Page 79 of The Drama King

"Gone where?" The words came out sharper than I intended.

The student shrugged. "Medical leave, I heard. Happened over the weekend. Maintenance cleared out his stuff yesterday."

Medical leave. The euphemism hit like ice water in my veins. At Northwood, "medical leave" was code for anything the administration didn't want to explain publicly. Mental breakdown. Overdose. Family crisis. Or in Robbie's case, probably getting caught with enough controlled substances to supply half the campus.

I stood there long after the student left, staring at that empty nameplate, trying to process what this meant. Robbie Gao—my pharmaceutical lifeline, my buffer against the biological nightmare of being an Omega at a school full of predatory Alphas—was just gone. No warning, no goodbye, no chance to stock up on the suppressants and scent blockers that had been keeping me functional for months.

The walk back to my dorm felt endless, each step heavier than the last. Students moved around me in the typical pre-finals chaos, bags slung over shoulders, energy drinks clutched in white-knuckled grips, the air thick with stress pheromones that made my skin crawl. Without Robbie's industrial-grade scent blockers, every scent hit sharper, clearer. More dangerous.

By the time I reached my dorm room the next morning, desperation had crystallized into something harder. I'd spent the night taking inventory—checking every drawer, every hiding spot, cataloguing what little I had left.

Two scent blocker patches. One emergency suppressant tablet. A handful of basic neutralizing pills that wouldn't fool a human nose, let alone an Alpha's. And a bottle of industrial-grade blockers that was down to its last three doses.

I sat on my bed, staring at the pathetic collection spread across my comforter. This was what had been standing between me and disaster—and it was almost gone.

The math was simple and terrifying. Three weeks until spring semester started. Assuming I could stretch the remaining supplies by using them only when absolutely necessary—around other students, during classes, anywhere the pack might catch my scent—I could maybe last until mid-January. Maybe.

But that left the bigger problem: what happened when I ran out completely?

I picked up my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Robbie had never given me his supplier's information—too risky, he'd said. Always better to go through intermediaries. But now the intermediary was gone, and I had no way to rebuild that connection.

There were other students who might know where to get black market pharmaceuticals, but approaching them meant admitting vulnerability. Word traveled fast at Northwood, and the last thing I needed was rumors spreading about the scholarship Omega who couldn't manage her biology.

I carefully packed the remaining supplies away, hiding them in different locations around the room. The scent blockers went in my sock drawer, the suppressant in my toiletry bag, the neutralizing pills scattered between textbooks. If Stephanie noticed me moving things around, she didn't comment.

The paranoia felt justified when I remembered the nurse's suspicious questions. Even trying to get basic supplies through proper channels would leave a paper trail, raise questions about why I needed them. Better to conserve what I had and hope I could find another source before spring semester started.

The packets felt like dead weight in my bag as I walked across campus. I'd gone from military-grade chemical warfare to rationing bullets for a siege I couldn't win.

My roommate was waiting when I got back to our dorm, but not in her usual spot on the bed. She was pacing the small space between our desks, phone clutched in her hand, and I could smell her distress before I even closed the door.

"Vespera, thank god." She spun toward me, face flushed with anxiety. "I've been trying to reach Robbie all morning. His phone goes straight to voicemail, and when I went to his dorm, his nameplate was gone. Do you know what happened?"

My stomach dropped. In my panic about my pharmaceutical situation, I'd forgotten that Stephanie and Robbie had been friends long before I'd met either of them. She'd been the one to introduce us freshman year, back when I was still trying to navigate campus social dynamics.

"He's gone," I said carefully. "Medical leave."

"Medical leave?" Her voice cracked. "What kind of medical leave? Is he okay? Why won't he answer his phone?"

I dropped my bag on my desk, buying time. Stephanie looked genuinely distraught—the kind of worry that came from caring about someone, not just casual curiosity. Her hands shook slightly as she tried calling him again, and when it went to voicemail, her eyes filled with tears.

"The last time we talked was Friday," she said, lowering the phone. "He seemed fine. A little stressed about exams, but fine. And now he's just gone? Without saying goodbye?"

The raw hurt in her voice made something twist in my chest. While I'd been focused on losing my supplier, she'd lost a friend. Someone she'd known for over a year, someone she studied with and grabbed coffee with and complained about professors to.

"Maybe he didn't have time," I offered weakly. "If it was a family emergency or something..."

"He would have told me." Stephanie sank onto her bed, phone still clutched in her hands. "We tell each other everything. OrI thought we did. God, what if something terrible happened? What if he's in the hospital somewhere and I don't even know?"

I watched her struggle with the loss, the complete lack of closure, and felt like the worst kind of friend. Because I did know something—not the details, but enough to guess that Robbie's "medical leave" probably involved getting caught with enough controlled substances to warrant serious consequences. The kind of consequences that came with no-contact orders and severed communication.

But I couldn't tell her that without explaining how I knew, without revealing my connection to his pharmaceutical operation.

"I'm sure he's okay," I said instead, sitting on my own bed. "You know how the administration is about privacy. They probably made him cut contact with everyone while he sorts things out."

Stephanie looked up at me, and I saw the moment she registered my scent—sharper, more distinct than it had been in months. Without industrial-grade blockers, my natural jasmine pheromones were bleeding through.

"Vespera..." She studied my face, taking in the exhaustion, the stress, the way I held myself like I was expecting an attack. "You look almost as bad as I feel. When's the last time you ate something? Or slept?"