Page 148 of Impulse Control
He held up his hand, cutting off the question before it became negotiation.
“Imagesyoucare about,” he said simply. “Images thatcostyou.”
My mouth went dry.
“That’s—” I started.
René’s eyes sharpened. “Donottell me it is difficult,” he said. “Tell me you will do it.”
I swallowed. What choice did I have? “I will,” I said.
He nodded once, satisfied. Then, like this conversation had never been about my feelings in the first place, he added, “Also, you will assist me Thursday. It is important.”
My stomach tightened again. “What is it?”
His expression went unreadable. “A private viewing,” he said. “And you will be careful.”
The word careful landed like a threat.
He dismissed me with a flick of his fingers.
“Go,” he said. “Eat.”
I stood, print still on the desk. I didn’t touch it. Didn’t take it. Didn’t ask.
I left it there like evidence.
Like a verdict.
Campus hitme like cold air and too many voices.
It wasn’t raining, but everything still smelled like ithad—stone holding damp in its pores, leaves rotting quietly along the edges of the courtyard, students moving in clusters like migration. At the same time, there was a cold, clean breeze picking up speed around the buildings.
I arrived early for once.
Which meant I had time to sit with dread in my lap like a familiar animal. Mischa had asked for the first set next week.
René had asked for ten images by Friday.
Dominic wanted five minutes.
My calendar wanted blood.
I stared at my phone until my eyes felt tired.
I didn’t call Dominic.
Not yet.
I told myself I would after class, like that wasn’t the same lie with a fresh coat of paint.
Mischa found me before I could escape.
Not in the classroom.
In the hallway.
That was worse.
