The cold air of the third-floor stairwell landing smelled of wet brick, sulfur, and red fountain-pen ink.
Julian Vance stood six feet from the iron stairwell gate, his boots planted squarely on the landing threshold. Behind him, Sora Takahashi, David Chen, and the four other rescued sophomores pressed their backs against the hallway wall, their eyes wide with dread.
Blocking the stairwell was Julian Sterling-Vane.
The nineteen-year-old nephew of Dean Vance Sterling stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his gold-braided silk sash gleaming under the amber emergency bulbs.
Flanking him on either side were the two massive varsity rowers.
Their shoulders were broad enough to fill the entire four-foot width of the gate. They wore navy rowing windbreakers with the sleeves rolled up, their thick forearms covered in goosebumps. Across the chest of each windbreaker was the embroidered white crossed-oars crest of the Oakhaven Crew Team.
Julian looked into the rowers’ faces.
Neither boy blinked. In each bloodshot eyeball, two distinct, black pupils floated inside the dark iris -- the unmistakable sign of advanced bureaucratic hypnosis.
