Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

40. Whispers Of Sickness Part I

Whispers Of Sickness Part I

~ A RES~

The makeup artist's brush ghosts across my skin with practiced precision, each stroke carefully planned to enhance rather than mask natural features. The private studio hums with quiet energy - assistants arranging lighting setups, stylists steaming expensive garments, the photographer reviewing test shots on a massive monitor.

I catch my reflection in one of the many mirrors - perfectly tailored Versace suit in deep burgundy, hair artfully tousled by the stylist's expert hands. The black silk mask covering the lower half of my face feels strange against my skin, though the elastic bands have been carefully positioned to avoid disturbing the makeup artist's work.

"Just a precaution," the head stylist had insisted when handing out masks to the crew earlier. "With flu season hitting harder than usual this year, we can't risk anyone getting sick before the holiday shoots wrap."

The logical part of my brain appreciates the caution. The more paranoid part - the one that's been paying attention to everything happening at Leighton lately - wonders if there's more to it.

"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 Hannah described - 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 her features. "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.

"He got sick," she whispers, the words carrying echoes of old fear. "Not just regular sick - it was like nothing the doctors had ever seen. His symptoms kept changing, kept getting worse no matter what they tried. And then one day..."

She trails off, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches for a different brush. Mark and Jessica lean even closer, completely forgetting about their tasks as they wait for her to continue.

"One day?" Jessica breathes, tension evident in her voice.

"His heart stopped." Sara's words fall like stones into still water. "Just... stopped. No warning, no explanation. One minute he was talking to his friends in the dorm common room, the next he was on the floor not breathing."

A small gasp escapes Jessica, quickly muffled by her hand. "Oh my God," she whispers. "Sara, I had no idea..."

"He would have died right there," Sara continues, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who's told this story many times but never quite gotten used to it. "But one of his friends - this brilliant guy who was doing pre-med alongside his regular studies - he always carried this emergency pen. You know, those auto-injectors they use when someone's heart stops?"

"Epinephrine?" Mark suggests quietly.

"Yes, that's it." Sara nods slightly, her movements still mechanical as she works on my face. "His friend didn't even hesitate - just pulled out that pen and stabbed it right into my husband's thigh. The doctors later said those few seconds made all the difference. If his friend hadn't been there, hadn't been carrying that pen..."

"Thank God he was," Jessica breathes, genuine relief coloring her tone. "Or you wouldn't have..."

"Wouldn't have a husband at all," Sara finishes quietly. "Yeah. But after that... he dropped out. Couldn't bring himself to go back to campus. His family was furious - three generations of legacy just... gone. But he said he'd rather be alive and disappointing than dead and perfect."

The implications of her words settle over us like a physical weight. I force myself to maintain my casual scrolling, though my mind races with connections. Because this isn't just about current events anymore - this is evidence of a pattern stretching back years.

Every three to four years.

Different symptoms.

Unexplainable illnesses.

Deaths that could be written off as tragic accidents if you didn't know to look closer.

My thoughts immediately go to Marcus, because he said something recently about finding some of the research his Mother was doing when he was young. Careful documentation regarding Leighton University but hasn’t had the chance to even dive into it with so many sick calls and request for Wright Medical services as of late.

Could this also have something to do with the Blinded One. Is he igniting all of this chaos? Is it his purpose?

"The weird thing is," Sara continues, her voice dropping even lower, forcing me to concentrate completely to catch her words, "no one ever really talked about it afterward. It was like... like everyone just accepted that sometimes students get sick. Sometimes they die. Like it was just part of attending Leighton."

"But that's insane," Jessica protests, though she keeps her voice barely above a breath. "You can't just ignore something like that."

"You can when the alternative is asking questions no one wants answered," Sara says grimly. "My husband tried, at first. Tried to find others who'd experienced similar symptoms, tried to understand what had happened to him. But every time he got close to something concrete, to any real answers..."

"What?" Mark prompts when she trails off. "What happened?"

"People would just... disappear," Sara whispers, real fear coloring her tone. "Transfer to different schools, move across the country, cut off all contact. Some just vanished completely - no forwarding address, no social media, nothing. Like they never existed at all."

A chill runs down my spine despite the studio's careful climate control. Because this is exactly what Hannah warned us about - the way The Blind One operates. No direct violence, no obvious threats. Just people quietly disappearing when they ask the wrong questions or look too closely at things they're not meant to see.

"After a while," Sara continues, her brush moving with renewed focus as if trying to ground herself in the familiar task, "my husband stopped looking. Stopped asking questions. We moved across the country, changed our names, tried to build a new life far away from anything connected to Leighton."

"But you're here now," Jessica points out carefully. "Working in the same city, so close to campus..."

"Because running doesn't actually solve anything," Sara admits quietly. "And sometimes... sometimes the only way to protect people is to be close enough to warn them when history starts repeating itself."

The weight of her words hits me like a physical blow. Because that's exactly what she's doing now, isn't it? Warning us, in her own careful way, about the dangers lurking beneath Leighton's perfect surface.

"And now?" Mark asks softly. "With all these students getting sick again..."

"Now I watch," Sara says grimly. "I watch and I wait and I pray that someone finally manages to break this cycle. Because whatever's happening at Leighton - whatever's been happening for years - it's not natural. It's not random. And it's definitely not finished."

The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crush bones. I keep my eyes fixed on my phone screen, though the images have long since blurred into meaningless shapes. Because everything she's saying confirms our worst fears while suggesting the situation is even more dangerous than we realized.

This isn't just about current threats or immediate danger.

This is about something that's been building for years.

Something that's claimed countless victims while maintaining perfect deniability.

Something that might already be working its way through our ranks, marking targets with carefully engineered poisons designed specifically for each victim.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a clock starts ticking.

Three to four years between waves of illness.

How long has it been since the last one?

How much time do we have before whatever's being tested now reaches its full potential?

The makeup brush moves across my skin with practiced precision, but all I can think about is how many others have sat in chairs like this over the years. How many other students at Leighton have felt the first symptoms of whatever carefully designed illness was meant for them?

How many survived to tell their stories?

And how many simply disappeared, becoming another statistic in a pattern stretching back further than any of us realized?

"The thing is," Sara continues, her voice carrying that particular weight of someone revealing long-held secrets, "it wasn't just my husband. His father and grandfather both experienced similar illnesses during their time at Leighton. But they stayed."

"Why would anyone stay after something like that?" Jessica whispers, genuine confusion in her tone.

Sara's movements become more deliberate as she adds finishing touches to my makeup. "Back then, leaving wasn't really an option. Your reputation - your family's reputation - it was everything. Dropping out was seen as a sign of weakness, of failure. The social consequences were... severe."

"But that was then," Mark points out quietly. "Things are different now. People have more choices."

"Do they though?" Sara challenges softly. "Sure, there's social media and this illusion of freedom to choose your own path. But look around - especially in places like Leighton. Image is still everything. The pressure to maintain perfect facades, to meet impossible expectations..."

"It's just packaged differently now," Jessica finishes, understanding dawning in her expression.

Their eyes drift to me simultaneously, and I catch their reflection in the mirror. Without missing a beat, I look up and flash them my most carefully crafted smile - the one that's graced magazine covers and billboard campaigns. The one that reveals nothing while suggesting everything.

They return to their tasks immediately, pretending to be absorbed in minor adjustments while I go back to scrolling through my phone. But I can feel the weight of their unspoken observations, their sudden awareness that I might represent exactly what they're discussing - another perfectly polished product of a system that demands flawless performance no matter the personal cost.

"Maybe the school is cursed," Jessica suggests, trying to lighten the mood though her voice still carries an edge of genuine concern.

Sara makes a noncommittal sound as she steps back to examine her work. "Curses might be easier to explain than whatever's really happening there."

Before anyone can respond, the photographer's voice cuts through the tension: "We're ready! First setup in sixty seconds!"

The makeup and hair team makes their final adjustments with professional efficiency, all conversation forgotten in the rush to perfect every detail. But as I stand, adjusting the precisely tailored jacket that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent, I can't shake the weight of everything I've just learned.

Three generations of carefully engineered illness.

Three generations of silence and survival and calculated sacrifice.

Three generations of whatever game The Blind One has been playing with Leighton's students.

How long has this really been going on? I wonder as I move toward the set. How deep do these patterns really go?

And more importantly - what happens when someone finally decides to break the cycle?

The lights flash, catching the black silk mask in ways that make it look almost alive. Like shadows given form. Like secrets trying to escape.

Like everything we're all trying so desperately to hide while knowing it might already be too late.

"Beautiful!" the photographer calls out, camera clicking rapidly. "Give me dangerous but approachable! Mysterious but inviting!"

I slip into performance mode with practiced ease, letting my body move through familiar poses while my mind continues racing with implications. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Maintain perfect facades while chaos builds beneath the surface.

Stay alive , I think as another flash captures whatever carefully crafted emotion I'm projecting. Stay aware. Stay focused.

Because something tells me we're going to need every advantage we can get to survive whatever's been building at Leighton for generations.

The camera clicks again, freezing another moment of carefully constructed perfection.

Another mask hiding all the dangers lurking just beneath the surface.

Another piece in a game that's been playing out longer than any of us realized.

The question is: are we actually players, or just the latest generation of carefully selected pawns?

The lights flash again, and I let myself become nothing but angles and expressions and perfect poses.

At least for now.

At least until we figure out our next move in this deadly game of generational obsession.