After class ended, Sara decided to head back to her room to relax and read. They had an hour break before the next lesson. Most students flooded the cafeteria for lunch, but she wasn't hungry. She preferred to spend the time alone—quiet moments were rare since she shared a room with a noisy roommate. Lately, she'd been spending more time with Simon, joking around and confiding about life at the center. When they weren't fooling around, she ended up on the phone for hours, plotting revenge on any girl who dared cross her. Secretly, she was glad to have Simon on her side.
Still, sometimes she had to show her claws—especially when it came to Matthew being nice to her. Sara suspected Laura's jealousy, but she valued Matthew as a steadfast ally who had helped her from the start. He'd even told her she reminded him of his sister, someone he'd always protected, so there was no romantic interest on his side. Sara was too shy to flirt anyway. Except… when it came to Alan.
She smiled at the thought of him, strolling dreamily down the corridor—until she suddenly spotted him. Alan looked furious, flanked by the director, who listened carefully. Sara slipped behind a wall, tilting her head, trying to catch their words. It was about the teacher who'd hit Alan.
The old man, looking close to eighty, assured Alan he'd try to resolve things. But Alan snapped, demanding the teacher be expelled or he'd tell his father everything. The director tried to calm him, but it only made Alan angrier.
Sara noticed the director seemed more deferential to Alan than to other students. Was it because Alan's father was the prime minister? She'd noticed that on day one.
"Calm down. I can't expel the teacher, but I promise to handle it properly. It won't happen again. He'll apologize to you personally," the director promised. Alan raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.
"If it happens in front of the whole class, I'll just pretend it didn't," Alan said coldly. The director studied him, then nodded. A faint smile crossed Alan's lips. "Then I hope he never tells me what to do again—especially not with his hand. That's what I have a father for."
Did the director just cave? Was he afraid of the prime minister? Something didn't feel right.
Sara hurried away as the director glanced around, ensuring no one overheard. Back in her room, she froze—Laura was there, kissing Simon's neck, and Simon looked blissful.
Startled, the boy jumped away when he saw Sara.
"A girl with an ugly complexion," he teased, pointing at her. Laura laughed and leaned against the wall while Sara blushed. "You could've knocked."
"This is her room," Simon said. "She can come in anytime." The brown-haired girl looked confused and embarrassed at catching them. "We're just friends," Laura shrugged. "Sara should explain those shoes under her bed. They look expensive... and they're men's."
Sara flushed deeply. Simon folded his arms, eyes demanding an explanation. She glanced nervously at Laura, whose curious smile faded. Laura clearly had her eye on Matthew, and the tension was palpable.
Wordlessly, Sara walked to her bed and picked up the shoes.
"I have to return these," she murmured, avoiding their eyes.
Simon squinted knowingly. "They're Matthew's, aren't they? Admit it."
Sara exchanged a puzzled glance with Laura, who seemed relieved.
"No, not Matthew's. Someone who helped me last time," she whispered.
Simon watched her slyly. Sara sensed the brewing love triangle but preferred to stay out of it—love triangles usually meant trouble.
"You can stay here. I'll return the shoes," she added, lifting them and slipping out quickly.
She hurried to the boys' quarters, up to the second floor, and knocked on Alan's door.
No answer. She pressed her ear to the door and heard Alan's angry voice.
"What do you mean you don't care that a teacher hit me? He had no right, even if I deserved it! I knew you sent me here to get rid of me. I'm the son of your mistress! Isn't that shameful? You're the prime minister and you had to stoop this low! Maybe then I wouldn't have been born."
Sara froze. She'd never dared talk to her own father like that. Alan's sharp tongue revealed a fractured relationship.
"This place's only making me worse. You'll regret locking me up here. I'll muzzle you because you don't deserve respect. That's not how a father behaves."
Suddenly, a voice startled her.
"What are you doing?"
Sara turned, cheeks burning—Oliver stood there, watching her suspiciously.
"I knew you were weird, but this much? Still spying on us?" he squinted.
She quickly denied it. His eyes flicked to the shoes in her hand.
"Stealing our stuff now? Some kind of fetish? Maybe you like men's underwear? I should keep mine safe," he teased, making her even more embarrassed.
"It's not like that," she stammered. "Alan lent me his shoes. I wanted to return them."
"Alan borrowed your shoes? Sounds absurd. Don't you have your own?" He smirked as she turned away.
"Just happened."
"Want to borrow mine?" he pressed.
Sara bit her lip. Oliver was annoying and spiteful, and she'd had enough.
"Yours stink," she said, then immediately regretted being mean.
Oliver blinked, surprised.
"Why are you two staring like that?" Matthew's voice cut through. Relief washed over Sara. She felt less awkward with him around. "Sara, what are you doing here? Lost?"
Alan appeared in the hallway. Sara glanced nervously between the boys. Matthew quickly caught on and draped an arm over Alan's shoulder, steering him toward the stairs.
Oliver looked back as Sara shyly approached Alan.
"I wanted to return these," she said, holding out the shoes. "Thanks for letting me borrow them—I didn't expect you'd have to come back in just socks."
Alan smirked, swinging the door open and tossing the shoes inside carelessly.
"You okay? Been to the doctor?" he asked.
She nodded shyly, tucking hair behind her ear.
"I should go. Don't want anyone to catch me here."
She turned toward the stairs, but Alan called out.
"What about the corpses? When will you show me?"
Sara glanced back. Alan winked mischievously.
"Let me know when you dare to go back there—I'll be happy to come along."
*
Despite the late hour, Sara lay restless in bed, twisting and turning in vain. Tonight, sleep refused her. The faint, steady snore of Laura from the other side of the room only added to her irritation.
She must have drunk something with Simon again—every time it was the same.
Since the beginning, Sara had been wondering: where did they get all that stuff? Cigarettes, alcohol—it wasn't possible to buy any of it inside the center. The place was locked down tight, secured by four heavy gates. Was someone on the outside helping them?
Suddenly, she stiffened, sitting up on her elbows. At first, she didn't notice it—but then her hair stood on end as her eyes landed on the figure sitting quietly on the edge of her bed. The same woman who had limped across the room the last time, her face veiled by thick black hair.
Sara's eyes widened, her body paralyzed by fear.
The woman whipped her face toward Sara, and the sight of her battered features forced Sara to squeeze her eyelids shut. It was a grotesque, terrifying face—one that made Sara want to scream, but no sound came out.
Her voice was caught in her throat.
Sara's heart felt like it stopped as the apparition suddenly appeared right beside her. Seeing her so close was worse than any nightmare—like watching her own death unfold.
An icy hand, impossibly cold, settled on Sara's palm. She froze completely.
"No one is safe here. It's still happening," the woman whispered, sending a shiver racing down Sara's spine. "He will show you a piece of the past. So you can understand the place you're in."
Suddenly, everything shifted.
Sara found herself standing in the middle of a hall—but it was nothing like the one she knew. Instead of classrooms, iron bars lined the walls. Beaten, desperate people huddled within, crying out for mercy. Women wept openly. Men screamed in pain, begging for help. They were filthy, bruised, and bleeding.
Uniformed soldiers strolled through the corridor, their faces twisted in cruel smiles. They paused to mock the suffering prisoners, feasting on lavish food as the hungry begged for scraps. When someone dared to ask, they were met with brutal beatings.
Sara's stomach churned. She couldn't watch. The cruelty was unbearable—it brought tears to her eyes. She felt weak, overwhelmed by the injustice.
Then she noticed the insignia on the soldiers' uniforms.
Her breath caught.
Swastikas.
Her legs rooted to the ground in horror. This wasn't just suffering—it was Nazi cruelty. And those trapped inside? They were victims, not perpetrators.
"He is the source of all this pain," the woman's voice cut through the nightmare. "The general who started it all. You might think it ended with the war—but it didn't. You're in danger, too."
Sara followed the woman's gaze.
A tall man walked down the corridor, flanked by a woman. Sara tried to get a closer look, but darkness and distance obscured his face.
"I can't show you more. You must find the truth yourself. We are connected by blood—let me and the others escape eternal suffering. You are our only hope."
Sara blinked and opened her eyes. She was back in her room, lying on her bed. Laura was still asleep. There was no shadowy woman beside her, no sign of the nightmare that had just gripped her.
What dark past did the center hide? What truth lay buried beneath the surface—and why was it tied to her?