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THE END

QUINN

Ars longa, vita brevis. The words are etched into the stone above the entrance of Cypress University. Skillfulness takes time and life is short —a fitting motto for a college full of students eager to crack open the skulls of the criminally insane and dig around inside their amygdalae and prefrontal cortices.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. While it probably would be kind of cool to literally dig around in someone’s head, that’s not my major.

I’m a bigger fan of the phrase in vino veritas, but to each their own.

My shoes thud against the aged stone tiles, worn from decades of students trekking through the cavernous corridor that leads to the dean’s office. I’d wager that I’ve walked this hall more than others.

I can feel the gazes of my peers heavy against my skin, as unyielding as the stone walls of the ancient university. Some are filled with longing and jealousy, while others are just plain nosy. They all think that my close connection with the dean is some sort of advantageous thing. And to be fair, in a place like this—where secrets are as old as the ivy that clings to the gothic spires —most of the time it really is about who you know, so I can't hold it against them for thinking that way.

I’ve never cared about what other people think of me, and I always roll my eyes at the students who only want to be friends with me for their own gain. People are too easy to read; they don’t want me, they want access to The Assembly.

The not-so-secret society is only mentioned in hushed, speculative whispers. There’s a constant exchange of knowing glances and cryptic hints, with students spreading false stories about the figures who control the town’s deepest mysteries—namely, my father.

Some claim The Assembly engages in strange rituals deep in the forest just beyond the university grounds, their torches flickering like phantoms in the night. Others say they’ve seen a symbol—a twisted, black sigil—scratched into hidden corners of campus buildings, the library, even the dorms. Most laugh it off as graffiti. A few believe it’s a warning.

The rumors get darker. Someone went missing three years ago, just vanished from campus. People still whisper that they crossed the wrong path with The Assembly. No body was found, no suspects, only a cryptic note that led nowhere. Still, no one ever speaks of it openly.

And that’s not even the only case of someone disappearing, not to mention the people who have been found dead.

Despite the fascination, no one outside of direct ties to the society truly knows its name or purpose. Those of us who do have direct ties? We’d die rather than reveal the truth—most out of fear and loyalty, but for me, it’s mostly shame.

So, the secret society within Cypress remains a ghostly presence, fueling late-night conversations and furtive glances. It exists more as a phantom of collective imagination than a verifiable identity—and a massive pain in my ass.

Regardless of any assumptions about the privileges I may have due to my bloodline, the reality is quite different from those perceptions. I’m not being shown any favoritism here, and this is a table they most definitely do not want a seat at. I’ve spent my entire life trying to distance myself from my father’s shadow, yet here I am, constantly dragged back into it.

I don’t bother knocking on the dean’s office door, just shove the heavy door open and pad across the thick carpet. I reach the chair in front of his desk, purposefully slumping into it. He wants me to care about this meeting—wants me to be nervous, so I intentionally exude an air of not giving a shit. The door shuts with a definite click, the sound bouncing off the walls adding an extra layer of tension to the room. The leather cushion squeaks as I lean against it, enjoying the small victory because I know it irritates him.

Despite hating every second spent in his presence, I have no option but to come when he calls. Ignoring him only gives him more of a reason to find a way to make my life miserable later, a pastime he enjoys immensely.

His face pulls into a deep frown, the lines etched into his weathered skin only deepening, as if the weight of his self-importance has carved them there over the years. His thinning silver hair, meticulously combed back, does little to soften the sternness of his expression. The irritation in his narrowed eyes is more evident than if someone had taken a sharpie and written the words across his forehead.

“You’re late.” His voice drips with the kind of authority that expects to be obeyed without question.

I make a show of looking at the nonexistent watch on my wrist. “Only by a few minutes.”

He releases a line of air through his crooked nose. He permanently looks like someone punched him square in the face and I often feel a pang of envy that it wasn’t me who had the honor.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit today, Quinn.” This is not the Marshall Ivor the rest of the student body sees as their beloved dean. He puts on a show for them.

I don’t get the courtesy.

It's all just a mask to hide the true person underneath. He's been carefully constructing this fa?ade for years, even taking on this job as if he actually needs it. It's really not necessary for him to work at all—both of my parents come from wealthy families. But for appearances' sake, he has chosen to work at the local university, serving its students. It's more socially acceptable than leaving room for people to question his wealth, which has been a common trend for all those in The Assembly who came before him.

People speculate regardless, and they’re honestly not too far from the truth when those same hushed, speculative whispers include words like extortion and trafficking and cyber crimes.

I readjust in the chair, slumping further into it as I cross one ankle over the other and tilt my head toward the ceiling. “Get to the point, Dad. New semester, fresh hell. What do you want?”

The list of things he’s made up over the years to force me to speak to him is longer than my fucking arm, but there is nothing he can say to make me stick around any longer than necessary.

“Your mother isn’t well.” I snort. No beating around the bush this time, then.

She hasn’t been well for some time now. It changes nothing. I don’t look at him because I don’t care. From childhood's hour I have not been as others were.

“If you could just stop by?—”

I pop out of my seat, standing to leave before the conversation can go any further.

I have no interest in entertaining whatever garbage he’s about to spout about the reconciliation of our broken family.

Whether my mother’s organs are failing one by one or all at once, it makes no difference to me. I wouldn’t blink twice if she dropped dead in front of me this very second, and that is no one’s fault but her own.

I have always thought of death as the ultimate release, the great equalizer that brings a poetic finality to all our stories. She should consider herself well and truly lucky that an existence as pathetic as hers even has an end, but I’m sure she believes some aberrant BS about this not being the end at all… and if somehow that is true, I hope she spends all of eternity in tortured regret for the life she chose to live while she had it.

Same for my douche of a dad.

I’m halfway to the door before he’s out of his seat and rounding on me. He grips my shoulder, something he always does—a petty show of dominance—and it pisses me off every single time. I used to think a pat on the shoulder each time we met was his way of showing his affection, but the older I’ve gotten the more rough he’s become.

Not that a shoulder pat is an adequate affection to show a child, but when that’s all you’ve ever known, you take what you can get.

“Don’t walk out on me, Quinn. This might be the time you regret it.”

I jerk away from him and keep walking.

Just because I share his DNA, he thinks he can push me around and make me do whatever he wants. That’s never been the case, and I’m not about to break now.

He forfeited the possibility of a relationship with me years ago.

They both did—him by choosing the disgusting company he keeps over his family, and my mother for supporting him in the name of her precious reputation; the type of notoriety that does more harm than good when all is said and done.

The damage they inflicted upon me as a child is far worse than anything they could do to me now, but the farther away from both of them I am, the better.

He’s long dangled my trust fund over my head to keep me in line, and while I want it, I’ve made it this long without his money. I’ll finally graduate soon and can legally claim it, cutting ties with him for good. It’s so close, I can actually taste the freedom.

There’s a small part of me that doesn’t care whether or not I ever see a dime from him if it also means never having to see him again.

But I have played his games for this long; I attend the school he wants me to attend. I come when he calls despite the fact I don’t always do what he asks once I get there. May as well see it through; it’s more money than I’ll ever see in academia and I can’t say the thought of that is all negative.

As my fingers curl around the doorknob, I glance back at him. His jaw is tight, his gaze unflinching.

“We both know there’s literally nothing you can say that would make me any more inclined to give a fuck.” I shove the door open and let it slam shut behind me. The sound echoes through the now-empty hallway, and I don’t look back.

Marshall

The parking garage across the street from my office is deserted by the time I finally drag myself away from the day's shit. The dim, echoing emptiness mirrors the bitterness gnawing at me after another futile clash with Quinn. Her stubborn refusal to acknowledge her family is infuriating. My wife’s time is running out, and though my daughter doesn’t know it, so is mine.

All Quinn has to do is endure a few months of family obligations.

But, no.

She brushes off her mother's illness as if it’s a trivial inconvenience.

Less than.

She has no desire to reconcile with either of us despite my many efforts to make amends.

Maybe she really does loathe us both as deeply as she claims.

I have a lot of regrets in my life. I don’t regret the money I’ve made or the comfortable life it’s given my wife, but I deeply regret the things I did to get that wealth. I regret not being there for my daughter and the choices I made, like just giving her up to live with her aunt when she was a child.

At the time, it seemed like a no-brainer. I wanted everyone, especially The Assembly, to think I didn’t care about her. It was my way of keeping her out of their spotlight and away from any potential danger.

Not to mention the fact that my life was a lot easier without a child in the picture, and my secrets were safer when they were kept just out of reach.

I realize I didn’t care about her the way a father should. My mind was muddled with drugs for years, clouding my judgment and making me incapable of being the father she needed. I was so focused on protecting her and the secret information I’d collected over the years that I didn’t give enough thought to our relationship.

Her mother just went along with whatever I wanted, like the obedient fearful housewife she’s always been.

Now, we’re both paying for the shit lives we’ve lived in the form of terminal illness.

Finding out I have pancreatic cancer at fifty-two makes me want to spend whatever time I have left in peace. But The Assembly won’t let me do that, and I can’t say I deserve anything less.

I know I can’t undo the harm I’ve caused, but I want to make amends in whatever ways I can— apologize . If I’m going to die anyway, I might as well try to escape now. If The Assembly decides to kill me, at least it would only shorten my life by a year or so.

I just need to tie up my loose ends, and on the top of that list is getting Quinn to trust me for five seconds. She’s deeper in this shit than she realizes, and I need her to understand just how far; how I’ve been using her as my little secret keeper all these years.

She’ll figure it out eventually, but I’d rather she hears it from me rather than when someone is digging it out of her with a fucking knife.

I feel mostly confident that no one knows the extremes I’ve gone to, the things I have done in order to obtain tangible evidence to hold over the society’s head. I knew I would need it if ever I found a reason to step away, and that time has finally come. But, there is an inkling in the back of my mind—I know the lengths they’d go to in order to find the information they now know I have.

Lengths I have gone to myself for other reasons.

My car sits under a dying light in the farthest, darkest corner of the garage. The flickering bulb above casts an eerie, intermittent glow on my vehicle. I unlock it and yank open the back door to toss my briefcase inside, just as the light gives its final flicker and dies. With a sigh, I close the door and reach for the handle on the driver's side, only to be violently yanked off my feet before I can open it. The back of my head hits the concrete with a nauseating smack, leaving me dazed and disoriented.

My mind struggles to make sense of what's happening. Just as I begin to piece it together, kicks and blows rain down on me from every direction. There are too many feet to count, each one adding another wave of pain that blurs the edges of my vision. Panic sets in, sharp and suffocating, as I choke on my own blood, gasping for breath that won't come. I try to raise my arms to defend myself, but they are heavy and useless.

My fate was sealed the second I hinted at my desire to step down; to walk away from the one thing that casts a sick shadow over every part of my life. I should’ve known better, should’ve kept my mouth shut. But there’s never been anything more inevitable than this moment, and I was ignorant— stupid —for hoping otherwise. How could I have thought… How could I…

Everything fades—the pain, the panic—every thought slipping away as darkness closes in. My last thought is Quinn, and how I hope she’ll make it out of this intact.