Page 124 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

"You should get your flu shot soon," the makeup artist, Sara, suggests as she blends something shimmery across my cheekbones. "The university's offering them for free this week, right?"

I nod slightly, careful not to disrupt her work. "Planning to stop by tomorrow after class." The lie comes easily, practiced. Because how do you explain that you don't trust anything being injected into students right now? That Eva's warnings about mysterious illnesses have made even routine medical procedures feel dangerous?

My fingers find my phone, scrolling through playlists while trying to decide what music might help me focus. The upcoming shoot is important - my first major campaign since the TIME cover started generating serious industry buzz. But concentration feels impossible with everything else weighing on my mind.

"Such a shame about the hockey team," one of the assistant stylists murmurs nearby, her voice pitched low but not quite low enough. "Did you hear how many players are out sick?"

I keep my eyes on my phone screen, pretending to browse while my attention sharpens. The stylist working on my hair - Mark, I think his name is - makes a sound of agreement.

"At least five from what I heard," he responds, fingers still moving through my hair with mechanical precision. "Maybe more by now. They're having to bring in players from other divisions just to maintain enough bodies for practice."

That explains Ren showing up today, I realize. He'd claimed he just wanted to relive his glory days, but looking back, his presence at practice makes more sense. We needed the numbers, needed to maintain appearances that everything was normal.

"It's happening all over again," Sara adds, her brush pausing briefly before resuming its careful strokes. "Just like last time."

My finger hovers over my playlist, all pretense of selecting music forgotten as I strain to hear more without appearing obvious. Last time? What last time?

"Should we really be discussing this?" Mark glances meaningfully in my direction, but I keep my expression carefully neutral, the model's mask I've perfected over years of practice.

"He's got his phone out," the assistant stylist points out. "Probably can't hear us over whatever he's listening to."

If only they knew how much practice I have at appearing disinterested while gathering information. It's amazing what people will say around you when they think you're just a pretty face focused on your own reflection.

"Still," Sara lowers her voice further, "it's unsettling. First the hockey team, then the swim team last week. Now I'm hearing the debate club's down half their members too."

"Different symptoms though," Mark adds, his fingers still moving through my hair though his attention is clearly on the conversation. "That's what makes it weird. Each group getting sick differently."

My chest tightens as their words confirm everything Eva and Hannah have been warning us about. Different groups, different symptoms, different patterns of illness spreading through campus like some twisted experiment.

"My cousin works in the campus clinic," the assistant continues, barely above a whisper now. "Says they've never seen anything like it. How the symptoms seem perfectly designed for each person - like whatever's causing this knows exactly who it's targeting."

A chill runs down my spine despite the studio's carefully maintained temperature. Because that's exactly what Hannahdescribed - diseases engineered for specific individuals or groups. The Blind One's signature method of control.

"The timing's strange too," Sara muses, adding another layer of something to my face. "Right before holidays, just like before. When everyone's distracted with finals and travel plans..."

"Perfect cover," Mark agrees grimly. "By the time anyone connects the patterns, half the student body will be gone for break anyway."

I resist the urge to text Eva immediately, to warn her about these new confirmations of everything we've feared. But any obvious reaction now would give away that I've been listening, would shut down this valuable source of information.

"They're saying some of the hockey players might not recover in time for the championship games," the assistant adds, voice heavy with implications. "Their symptoms are... different. Worse somehow."

"You know," Sara's voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper, "this kind of thing has happened before."

"What do you mean?" Mark asks, leaning in closer to hear.

Their voices drop so low I have to strain to catch the words, pretending to be completely absorbed in my phone while focusing every sense on their hushed conversation.

"It's the strangest thing," Sara continues, her brush moving mechanically across my face while she speaks. "Every three to four years, like clockwork, there seems to be this... wave of illness that hits the universities. But Leighton especially gets hit hard."

The assistant stylist - Jessica, I think - moves closer under the pretense of adjusting some equipment. "How would you even know something like that? That's oddly specific information."

Sara's movements falter slightly, and I catch a flash of something vulnerable in her reflection before she schools herfeatures. "My husband," she admits after a moment's hesitation. "He attended Leighton years ago. It was sort of a family tradition - his father went there, his grandfather. Everyone expected him to graduate and take over the family business eventually."

"But he didn't?" Jessica prompts, voice barely audible now.

"No." Sara's brush stills completely for a moment before resuming its careful strokes. "He made it to third year before... before it happened."

The weight in her tone makes my skin prickle with apprehension. I scroll aimlessly through my phone, heart pounding as I wait for her to continue.

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