The Ambush

The lecture hall emptied slowly, the weight of Garrett’s words still lingering like smoke. Most students moved in silence, unsure whether they’d just attended a seminar or a surgical dissection of their beliefs.

Simone remained behind, her notebook closed, fingers laced. She glanced sideways at Professors Ji and Zuleika Mahfouz, both of whom still sat in place, brows furrowed, eyes forward.

"That was... unconventional," Ji said finally, her voice low.

"Dangerously so," Mahfouz added, but not without intrigue. "And yet—none of it was technically incorrect."

Garrett approached them, relaxed, smiling gently. "Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"You made all of them uncomfortable," Simone replied gently, her eyes lingering on him with something closer to affection than criticism.

"Good," Garrett said. "That means we started somewhere real."

Ji crossed her arms. "You're not here to suggest these women are caught in some kind of ideological machine. That they’re... victims of a system they themselves uphold."

"That’s not what I said," Garrett replied smoothly. "But if they are part of such a system—shouldn’t we ask how that happened? Isn’t that the purpose of education? To ask questions no one else dares to?"

Mahfouz gave a half-smile. "And what exactly do you think you’re freeing them from?"

"From answers they were told not to question," Garrett said simply.

Mahfouz raised an eyebrow. "Is there a difference?"

He chuckled. "There's always a difference—until someone asks the right question."

Simone watched the two women closely. Ji’s fingers tapped once against her notebook, a rhythm of discomfort. Mahfouz shifted her weight, arms still crossed but eyes narrowed with **** fascination. She saw the flickers of uncertainty, the guarded curiosity. The way Garrett left just enough space for them to feel intelligent for doubting him—and clever for following him.

Ji leaned forward slightly, lips pursed. "You’ve said a lot about suggestion and surrender today. Let me ask you something directly, Garrett—do you actually believe in hypnosis?"

Mahfouz gave a skeptical snort. "Please don’t tell me you’re one of those mind-control fetishists who thinks people can be puppets."

Garrett’s smile was light, but firm. "On the contrary. I believe most people hypnotize themselves every day—through ritual, repetition, obedience to language they don’t even realize isn’t theirs. I just make the process visible."

Ji frowned. "But formal hypnosis? Seriously?"

"Yes. In fact, I’m currently working on a paper. You’re both welcome to contribute, if you’re interested in empirical trials."

Mahfouz’s tone turned defensive. "You want us to let you hypnotize us?"

"If you’re not afraid to test what you believe about yourselves. But if it makes you uncomfortable—"

Ji interrupted. "We’ll have to discuss this with the Dean."

Garrett nodded. "Of course. Academic protocol above all."

Simone said nothing, but her gaze lingered on him—half admiration, half quiet certainty that he’d already won more than they understood.

Lexi sat alone beneath the curved arch of the central courtyard. The stone was cool beneath her legs. Her hands rested on her lap, still. She was waiting—she didn’t know for what exactly. Maybe for someone to ask. Maybe for someone to push.

She heard the footsteps before she saw her.

Amara.

"You didn’t say anything all class," Amara began, voice low, arms folded. "I kept looking back. You didn’t even flinch."

Lexi didn’t turn. "I was listening."

Amara hesitated. Her tone softened. "Lexi… can we just talk? I’m not here to fight. I just want to understand."

Lexi looked up, guarded but not hostile. "About what?"

"About you. About him. About whatever this is. I know I’ve been… harsh. But maybe we both need to stop assuming the worst of each other."

Lexi tilted her head slightly. "That’s generous of you. But it’s late, isn’t it?"

Amara stepped closer. "I miss you. Not… us. Just you. The way you used to think. The way we could talk about anything. Can’t we try again? Without labels, without sides? Just… real."

Lexi blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, as if words might come—something hesitant, maybe even hopeful. But then—

Three shadows fell over them.

Anjila, precise and disdainful, a habitual sneer curling her lips. Zheng, arms crossed like a wall, exuding cold certainty. Xia, already smirking before she spoke, eyes gleaming with mean delight. They didn’t just interrupt—they invaded, like a tribunal passing sentence.

"Well, well," Anjila began, her voice laced with syrupy contempt. "Isn’t this cozy? Amara the wavering shepherdess, and her little prodigal sheep—barefoot, wide-eyed, and freshly collared."

Amara turned, startled. "Can we not do this now? Please. I’m talking to her."

"You mean re-recruiting her?" Xia scoffed. "Garrett’s got his fingers so deep in her she probably thanks him for thinking."

Zheng stepped closer, voice like a blade. "Everything he said today was designed to soften their defenses. And you stood there—silent. You handed him the floor like it was his right. He’s reprogramming them, Amara. And you’re letting him."

Amara’s composure cracked. "I said stop! We’re not doing this like vultures. Just leave us be."

But they didn’t. The air thickened.

Lexi stood. Her breath trembled once—but only once.

"Funny," she said, scanning them calmly, "how you accuse him of control, yet you hound anyone who doesn’t follow your lead."

Anjila snapped, "You're defending him? After everything—"

"No. I’m defending my right to think for myself. That scares you more than anything he says."

The silence that followed was electric. The three stared, unprepared.

Lexi turned to Amara, her voice even but edged with quiet sorrow. "You wanted to know where I stand. Now you know."

She turned, ready to go. Amara stepped after her, voice cracking. "Lexi—wait. Please. Don’t let them—"

But Anjila slid smoothly between them, a hand on Amara’s arm. "Come on. Let her go, Amara. She made her choice. Besides, we should talk. That lecture… we’re not letting that slide. He’s weaponizing language with a smile on his face. And she thinks that’s liberation."

Lexi didn’t turn around. Didn’t flinch. She walked away, slow and steady, as if the words behind her no longer reached.

Amara watched her disappear around the corner.

Her hand dropped. Her mouth opened, then shut. She stood frozen, the heat in her face draining into something cold.

"I hoped I was wrong," she whispered. "I wasn’t."