Chapter 3 Suppressed

"Still," Finn said, flicking a pen between his fingers, "you know you make the rest of us look bad, right?"

Ivy grinned as she leaned against the reception desk, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "You've got your own charm, Finn. It's just... slower. More caffeine-dependent."

Finn chuckled. "I like to think of it as refined laziness."

"Refined? You literally spilled dog kibble on your lap this morning."

"And it blended with my soul," he replied solemnly. "Tragic, poetic."

Ivy laughed again, softer this time, but before Finn could respond with another line of sarcasm, Dr. Thorne's sharp voice rang down the hallway.

"Lang! Rivers! The injured border collie from Redharbor is here. Now."

Both interns jolted upright.

"Duty calls," Finn murmured, dropping the pen.

Ivy was already moving, her long legs carrying her toward the prep room. The moment she stepped inside, her cheerful demeanor sharpened into focus. There was a rhythm to emergencies, and she moved in tune with it like music.

The shift ended two hours later. The sky had turned a hazy purple, dusk bleeding into the horizon. Ivy stepped out of the clinic and into the cool air of early October. The streets of Braeview were quieter now, the lamplights casting soft glows on the sidewalks.

Finn walked beside her, bag slung over one shoulder, his expression calm as ever.

"You heading to the tram station?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Yeah." Ivy adjusted her bag. "Shouldn't take long tonight. I think the driver likes me. He never makes me wait in the cold."

Finn snorted. "Of course he does. You're probably the only person in this whole town who says thank you every time she gets on the tram."

She smiled, but the curve of her lips didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You good?" he asked, slowing a little.

"I'm fine," she said, quick and bright. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He never did. "Alright. Text me when you get home."

"I always do."

They split at the end of the street. Ivy turned left, the direction of the tram station. As she walked, her smile faded, her shoulders lowering. By the time the tram arrived and she climbed aboard, her lightness had dulled into something quieter.

Old Calverin – 7:45 PM, Monday

The tram dropped her off three blocks from her home. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel watched. Ivy tugged her coat tighter around her, her breath fogging in the crisp air. She walked past overgrown hedges, peeling iron gates, and hollow houses that hadn't seen renovations in decades.

Her house-no, Elias's house-sat like a forgotten relic. Three stories of gray stone, dark wood shutters, and ivy creeping across the side. No pun intended. It was too still. Too quiet.

The moment she stepped inside, the scent of old herbs and burnt tea leaves hit her.

"Close the door," came Elias's voice from the parlor.

"I am," she said, locking it behind her.

The hallway was dim, lit only by a single yellow lamp hanging from a hook. Shadows pooled in the corners. Ivy toed off her shoes and made her way down the hall.

Elias sat in his usual armchair, a book open on his lap and a teacup in his hand. He was a tall man, lean and wiry, with deep creases on his face that made him look older than his mid-forties. His hair was black streaked with iron, combed meticulously back. His eyes-gray and unreadable-lifted to hers.

"You're late."

"There was an emergency patient," Ivy replied. She set her bag by the staircase.

Elias said nothing, only gestured toward the side table where a small glass bottle waited.

Ivy sighed inwardly. The tonic.

"Thanks," she murmured, picking it up.

She uncorked the bottle and drank. The liquid was bitter and cold, tasting faintly of licorice and copper.

"For your nerves," Elias said flatly. "You've been sleeping poorly."

She didn't answer. Because it was true.

Her room was on the second floor, facing the back garden. She sat on the bed, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her dreams had been strange lately-shifting skies, glowing wolves, silver fire licking at her skin. She told herself it was stress, or late-night study fatigue.

But under the moonlight, she sometimes swore she heard her blood hum.

"Ugh. You're home."

Ivy blinked and looked up as Celeste Lang breezed into the room like she owned it. Celeste was Elias's daughter, though no one would mistake them for close. Where Ivy was warmth and awkward grace, Celeste was cold elegance-manicured nails, flawless skin, perfectly styled black curls and perfume that entered rooms before she did.

"What do you want, Celeste?" Ivy asked, too tired to play nice.

"Father said I should remind you not to skip your potion again," she said, flipping her hair.

"I didn't."

"Mm. Good." Celeste walked to Ivy's mirror and adjusted her lipstick. "We can't have you going hysterical, can we?"

Ivy bit her tongue. "Is there something else?"

Celeste smirked. "I also wanted to remind you-you're not here to act like one of us. You're... temporary."

"I've been here for fifteen years."

Celeste tilted her head, still smiling. "And yet, you still feel like a guest."

With that, she turned on her heel and left. The scent of expensive roses lingered in her wake.

Ivy laid back on her bed, eyes on the ceiling. She reached for her phone and opened her texts.

Finn: Got home. You?

Ivy: Home. Took the bitter juice.

Finn: Sleep early. You sound off lately.

Ivy: Just Monday things.

She set her phone down and stared out the window. The moon was high, full and bright. Her bones ached.

A quiet whisper pressed at the back of her mind.

She closed her eyes and listened to the ticking of the old wall clock.

Her heartbeat didn't quite match it anymore.

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