Chapter One

The auditorium held a tense silence as the student from Brown University concluded his closing arguments for the Debate Club National Finals. Thomas gripped the edges of his podium, leaning forward to address the panel of judges seated across the stage. He had spent the last ten minutes outlining the economic hazards of a universal basic income, citing inflation and a reduced labor force participation rate as the inevitable downfall of such a policy.

Asher sat quietly at her table, listening to him summarize his points while adjusting the cuffs of her cotton blouse. With her slim build, light freckles, and dark red hair pulled into a simple ponytail, she blended in seamlessly with the rest of the Arizona State student body in her jeans and flats. However, her mind operated on an entirely different level than anyone else in the room.

“When we inject unearned capital into the economy without a corresponding increase in production, we devalue the currency,” Thomas said, projecting his voice to the back rows. “The affirmative side wants to ignore the fundamental laws of supply and demand, but hoping for a utopian outcome doesn’t rewrite macroeconomic realities. Universal basic income will cause localized hyperinflation, rendering the stipend useless and leaving the working class worse off than when this social experiment began. Thank you.”

The crowd offered a respectable round of applause as Thomas stepped back from his microphone, and the head judge gestured for the final rebuttal. Asher walked over to her podium without any notes, resting her hands on the edges to look out over the two thousand students and faculty members. She waited for the applause to fade completely, ensuring she had everyone’s attention before leaning toward the microphone.

“I want to thank my opponent for giving us a textbook summary of first-year economic theory, and I mean that sincerely,” Asher began, offering a polite smile to Thomas. “It takes a lot of confidence to stand on a national stage and base an entire argument on the assumption that the velocity of money remains static during a wealth transfer. Unfortunately for the negative side, we are debating the real world rather than a controlled vacuum.”

She paused to let the insult land, keeping her friendly expression as she turned back to the judges.

“My opponent claims that universal basic income leads to an unavoidable spike in inflation,” she continued. “This argument relies on the premise that production capacity cannot scale to meet increased demand, which contradicts the actual data we have from ongoing economic systems. If we look at the Alaska Permanent Fund, which has distributed annual dividends to residents for decades, inflation in Alaska has historically tracked at or below the national average. The localized data from the recent Stockton pilot program showed a similar trend, where the financial infusion went toward basic necessities rather than triggering consumer price spikes. The supply chain absorbed the demand because the funds were spent on existing market sectors rather than artificial luxury inflation.”

Thomas shifted on his feet, looking down at his index cards as Asher picked apart his speech.

“Furthermore, the argument regarding labor force participation ignores the empirical evidence surrounding automation,” she said. “We are losing manufacturing and data entry jobs to artificial intelligence at a rate that traditional retraining programs cannot match. The negative side assumes a universal basic income discourages work, but the data from the Finland trials demonstrated that baseline financial security actually increased entrepreneurial ventures. People took risks and started small businesses because they knew they would not starve if they failed. The stipend did not create a culture of laziness, and it instead fostered a more dynamic, adaptable workforce.”

Asher looked at Thomas again, offering him another soft smile dripping with condescension.

“Macroeconomic realities are not static rules written in stone, and relying on outdated models to predict future behavior is a fatal flaw in policy creation,” Asher concluded, shifting her gaze back to the head judge. “We cannot use twentieth-century fears to govern twenty-first-century economics. The affirmative side stands by the data, the historical precedents, and the inevitable shift in our labor market. Thank you.”

The audience broke into applause, noticeably louder than the polite clapping Thomas had received just moments prior. It made sense, given Asher was performing on home turf, but the reaction only inflated her ego further. She stepped back from the podium and sat down at her chair to wait for the final deliberation.

The three judges leaned together at their table, whispering and glancing at their scoring sheets. The outcome felt like a foregone conclusion to Asher, who spent the time mentally planning her schedule for the week rather than worrying about the decision.

After a few minutes of discussion, the head judge tapped his microphone and smiled at the two competitors.

“This was an outstanding showcase of intellect from both universities, and we want to thank both debaters for their hard work,” the judge announced, reading from a prepared card. “However, the affirmative side presented a more robust defense of their position. The winner of the Debate Club National Finals is Asher Warren from Arizona State University.”

The crowd cheered as the judge walked across the stage to hand Asher a glass trophy and an envelope containing the prize money. She accepted the awards with a gracious nod and a smile, shaking the judge’s hand before walking over to Thomas’s podium. He offered his hand, forcing a polite smile as she took it.

“You had a good structure,” Asher told him, using a tone one might reserve for a child who had successfully tied their shoes. “You just need to update your reference material so you don’t get boxed in by real-world examples.”

Thomas winced, gave a tight nod, and walked away. Asher exited the stage and headed toward the backstage holding area, where she found her roommate waiting near the exit doors. Maya was a beautiful Black woman with an athletic build, leaning against the wall in a casual denim jacket over a graphic t-shirt and leggings. She held two iced coffees in a cardboard carrier, and her warm face broke into a proud smile as Asher approached with the trophy tucked under her arm. Maya’s shoulder-length locs were tied back with a scrunchie, and her dark brown eyes crinkled with amusement.

“I knew you had it in the bag the second he brought up inflation,” Maya said, handing one of the cups to Asher. “You tore him apart up there.”

“He made it easy for me,” Asher replied, taking a sip of her drink as they started walking down the hallway. “I honestly expected more from an Ivy League student, but he just regurgitated the same talking points you can find on any Fox News broadcast. It felt like a waste of my time.”

Maya let out a soft sigh and took a sip from her cup, shaking her head as they navigated the empty corridor.

“You know, you could try being a little more gracious when you win,” Maya suggested, keeping her tone light but serious. “I saw the way you smiled at him during your rebuttal. You weren’t just proving him wrong, you were making sure everyone in the room knew you thought he was an idiot.”

“He was arguing an idiotic point, and it isn’t my job to coddle his feelings,” Asher said, shrugging. “If he wants to avoid looking foolish in front of an audience, he should do better research before he challenges me.”

“It isn’t about coddling him; it’s about not alienating the people who don’t think the same way you do,” her friend countered, pushing open the exit doors to let them out into the warm afternoon air. “You’re brilliant, but that smugness rubs people the wrong way. The judges gave you the win because you won the argument, but they didn’t look happy about it.”

“What they think about me is irrelevant, Maya,” Asher said, dismissing the concern without a second thought. “I don’t need them to like me. I just need them to recognize that I’m right.”

Maya shook her head with a subtle smile as the pair made their way back toward their dorm.

❖

The concrete pathways of the campus courtyard were packed with students rushing between afternoon classes, creating a bottleneck near the center fountain. Dozens of people wore maroon and gold football jerseys in anticipation of the upcoming weekend, and a few fraternities had already set up folding tables to hand out tailgate flyers.

Asher navigated the crowded space quickly, clutching her trophy against her chest as she weaved past a group of cheerleaders on the grass. She found the display of school spirit irritating, and the sheer number of sports fans congregating in the main square only fueled the annoyance she had been harboring since leaving the auditorium.

“Look at this mess,” Asher said, gesturing toward a group of guys tossing a foam ball across the walkway while several freshmen cheered them on. “I spent the last three months preparing for a national academic final, and we pulled in an audience of two thousand people. That’s a good number, but tomorrow night, eighty thousand of these imbeciles are going to pack into that stadium to watch a bunch of dumb jocks give each other concussions. They act like winning a football game is the pinnacle of human achievement.”

Maya took a sip of her iced coffee and adjusted the cardboard carrier in her hand, sidestepping a student on a skateboard who nearly clipped her ankle.

“It’s just a football game, Asher,” Maya pointed out, keeping her tone calm as they navigated the throng of students blocking their path. “People want to drink beer and yell with their friends. Listening to you argue about the state of our economy takes brainpower, and most people want to shut their minds off on a Saturday afternoon.”

“That’s exactly the problem with this place, and it proves my point about societal decay,” Asher argued. “Society places a premium on mindless aggression, and they worship men who offer nothing of intellectual value. A guy who can run fast gets a full scholarship and a cheering crowd of thousands, while intelligent women who actually solve problems get a glass trophy and a polite golf clap. It’s insulting.”

“You won two thousand dollars along with that trophy,” her friend reminded her. “You should just be happy you won instead of letting things you don’t control ruin your mood. You’re the smartest person on this campus, and everyone knows it.”

“I just hate how backward everything is,” Asher insisted. “I had an English class last semester with one of the linebackers, and the guy could barely read a damn book. He asked questions a middle schooler would know the answer to, and he turned in an assignment that looked like it was handwritten in crayon. The professor passed him because the dean asked nicely, and they hand out degrees to these guys just because they get talked about on ESPN. Everyone treats them like royalty. It makes me sick.”

Maya shook her head and took another sip of her coffee.

“That football program brings in millions in television revenue, and that money pays for the library you spend all your time in,” Maya countered. “He is just trying to play sports and get through college. Not everyone possesses your brain, and you don’t have to be so hostile about it.”

“I don’t have to be hostile, but I’m not going to pretend I respect a system that rewards mediocrity,” Asher said, rolling her eyes.

Asher kept her gaze fixed on Maya as she complained, devoting her focus to the argument rather than watching the busy concrete path. She took three long strides while looking sideways, oblivious to the people navigating the chaotic square. Her shoulder slammed into a solid frame. The impact knocked her backward, forcing a sharp breath from her lungs. She stumbled on the pavement, dropping her free hand to her side to catch her balance and nearly dropping her new prize in the process.

Asher snapped her head forward and found herself staring directly at Professor Olga. The older woman possessed a gaunt, angular face with pale skin and watery blue eyes that always seemed to stare at people a second longer than was socially acceptable. Today was no exception; Olga locked her gaze on the student who had just run into her. Iron-gray hair hung loose and unkempt past her shoulders, framing a tall, bony figure that felt imposing despite her age. She wore an outdated, ankle-length wool skirt paired with a baggy sweater and leather boots.

“Watch where you’re going, Croneface,” Asher snapped, straightening her posture as she glared at the older woman.

“Asher, you can’t say that to a professor,” Maya hissed as Asher stormed off. Maya’s eyes widened in shock, and she quickly offered an apologetic nod to the older woman before hurrying to catch up with her roommate.

“She shouldn’t be a faculty member in the first place,” Asher replied, refusing to lower her voice as she continued her march across the courtyard. “She teaches Occult Studies, Maya. It’s a ridiculous fake subject. She teaches students about witchcraft and crystals while actual sciences have to fight for funding.”

“She is still a professor, and you practically knocked her over,” Maya argued, glancing back over her shoulder to see if Olga was watching them. “You could get into serious trouble for talking to a teacher like that.”

“I have a perfect grade point average and a national title now,” Asher scoffed. “The dean knows my value to this school. They aren’t going to punish me just because I told that fraud to watch her step. If they want to pull my scholarship over that, they can explain to the donors why they lost their star pupil to a rival college.”

She felt justified in her disdain for the strange professor. As far as Asher was concerned, people like Olga were no better than the athletes she had just been complaining about, taking up valuable resources that belonged to students and professors with genuine intellectual merit. She had heard rumors that Olga made her students meditate with quartz stones in one of her study sessions, and the thought alone made Asher want to pull her own hair out.

“You can’t just bulldoze through everyone who annoys you,” Maya warned, shifting her drink to her other hand as they reached the edge of the square. “Karma has a funny way of catching up with people who act like they own the world. One day, you are going to insult someone who will actually fight back.”

“Please, Maya,” Asher snickered as the brick dorm buildings finally came into view. “Karma is a fictional concept, and I expected better from you.”

Maya let out a resigned sigh, shaking her head as she followed her roommate down the sidewalk. She knew better than to keep arguing when Asher got into one of her stubborn moods, and the two friends finished the rest of the walk in silence.

❖

Asher took a seat in the scholarship office and folded her hands in her lap.

“What’s this about?” she asked, keeping her tone polite despite her impatience.

Mrs. Bloom sat on the opposite side of the desk and looked at the student. The older woman wore a modest gray suit jacket and thin wire-rimmed glasses, presenting a calm demeanor that instantly put Asher on edge. The young woman had received the unexpected email summons just as she finished placing her new debate trophy on the bookshelf in her dorm room. She had no idea why she was here.

“I appreciate you coming in on such short notice,” Mrs. Bloom said, resting her hands on top of the desk. “We need to discuss a serious matter regarding an incident that occurred in the courtyard earlier this afternoon.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. Surely the woman wasn’t referring to the accidental nudge she gave Professor Croneface earlier, the redhead thought.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, leaning back in the padded chair as she uncrossed her legs. “Maya and I walked straight back to our dorm after the debate tournament finished. We didn’t do anything wrong, and we certainly didn’t cause a scene.”

“Professor Olga Crone filed a formal complaint against you about an hour ago,” the administrator explained, watching the student carefully. “She stated that you deliberately crashed into her on the main walkway and then verbally abused her after you tumbled her to the ground. She says you physically assaulted her.”

Asher gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. Assault? She bumped into the old phony accidentally. It was hardly assault.

“That’s ridiculous,” the college student insisted. “I accidentally bumped into her because the walking path was crowded. I barely touched her, and I definitely didn’t assault anyone. She’s exaggerating a minor accident because she hates how no one respects her.”

“The dean reviewed the security footage from the courtyard cameras before I sent for you,” the administrator stated, her tone remaining even and unbothered by the outburst. “The evidence doesn’t look great for you. The footage shows you walking briskly while looking sideways, colliding with a teacher with enough force to knock her down. It also shows you shouting at her before you marched away. The dean could judge this either way, honestly.”

“It was an honest mistake, and she bumped into me as much as I bumped into her,” the young college student argued.

“The issue isn’t just the collision itself, Asher,” Mrs. Bloom explained, folding her hands together as she maintained her calm composure. “The issue revolves around your reaction to the accident. Professor Crone alleged you verbally abused her afterward. You know these scholarships are assessed on behavior and respect as much as your talents.”

Asher crossed her arms over her chest and glared across the workspace, refusing to back down. She knew her worth to the school, and she refused to believe they would side with a teacher over an intelligent student like her.

“I just brought a national title to this school,” she complained. “My debate award should count for something. The dean isn’t going to pull my funding because I didn’t apologize to someone who bumped into me in the courtyard.”

“Your debate title is a wonderful achievement, but it doesn’t give you a free pass to knock over an older woman and scream at her,” Mrs. Bloom pointed out, keeping her tone grounded and realistic. “These scholarships come with behavioral expectations, and the dean could easily decide your actions violate the conduct expected of our recipients. If he decides to take this further, you risk losing your funding.”

Asher felt a cold knot form in her stomach as the reality of her predicament sank in. She knew her parents couldn’t afford out-of-state tuition, and losing her financial aid meant she would have to pack her bags and leave Arizona State by the end of the semester. She pictured herself sitting in her childhood bedroom, forced to enroll in a local community college while students she considered intellectual inferiors continued earning their degrees at a top university. She had her future all planned out, and this complaint risked ruining everything.

“He wouldn’t actually kick me out over this,” the redhead said, though her voice lacked its earlier conviction.

“Do you really want to test that theory?” the scholarship administrator asked, leaning forward slightly as she maintained eye contact. “You’re a brilliant student, Asher. You maintain a perfect grade point average, and you have a bright future ahead of you. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your education.”

Asher stared at the desk, struggling to formulate a proper response. She hated the realization that a woman she viewed as a joke held her future in the palm of her hand. Her smarts and her perfect grades suddenly felt useless against all of this.

“What are my options?” the young woman asked, forcing the words through her teeth.

“You have a simple choice to make,” the woman explained, sliding across a piece of paper. “Professor Crone told the dean she will drop the complaint if you visit her office and give her a sincere apology of your own free will. If you do that, she’ll treat the collision as an accident, and this all goes away. Your other option is to walk out that door and leave the dean to decide if this is serious enough to take further.”

Asher stared at the slip of paper containing the office room number. She prided herself on being the smartest person in any room, and apologizing to a purveyor of pseudoscience felt like a humiliating admission of defeat. She hated the idea of disgracing herself like that, but found no simpler alternative. She needed the money, and she needed the degree, which meant she had to play the game according to their rules.

“An apology? I have to go right now?” she asked, picking up the paper and reading the room number.

“She’s waiting for you,” Mrs. Bloom confirmed, offering a small, encouraging nod.

“Fine,” Asher muttered, standing up from her chair and shoving the slip of paper into her jeans pocket. “I can do that. I’ll apologize.”

“Just make it sound like you mean it, even if you don’t,” Mrs. Bloom advised, watching the student walk toward the door.

Asher offered a tight, forced smile before she turned and exited the room, stepping out into the quiet hallway of the administrative building. She marched down the corridor with a tense, angry stride, mentally cursing Maya for being right about her arrogant behavior catching up to her. It infuriated her that someone with a fraction of her intelligence could wield so much power over her academic trajectory.

The thought of standing in front of Olga Crone and begging for forgiveness made Asher physically sick. She just needed to say the right words, feign enough contrition to satisfy the complaint, and walk away with her scholarship intact. The Occult Studies department operated out of an older building on the edge of campus, and Asher set off toward it with a determined scowl. She figured she could swallow her pride for a moment and fake an apology to the old woman; this was child’s play.

❖

Asher pulled open the wooden door built directly into the trunk of a massive oak tree, shivering as a sudden gust of wind blew past her. The rush of cold air unsettled her, rattling the branches overhead and making her second-guess her decision to come here alone. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and stepped inside the Occult Studies building, eager to finish this humiliating errand and get back to her normal life.

The structure was essentially a small, single-story cabin tucked away on the far edge of the campus, holding only a handful of rooms connected by a narrow hallway. Asher walked down the corridor at a brisk pace, listening to her own footsteps echo against the floorboards. She hated everything about this side of the school. The building felt weird and cramped. The university clearly didn’t prioritize this department, which only validated her belief that Olga, or The Crone, as all the students knew her, taught a useless subject. It took her less than a minute to locate the correct door at the end of the hall. A simple brass placard read “Professor Olga Crone,” and the young student paused to take a slow breath.

She knocked twice on the solid wood and waited, crossing her arms over her chest as she prepared to fake her way through the conversation.

“Come in,” a raspy voice called out from the other side.

Asher turned the knob and pushed the door open. The office was small, filled with strange objects of worship hanging from the ceiling or on the bookshelves. Olga sat behind a wooden desk in the center of the room, and the professor didn’t offer a greeting, choosing instead to stare at the student with those watery eyes.

Asher closed the door and stood in front of the desk, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible so she could leave this weird part of campus. She forced her arms to drop to her sides, adopting a neutral posture as she prepared to deliver the lines she had rehearsed during her walk.

“Mrs. Bloom told me to come see you,” the young woman started, forcing her tone to sound polite and agreeable. “I want to apologize for what happened in the courtyard. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, and I bumped into you. I shouldn’t have snapped at you afterward, and I’m sorry for the disrespect.”

Olga stared at her in silence for several long seconds, offering no immediate reaction to the rehearsed lines. The older woman kept her gaze fixed on the student.

“You could do better,” the professor finally replied, her eyes still fixed on the young redhead. “But seeing as you’re just a stupid girl, and stupid girls make mistakes, I’ll accept your apology and forgive you.”

Asher’s jaw dropped. The fake smile vanished from her face, replaced by a scowl of rage. She could tolerate the nagging from Mrs. Bloom, and she could swallow her pride long enough to fake an apology, but she refused to let this woman insult her mind. She was smarter than everyone in this damn faculty put together, and she couldn’t accept being called a ‘stupid girl.’

“Excuse me?” Asher snapped, stepping forward and planting her hands on the edge of the desk.

“I said you’re a stupid girl,” Olga repeated, unfazed by the sudden display of anger.

“I’m smarter than anyone on this campus, you old hag,” the student yelled, her face flushing red as she glared down at the seated teacher. “I’m twice the woman you will ever be, with ten times the intellect. You don’t get to sit there and call me stupid when you teach this pseudoscience bullshit like it’s an actual field worth spending time on.”

“I thought you were here to apologize,” Olga said nonchalantly. “You know, to keep that scholarship of yours.”

“You think you can hold my money hostage and force me to respect you?” Asher shot back, her voice echoing in the small space. “I only walked over here because Mrs. Bloom gave me an ultimatum, but I am done playing along. I’m not going to beg for forgiveness from a woman who belongs in a mental institution.”

“You only prove my point with every word you speak,” the older woman noted, lacing her long fingers together. “You lack maturity, and you think your brain makes you better than everyone else. You are a hollow shell of a person.”

“I actually live in reality,” the redhead yelled, pointing a finger at the teacher. “I don’t need your advice, and I certainly don’t need your forgiveness. This is a joke.”

“Your anger will not protect you from the consequences of your actions,” the older woman replied cryptically, her pale eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“You can take your ridiculous complaint and drop it in the trash,” Asher said, taking a step back as she prepared to leave. “The dean can do whatever he likes. I’m done with you.”

As Asher completed her rant, the overhead bulbs buzzed loudly and died, leaving the small office in immediate darkness. The temperature in the room plummeted in a matter of seconds, turning the warm indoor air freezing cold. Asher gasped as a sudden chill bit through her clothes, raising goosebumps along her arms. Frost began to form on the edges of the desk as the ambient heat vanished. She took a hesitant step backward toward the office door, her rational brain struggling to understand what was happening. A broken air conditioning unit couldn’t cause a room to freeze this fast, and she could see a faint wisp of white fog leave her lips as she exhaled a shaky breath.

Olga rose slowly from her chair, her tall, bony frame unfolding behind the wooden desk. The older woman no longer looked like a frail, eccentric teacher. She carried an overbearing presence that pinned Asher in place, projecting an unnatural aura that made it hard for the student to draw a full breath.

“You are in desperate need of a lesson in humility, Asher Warren,” Olga whispered, her raspy voice carrying a strange, hollow echo that seemed to bounce off the walls.

The professor reached across the desk with a speed that defied her age, placing a firm, cold hand directly onto the student’s shoulder. A violent, unnatural shudder ripped through Asher’s body the moment the older woman made contact, sending a buzz of panic straight down her spine. It felt like a solid block of ice had just been dropped down her back, freezing her thoughts for a terrifying second before her survival instincts finally kicked in. Her skin crawled under the icy grip, the piercing chill seeping through her shirt and chilling her blood.

“Don’t touch me, you old bag!” the student yelled, violently ripping her shoulder out of the woman’s grasp and scrambling backward until her spine hit the wall.

She fumbled blindly for the brass doorknob as her heart raced. She didn’t understand what was happening with the temperature or the power, but she knew she needed to get out of that building immediately.

“You can take your complaint to the dean, and you can stick my apology where the sun don’t shine,” the student spat out, her voice trembling slightly from the freezing air.

She twisted the knob and yanked the door open, throwing herself out into the narrow hallway and leaving the freezing office behind as she sprinted toward the main exit. She had no idea what kind of stagecraft the hag had prepared to scare the young student, but Asher sure wouldn’t forget the encounter in a hurry.

❖

Asher slowed her brisk pace as she reached the small concrete terrace outside her female-only dorm building. She stopped near the entrance doors and leaned back against the warm brick wall, closing her eyes as the adrenaline slowly drained from her system. Her pulse leveled out into a normal, steady beat, and she took a long breath of the afternoon air.

She opened her eyes and stood up straight, running her hands down her arms to inspect herself. She had no idea what just happened in that dilapidated cabin, but she felt physically fine. She reached up and rubbed her shoulder where the professor had grabbed her, half expecting to find a layer of frost or a bruise forming on her skin. However, there was no pain or discomfort in her limbs.

Asher scoffed, shaking her head as she paced a tight circle on the terrace. The old woman obviously installed some elaborate stage effects in her office to intimidate students. She probably kept a remote control under the desk to cut the power, coupled with some hidden industrial air conditioning vents to drop the temperature on command. It was a humorless trick designed to make people believe in her fairytale rants, and she had used it to scare the living hell out of Asher. The young woman hated to admit that it almost worked. She had been genuinely terrified in that moment. The sudden darkness and the blast of icy air had caught her off guard, triggering a primal flight response before her brain could process the situation.

She stopped pacing and crossed her arms, annoyed with herself for running away instead of calling out the trickery. She should have stayed in the room and dismantled the illusion, exposing the woman for the fraud she was. Instead, she had sprinted out the front door like a frightened child.

Asher pushed the embarrassment aside and began replaying the argument in her head. She mentally reviewed every sentence she delivered to the professor, wondering if her final outburst was going to make things worse. She had called the teacher an old bag, insulted her teachings, and told her to stick the apology where the sun doesn’t shine. Asher cringed slightly at her word choice. She usually defended herself more coherently than that. Letting a purveyor of pseudoscience provoke her into a shouting match felt like a failure on her part. She had lost her composure, and she handed the faculty member more ammunition to use against her.

The warning from the scholarship office echoed in her mind. Mrs. Bloom had made it clear that the funding came with strict behavioral expectations. Asher worried for a passing moment about whether the administration would actually follow through and rescind her money over the incident. Losing the scholarship meant she would have no way to pay for her studies. It could get her expelled.

Asher shook her head, forcing the negative thoughts away as she rationalized the reality of the situation. She could easily recover from this. She didn’t think the dean would actually withdraw the very thing keeping her in college over something so frivolous. Surely the college wouldn’t throw away their star pupil just to appease an eccentric woman who taught students about magic crystals.

Her confidence returned as she mapped out her defense strategy. If they called her into a disciplinary hearing, she would simply explain that the professor provoked her. She would point out that she went to the office with the intention of apologizing, just as Mrs. Bloom requested, but the teacher refused to accept it and resorted to personal insults instead. The Crone had called her a stupid girl. She had called her a name that the old bat would know could provoke the student. It was effectively self-defense.

She knew how to argue her side of a story. She would just tell the scholarship office that the professor escalated the situation first. It was a minor dispute over a bumped shoulder, and she trusted her own intelligence to guide her through whatever meetings the school threw at her.

Asher uncrossed her arms and took a step toward the glass doors of the dorm building. She needed to talk to her roommate and vent about the ridiculous encounter. Maya would probably sigh and scold her for losing her temper again, but Asher knew how to tell the story to make herself sound like the rational one. She would leave out the part where she ran away in a panic, though. Why would she run like that?

Asher grabbed the handle of the entrance door and pulled it open, stepping into the cool lobby of the dorm building. A few girls sat on the couches near the entrance, chatting and scrolling on their phones. Asher offered them a polite nod as she walked past, her earlier anxiety replaced by her usual demeanor. She had won a national debate tournament just a few hours ago, and she needed to go back to reminding everyone who she was.

She walked toward the stairwell, wondering if Maya was already upstairs waiting for her. Asher believed she was smart enough to handle whatever consequences came her way, trusting her brain to keep her future secure as she left the drama of the courtyard behind her. She didn’t need to worry about The Crone or her stupid party tricks anymore.

❖

The low hum of the blowdryer filled the small dorm room as Asher sat cross-legged on top of her twin mattress. She had stripped out of her debate clothes after her long walk across campus, changing into a simple white tank top and a pair of pink cotton pajama shorts. She ran her fingers through her damp red hair, directing the hot air across her scalp as she thought back to the events of the day. It was supposed to be the greatest day in her academic life, but it had turned into anything but.

A sudden, aggressive knock rattled the door of her room, interrupting her peaceful routine. Before she could call out and ask who was there, the handle turned, and the door swung inward uninvited.

“Get out,” Asher yelled, dropping the hairdryer onto her mattress as she glared toward the entrance.

A tall figure poked his head around the edge of the door frame, offering a lazy grin that instantly made the young woman want to throw something at him. He stood six feet four, possessing the broad, muscular frame typical of a college athlete. He was a Black basketball player named Trey, wearing a tight gray sports shirt, maroon sweatpants, and a backward snapback hat over his dark hair.

Trey had dated Asher’s roommate and friend, Maya, for six months until they broke up two weeks ago. He treated their dorm room like a second home until Maya finally saw sense and dumped him. Asher knew Maya was attracted to the man’s strong, sexy body, but he seemed to know nothing about the world except sports, weed, and video games. Despite the breakup, the brainless jock still hovered around their hall like a lost puppy, constantly looking for an excuse to hook up with his ex-girlfriend again.

“Yo, Maya in here?” the athlete asked, leaning his thick shoulder against the wooden frame as he chewed on a piece of gum.

Asher opened her mouth to tear him apart. She wanted to tell him that Maya wanted nothing to do with a braindead loser who couldn’t even spell his own major. She gathered a sharp, articulate insult in her mind, preparing to put him in his place so thoroughly that he would never knock on their door again.

Before a biting retort could even leave her lips, a thick, suffocating cloud rolled straight into her mind. The sensation hit her with a bizarre force, shattering her cohesive thoughts. The sharp-witted brain she relied on melted away in a matter of seconds, leaving a void where her intellect used to sit. She tried to grasp the words she had just lined up, but her clever vocabulary vanished into thin air, leaving her brain feeling soft. Her hand drifted away from the mattress on its own accord, moving up to her face as she absently twirled a wet strand of red hair around her index finger.

“Oh my god, hey Trey,” Asher heard herself say, her voice adopting a breathy, high-pitched tone she had never used a day in her life. “Maya’s, like, not here right now.”

A brief flash of confusion fluttered through Asher’s mind, but it slipped away before she could grab onto it. She wondered why she was acting so nice to a guy she hated, but the thought felt too fuzzy to hold. Her brain felt like a soft sponge, soaking up the sight of the athlete rather than analyzing his flaws. She stared at the tight fabric of his shirt, mesmerized by the way his muscles shifted as he breathed. She felt an instinctual urge to smile at him, batting her eyelashes as a bubbly warmth filled her stomach.

Trey pushed the door open a little wider and stepped fully into the room, raising his eyebrow as he looked down at the redhead on the bed. He adjusted his cap, studying her relaxed posture with obvious surprise.

“You good, Asher?” the athlete asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I figured you’d be cussing me out by now. Usually you be on my head the second I walk in here.”

Asher opened her mouth to form a snappy comeback, wanting to tell him to leave, but she couldn’t string together a cohesive insult if her life depended on it. She felt foolish and easily distracted by the way his sweatpants hung low on his waist, revealing the top band of his dark boxers. She let out a ditzy giggle, covering her mouth with her fingers as she wondered why she found him so interesting all of a sudden.

“I’m, like, doing super good,” she replied, leaning back on her hands and pushing her chest out to emphasize her modest breasts without meaning to. “I was just drying my hair and stuff. It takes, like, forever to get it perfect, you know?”

Trey raised an eyebrow, his initial confusion shifting into amusement as he realized the stuck-up girl was acting sweet for him. He took a couple of long strides across the dorm floor, walking right up to the edge of her mattress to tower over her small frame.

“Drying your hair, huh?” the basketball star asked, looking down at her with a smirk. “You always struck me as the type to just throw it in a bun and be done with it. I didn’t know you cared about looking cute for a man.”

The old Asher would have scolded his chauvinist, arrogant behavior and kicked him out, but the pink fog inside her head made her feel flattered by the attention. She flipped a strand of hair over her shoulder and arched her back, eager to show off her slim figure for the tall jock. She wanted him to think she was pretty, and her simple mind soaked up his casual compliment.

“Oh my god, thank you,” the redhead purred, letting out another breathy giggle. “I try, you know? It’s just hard to find the time when I have to do all this boring homework and stuff. But a girl has to look good.”

“I hear that,” he chuckled, leaning closer. “You sure ain’t acting like a nerd today.”

“I am, like, not a nerd,” she pouted, sticking her bottom lip out in a childish display. “I just, like, read sometimes. But I can be fun too.”

“Could have fooled me,” Trey laughed, shifting his weight. “You always carrying around those big-ass books and looking at me like I’m stupid.”

“You totally are stupid,” Asher told him, although the silly tone in her voice made the comment sound like anything other than an insult.

“And you’re so smart?” the tall Black man grinned, reaching out and gently stroking a strand of the woman’s hair.

“Mhmm,” the fog-minded girl responded, softly biting her lower lip as the man’s touch sent a spike of heat straight to her groin. Was she getting turned on?

The simple caress bypassed her empty brain and settled right between her thighs. Her pussy clenched hard, flooding her pink panties with a gush of slick, hot wetness. An animalistic ache throbbed directly on her clit, and she widened her eyes in shock as a wave of lust hijacked her body. The physical need to feel a thick, hard dick sliding inside her dripping slit overrode any intelligent thought she possessed.

Her thighs trembled against the mattress, begging to spread open for him. Her nipples hardened into tight, sensitive peaks that pushed visibly against the thin fabric of her tank top, aching for his rough hands to squeeze them. She wanted to pull him down onto the bed, rip off his sweatpants, and beg him to fuck her senseless until she forgot her own name. She let out a breathy moan, leaning her cheek into his palm like a desperate slut craving attention.

Trey chuckled, his eyes dropping to stare directly at her perky chest pushing against her shirt. He noticed the prominent shape of her nipples and the dopey, glazed expression softening her features.

“Damn, Asher,” the athlete smirked, trailing his thumb along her jawline as he enjoyed her submissive state. “I didn’t know you were hiding all that underneath those drab clothes you always wear. You looking fine right now.”

“They are, like, super comfy,” Asher giggled, squirming her hips on the mattress as her slick pussy rubbed against the seam of her shorts.

She felt a desperate urge to hump the mattress, struggling to keep her hands planted behind her so she wouldn’t reach out and grab his crotch. The pink fog made it impossible to care about her pride or her pristine reputation. She just wanted to be a good girl for the tall athlete standing over her. Her brain felt like a bowl of mush, incapable of stringing together a coherent defense against the overwhelming horniness possessing her body. She imagined him pushing her back onto the pillows and breeding her right there in the dorm room, a filthy fantasy that made her leak more slick fluid down her inner thighs.

“You should act like this more often,” Trey suggested, letting his gaze wander down her bare legs. “Guys might actually start paying attention to you instead of Maya.”

“Mhmmm,” the redhead moaned softly, unable to focus on anything but the man’s strong musk surrounding her. She was just a girl, and he was a macho man who could have his way with her.

“Yeah, well, keep acting this sweet, and I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you,” the college star told her, letting his hand drop away from her face as he took a step back toward the door. “Make sure you let Maya know I came through. Or, you know, hit my line if you tryna chill later.”

Asher nodded dumbly, her parted lips slick with saliva as she watched his shoulders flex under his shirt. She didn’t know what was going on, and it hurt too much to think. She just sat there, flushed and dripping wet, unable to process anything beyond the base urge to please him.

“I will, like, be sure to let her know,” she promised, offering him a vacant smile.

He gave her a cocky wink, turned around, and walked out of the room, pulling the wooden door shut behind him.

The moment the door clicked shut, that pink, smothering fog vanished, giving the young woman her mind back.

“What the actual fuck?!”

❖

Asher paced the narrow strip of carpet between her mattress and Maya’s neatly made bed, just as she had been doing for the past ten minutes since the basketball idiot walked out of their dorm room. Her bare feet slapped against the floorboards as she marched back and forth, her mind firing on all cylinders once again. The terrifying, suffocating fog that had hijacked her brain vanished the second Trey shut the door, leaving her intellect fully restored.

She stopped pacing and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. The sudden return of her intelligence only made the memory of the last fifteen minutes feel like a humiliating nightmare. She had actually twirled her hair and batted her eyelashes at a man who could barely read a book. She had giggled at his dumb comments and arched her back to show off her breasts.

Asher dropped her hands and looked down at her pajama shorts. The evidence of her embarrassing breakdown remained undeniably real. The crotch of her clothes was soaked with a thick layer of slick fluid, and her inner thighs felt sticky from the sudden rush of arousal. Her clit still throbbed with a dull ache, and her nipples remained tight against her tank top.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” the redhead muttered, wrapping her arms around her stomach, shivering slightly.

She walked over to her bed and collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, burying her face in her hands, burning with shame. She couldn’t understand how her brain just shut off without warning. One second she was preparing to insult him, and the next second she wanted him to bend her over the desk and fuck her brains out.

She hated how horny she had been. She hated that her pussy still throbbed at the memory of his thick hands touching her face. It made her sick thinking about how she had wanted his hard dick sliding inside her dripping cunt so badly that she forgot how to speak properly. The intensity of the lust she experienced scared the hell out of her.

She rubbed her temples, trying to figure out a medical reason for her breakdown. Did she have a panic attack? People got stressed and stopped thinking straight all the time, but a panic attack didn’t make a woman sound like a bimbo from a bad teen movie. It didn’t make her crave a rough fuck from a guy she despised, and it certainly didn’t make her giggle like a brainless cheerleader.

Maybe someone slipped a drug into her coffee backstage at the debate tournament. A strong pill could mess with her head and make her horny, but the timing ruined that idea. The pink fog didn’t build up over an hour while she walked across campus. It slammed into her skull the exact second Trey stepped into her dorm room, and it vanished the second he walked away. It only happened when he was near her, and the sudden shift felt entirely unnatural.

Asher stood up from the bed, struck by a horrifying thought. The trigger wasn’t a chemical or a weird medical emergency. The trigger was proximity to a man.

Her memory snapped back to the Occult Studies cabin on the edge of campus. She pictured the cramped office and the sudden drop in temperature. She remembered the frost forming on the wooden desk and the white fog leaving her lips as she breathed the freezing air.

She remembered Olga rising from her chair and grabbing her shoulder. She shuddered at the memory of the old woman touching her skin, panic spiking down her spine. The teacher had promised her a lesson in humility, and just a couple of hours later, Asher found herself acting like a brainless idiot begging for a dumb jock’s attention.

“No,” the young woman whispered, taking a step backward. “Magic isn’t real.”

She gripped the edge of Maya’s desk to steady herself, fighting to keep her breathing steady. She wondered in horror if the strange professor had actually cursed her. The pieces fit together with sickening clarity. Olga taught witchcraft, she demanded respect, and she punished Asher for being arrogant. Stripping away her intellect and replacing it with dumb, submissive lust served as the ultimate punishment for a student who valued her brain over everything else.

Asher shook her head, her face flushing red with anger. She refused to accept it. She was a national debate champion and a woman of science, grounded in reality and facts. Curses were fictional fairytales used to scare peasants in the Dark Ages, and she wouldn’t reduce herself to believing in stage tricks just because she experienced a bizarre breakdown.

“I am not cursed,” she told the empty room, forcing her voice to remain steadfast as she glared at the door. “I just need a cold shower and some sleep.”

She marched over to her wooden dresser and yanked a drawer open, grabbing a fresh pair of panties and a clean towel. She needed to wash the sticky fluid off her thighs and scrub the filthy scent of her own arousal from her skin. She would go to the campus library tomorrow morning, research cognitive dissociation, and find a rational explanation for her symptoms. She refused to believe that an old hag in a dilapidated cabin possessed the power to turn her into a mindless bimbo just by touching her shoulder. She would prove to herself the curse was a myth, trusting her superior intellect to fix whatever was wrong with her head.

End of Chapter One