break out of prison."

  Ezra chuckled, rubbing slow circles over her belly, marveling at the fact that she was real, that their baby was real, that this life they were building was real. "You sure it’s a girl?" he murmured.

  Julie smirked. "I’m never wrong."

  Ezra pretended to look skeptical, but in truth? He didn’t care either way. She was his. They were his. And in this moment, standing in the cold, surrounded by the hum of the train station, the nightmare didn’t matter.

  The White-Coats didn’t matter. Nothing did. Just this.

  Just her.

  Seth and Ciarra had gotten married in the fall, and the villa felt different because of it. Not in a bad way. Just… fuller. The air smelled like fresh-baked bread and rosemary, the warmth of the fireplace crackled in the background, and for the first time in years, Seth looked at peace.

  Ezra had never thought he’d see his father in love again, not after losing Mom, not after watching him bury himself in work for years to escape it. But now, as he watched Seth laugh over dinner, teasing Julie about something, his arm resting easily around Ciarra’s chair, Ezra realized—

  This was good. This was right.

  Ciarra had fit herself into their lives so naturally, as if she had always been meant to be here. And—somehow—she knew everything about being a midwife. Ezra wasn’t sure when he learned that detail, but apparently, Ciarra had medical experience she had never once mentioned before.

  Self-taught, or so she said.

  Julie had taken to her immediately, and Seth was more than happy to let her handle all the logistics of Julie’s pregnancy. Ciarra played the part of gentle caretaker, wise beyond her years, seamlessly slipping into the role of supporting mother figure.

  But Ezra?

  Ezra wasn’t sure what to make of it. Because if there was one thing he had learned about Ciarra since she entered their lives—It was that she always told just enough of the truth to make you believe it.

  Ezra sat on the terrace after dinner, watching the lights of the small town twinkle against the dark horizon. Ciarra joined him a few minutes later, carrying two cups of tea, setting one in front of him without a word before settling into the chair beside him.

  He glanced at her, then at the tea, then back at her. "You just knew I’d be out here sulking, huh?" he muttered, taking the cup anyway.

  Ciarra smiled. "You have your father’s face when something is eating at you. It’s impossible to S"Julie looks happy," she said after a moment.

  Ezra nodded. "Yeah. She is."

  Ciarra tilted her head, studying him. "And you?"

  Ezra hesitated. He should be happy. But instead, he thought about the dream. The city inside a planet, the pulsing star, the SOS that shouldn’t have been there. He thought about the figure in black. The way it had warned him. The way it had made sure he wouldn’t remember too much.

  Ezra forced himself to smile, looking away. "Yeah," he said, voice quieter now. "I am."

  Ciarra didn’t believe him. He could tell by the way she watched him, like she was reading him far too easily. But instead of pressing him on it, she just exhaled softly, staring out at the stars. "Good," she murmured.

  Ezra clenched his jaw. Because he knew—That conversation wasn’t over.

  At the end of Quarantinemas, the villa was quiet, save for the distant hum of wind rolling across the hills. The night sky stretched above, vast and endless, the stars shimmering like fragments of something long forgotten. Ezra stood on the terrace, arms crossed, the worn leather history book tucked beneath one arm.

  The dream still gnawed at him.

  The star pulsing in Morse code. The golden city folding in on itself. The silent angels, the enslaved demons, the figure in black watching him from the shadows. It had felt real.

  It had lingered in his mind far longer than any dream should. And now, as he stood beneath a perfectly normal sky, he couldn’t help but wonder—Was it really just a dream?

  A soft sound of footsteps made him glance toward the doorway. Ciarra.

  She carried two cups of tea, her posture relaxed, but her gaze sharp, reading him like she always did. Without a word, she set one cup down beside him before leaning against the terrace railing, watching the sky. "Thought you’d be out here," she murmured.

  Ezra gave her a side glance, taking the tea but saying nothing at first.

  Ciarra sighed, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "That history book," she nodded at the worn leather tome under his arm, "must be something special if it’s keeping you up like this."

  Ezra stiffened slightly. She knew. Or at least, she knew something.

  Ezra let out a slow breath, fingers tapping against the spine of the book. "It’s nonsense," he admitted. "Just a bunch of gibberish written by people who invested way too much time rewriting history into fairy tales."

  "Mm," Ciarra hummed, taking a sip of her tea. "And yet… you haven’t put it down."

  Ezra hesitated. The wind rustled through the trees. And before he could stop himself, before he could lock it away again, he spoke. "I saw something."

  Ciarra didn’t react right away. She simply kept her gaze on the stars, as if she had expected this moment to come.

  Ezra swallowed, shifting his stance. "It was a dream, I think. But it wasn’t. It felt too real. The sky—there was a star inside it, and it was sending a distress signal."

  Ciarra stayed quiet, listening.

  Ezra exhaled sharply. "And the city—god, Ciarra, the city—it was filled with these perfect angel-like beings, but they weren’t human. They were too… still. Too… synchronized. They were like cogs in a machine."

  Ciarra sipped her tea. "And?"

  Ezra’s grip tightened around the book. "And they were enslaving something else. Something dark. Like demons. They were using them. Feeding off of them." The words hung heavy in the air. Ezra looked at her, watching for a reaction. And for just a second—just a second—he saw it.

  A flicker of something knowing, something deep, something Ezra couldn’t place. Then, it was gone. Ciarra exhaled, setting her cup down. "Sounds like another trial from the White-Coats."

  Ezra frowned. "Oh, so you know about them?"

  Ciarra smirked. And then, to his horror, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a White Card. Not just any White Card. One unlike any Ezra had seen before. It had no name, no identification, no markings, except for a single golden emblem in the center.

  Ezra stared at it, his pulse kicking up. "Jesus Christ, who doesn’t have one of those?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

  Ciarra chuckled. "Mine isn’t special," she said casually, slipping it back into her pocket. "I inherited it."

  Ezra squinted. "That’s not suspicious at all."

  Ciarra raised an eyebrow, smiling over her cup. "Relax, Ezra. The White-Coats are harmless."

  Ezra gave a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah? What about the shadow thing I saw? That didn’t seem harmless."

  Ciarra finally turned her full attention to him. "Now that’s the juicy bit," she admitted. "A secret society built on memes and rewritten history? Boring. But a real shadow force lurking just beyond the nonsense? That’s interesting."

  Ezra crossed his arms. "So you’re saying this is more than just White-Coat craziness?"

  Ciarra smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reached out and tapped the history book Ezra still held. "If you’re looking for answers," she said, "you won’t find them in that almanac of gibberish."

  Ezra frowned, looking down at the book. "Then where?"

  Ciarra tilted her head. "Maybe the real trick is not playing the game."

  Ezra blinked. "What?"

  She shrugged. "You want to explore the unknown, right? Maybe the best way to win is to play dumb. Lean into the flow, not against it."

  Ezra stared at her, processing her words. They made no damn sense. And yet—Somehow, they did. Because if there was one thing he had learned at White-Coat University, it was that the people who played along the best were the ones who got the farthest.

  Maybe that was the key. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to resist it. Maybe he was supposed to let it pull him deeper.

  Ezra didn’t like the weight in his chest, didn’t like the way his own thoughts were starting to feel like someone else’s puzzle. So he changed the subject. He leaned against the railing, watching the stars. "I’m not gonna be here when my son is born." Ciarra’s expression softened. Ezra exhaled. "I hate that I have to go back. I should be here. With Julie. But the White-Coats… this damn university…" He ran a hand through his hair. "It’s not done with me yet."

  Ciarra nodded. "No, it’s not."

  Ezra turned to her. "I need you to look after them."

  Ciarra smiled faintly, reaching out and squeezing his hand. "You didn’t even have to ask."

  Ezra let out a slow breath. "Thanks."

  Ciarra tilted her head. "Just promise me one thing in return."

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. "What?"

  "Don’t get too lost out there."

  Ezra’s chest tightened. Because somehow, she knew. She knew that he was already losing himself to this madness, that he was already standing on the edge of something too deep to climb out of. But he forced a grin, covering up the unease with humor like he always did. "Can’t make any promises."

  Ciarra laughed softly. "Didn’t think so."

  And as the night stretched on, as the stars whispered their silent warnings above, Ezra felt something settle inside him. Something that told him this was just the beginning.

  dangerous, would you keep pulling at the thread? Or would you play dumb and survive?