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(I would come to regret this approximately seven hours later when, lying in bed with phantom aches from an arm no longer attached to me, I couldn’t sleep. But in the moment it felt very good. An act for myself. An act of triumph.)

Then I close my eyes so I don’t have to see myself again and step into the shower. I wash the remnants of the stinking salve from my arm, and the rest of my body, all one handed, and I didn’t realise the extent to which I used the arm until it’s missing. I am still keeping a hold of myself here, even when I awkwardly attempt to wrap a towel around myself, even when I fail three times and rush back to my room in case someone has come in since I’ve showered.

Then I contend for the first time with a shirt.

It’s not that I can’t get it on. It just doesn’t fit right. And it’s not just over the arm. Suddenly the way it falls over my chest is wrong, the wrinkles in it unflattering, shadows cutting at awkward angles. The left sleeve droops freely and the whole shirt seems to wilt towards that hanging side, and I can’t breathe, I feel the material dragging on my skin, like it’s wet, and I’m so overwhelmed by the touch of it I haul it off.

And a whole swathe of horrible insults come into my mind; I hurl all of them at myself, every molecule of disgust I can muster, just to feel something beyond this numb resignation, the knowledge that I am forever changed. I treat myself very badly for several minutes. I say things in my head I would never dream of saying to anyone else. But all of it feels justified, because I’m a useless fucker struggling with a shirt, and with the simple reality that this body of mine will never be how I remembered it. It is a fact. It is immutable. It will be okay.

But I wish very deeply in that moment to go back to a time where my body was completely untouched. Before the lion, the harpy, the first time a man touched me. Before my father beat me. Before I knew what this world was. I wish I could do it all again and do it better this time. Do it right. God, please—let me be perfect.

“Cass?”

I jolt and freeze. As I come back to myself, out of whatever pit this sudden depression is dragging me into, I find I’m standing naked in the centre of my room, towel and shirt abandoned on the bed. I’m staring at my reflection in the window; the faded, hazy reflection of not-quite me stares back.

Leo comes towards me. I see him raise his hands to my shoulders but I flinch out of the way before he can touch me. I grab the towel off the bed but I don’t know which part of my body to hide, so filled with sudden and unfamiliar shame. Towel dropping from my hands, I collapse onto the bed, head collapsing into my hands—hand. Phantom fingers caress my own head, tangling in the hair. I flex them, feel them tug at strands, feel the follicles straining from the pull, and it’s all in my head.

How can it be in my head?

The bed groans with new weight as Leo sits down beside me.

“Cass,” he murmurs, slipping a hand onto my thigh. This time I don’t flinch away; but I keep myself from looking up. Confronting him like this, flaccid cock between my legs, bruised and bloody, one arm down—I feel I am not the man he craved just a few days earlier.

He reaches between my arms and grabs my chin, forcing me to drop my arm. Leo turns my head towards his and he stares at me, opening his mouth several times, saying nothing. What is there to say? He could say anything right now and it wouldn’t contend with the things I’m telling myself. I see in his eyes the truth: that nothing has changed, not really. That it’s not pity or disgust in his gaze, but care. Concern. But my mind is twisting it all and turning even my own reason against me.

“I’m sorry,” I end up saying.

His brow buckles. “God, Cass, what for?”

Bellamy, I don’t say. For my arm. What I did, and how I look like because of it. And I’m sorry that you have to see me. And I’m sorry I can’t be perfect anymore. And I’m sorry—

“I don’t know. I just feel it,” I whisper over the cacophony in my head. My voice cracks. I don’t want to cry. Christ. Heat pricks suddenly behind my eyes. My temples ache already, in expectation of a headache. And I speak again, cracking entirely, “I’m so, so sorry.”

He pulls away. I hate that. Leo’s hand moves down to my thigh where he grips tightly near my knee. “Cassius, you fool. You saved the lot of us. And no matter what they say, I know that.”

I tense. I shouldn’t ask, because I’m already hurting, and one more thing might be enough to undo all remaining sense in me. I drag my eyes up to Leo. “What are they saying?”

He deflates a little, aware he’s walked into a trap. “Cass,” he whispers. Then he sighs and drags his hand away completely, bending forward to massage his temples. “Victoria is angry with you. Fred was. . . in shock at what she saw. Silas is a bloody enigma and I have no idea what he’s thinking. And beyond that, there’s plenty of rumours.”

“Rumours?” I prompt.

He grimaces. God, he looks so unhappy and so distraught to be the bearer of this message. “That you shut Bellamy in on purpose.”

I did.

“That you did it with glee, as part of some grander plan to kill the teras. I don’t know. Twelve people died. Several others are probably rotting in their beds. Apparently there is an infirmary beyond the Ianus gate, but until we’re admitted to the University proper, going through there is death. So.”

I don’t know what I can say to that. Half of the rumours are hardly rumours, and the rest feels warranted anyway. And yes that is the guilt talking; the rational man in me knows that I took no joy in closing that door, but it feels good in a way to be despised. To see some scathing, internal remarks reflected back at me justifies the way I feel; a reflexive soup of self-hatred.

But underneath all that wallowing is a genuine anger. And if I pull away my misery and self-pity, I see it for what it is.

Fury at this institution. A vengeful delirium roiling low and buried deep, and each new trial is another fan to the flame, each death another reason to feed Dean Drearton to the teras he claims to protect us from.

“I want to kill him,” I whisper.

Leo looks at me then, a gleam in his eye. “There you are.” He leans forward and kisses me, teeth grazing my lip. “I know. I dream of it. But then what? He’s not the University, Cass, he’s just a man.”

“I don’t care. It would feel good.”