BLOODCAPE
Chapter 88 – The Photo and the Flame

Chapter 88: Chapter 88 – The Photo and the Flame

The hallway outside the Grand Assembly Dome hummed with soft blue light and manufactured calm — a calculated contrast to the frenzy inside. Echoes of celebration still vibrated through the metal-reinforced walls, distant whoops and cheers mixing with the high-pitched drone of reporters’ questions.

Out here, the crowd’s energy became ghostlike. Filtered. Distant.

Hernan walked alone.

The sliding doors hissed shut behind him, and a wave of sterile, simulated cool air kissed his skin. Screens lined the corridor like ceremonial banners — each one replaying the same looped footage: Captain Virex extending his hand, Rook Vale stepping forward, the handshake, the lift, the smile.

The moment the world now believed meant everything.

Hernan’s own face stared back at him from every angle — heroic, calm, perfectly framed. The spotlight gleamed off his shoulders. His expression, polished over years of practiced anonymity, looked utterly authentic.

He touched me like I was his, Hernan thought.

A passing tech offered him a thumbs-up. "Hey, congrats, Cadet Vale! You’re, like, famous now!"

Hernan nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Another staffer saluted briefly. Down the hall, a group of first-years burst into applause. One girl teared up. They looked at him like he’d stepped out of a myth and onto the tiles.

He walked through it like mist. The screens, the sound, the eyes — they weren’t for him. Not really. They were for Rook Vale. And Rook Vale wasn’t real.

Footsteps approached from behind — soft, cautious. Familiar.

"Hernan," Tessa said. Her voice was steadier than expected. "You left fast."

He stopped.

She caught up, but didn’t close the distance. Three paces behind. Not fear. Just uncertainty. Like she wasn’t sure if this was going to be a confession or a confrontation.

"I figured the star of the show would want to soak it in," she said.

"I’ve never liked parties," Hernan replied.

Tessa almost smiled. "Then you must hate being famous."

She turned toward one of the hallway screens. The handshake looped again in full-resolution clarity — Leo’s hand, Hernan’s face, the cheer.

"You knew," she said. "You had to know he’d pick you."

"No one knows what the Zodiacs will do," Hernan said smoothly. "They don’t even tell faculty."

"That’s not what I meant."

The silence was thin and sharp, like a paper cut between them.

"You think I rigged it," he said.

"I think..." She hesitated. "I don’t know what to think. You don’t react. Ever. I don’t know if you’re proud or scared or furious or..." Her voice trailed. "Forget it."

He watched her. Calm. Collected.

Then came the smile. The exact same one from the stage.

"Don’t worry. I’m exactly what you think I am."

"See," she said softly, "that’s the problem."

She turned and walked away.

When the hallway was still again, Hernan continued on. Slower now. Each step more deliberate.

He didn’t watch the screens anymore. He didn’t have to. That image — Rook Vale shaking hands with a killer — was already etched behind his eyes.

He turned into an unmarked corridor — emergency access only. The doors hissed open. No alarms. His access clearance had changed. Perks of being chosen.

Fluorescent lights buzzed to life as he passed. One by one. Like they were waking up just for him.

No students. No staff. No cameras.

Just metal. Heat. And silence.

He stopped beside a utility locker. Let the quiet fill him.

Then — without a windup — he drove his fist into the steel.

Boom.

The door caved with a shriek. A dent bloomed where his knuckles struck. But no blood welled. No pain. Not even a proper bruise.

He held the pose.

The ache was faint. Just enough to confirm he was still flesh. Still real. Still angry.

He flexed his fingers. No fractures.

Good.

He stared at the dent for a long time.

Then, barely louder than breath:

"He touched me like I was his."

A footstep. Soft. Purposeful.

Behind him.

Hernan didn’t turn.

He cooled his breathing, stepped back from the locker, and folded his expression into something blank. Harmless.

Then came the voice.

"You hit that like it owed you."

He turned.

Iro Velkan.

Leaning against the far wall. Arms crossed. One ankle tucked behind the other. Too relaxed to be accidental.

Cadet. Top twenty. Too quiet for his size. Eyes like carved obsidian — unreadable even in shadow.

"Is this where prodigies go to punch air conditioning?" Iro asked, nodding toward the locker.

Hernan wiped his knuckles. "Some people meditate. Some people break things."

"Efficient." Iro studied the dent. "Clean hit. No wasted energy. You ever box?"

"No," Hernan said flatly. "I study mistakes."

"Mmm." A sound halfway between approval and mockery. Iro stepped closer — not too close. Just enough to let his presence be a pressure.

"You looked good up there," he added. "With Leo."

Hernan kept his face steady. "It was unexpected."

"Was it?" Iro said. Quiet. Like a test.

A pause.

"You think I planned it."

"I think you wore the same face walking toward Leo that you did right before you hit that locker," Iro said. "That’s... curious."

Hernan’s smile didn’t move. But his eyes sharpened.

"You analyzing me now?"

"Someone should," Iro said. "You don’t blink like the rest of us."

The hallway light above flickered.

Neither of them reacted.

Two wolves in borrowed uniforms.

Iro broke the silence with a shrug. "You looked like a real hero back there."

He stepped past Hernan.

Then added, over his shoulder: "Almost convincing."

"I don’t act," Hernan said. "That’s the problem."

Iro didn’t respond.

His footsteps faded into the corridor — slow, deliberate. Not surveillance anymore. A message.

Hernan waited until the echo vanished.

Then he turned and walked the opposite direction.

He didn’t look back.

Top-Level Surveillance: Unregistered Feed // Level: Red

Somewhere far above the cadet corridors — behind triple-auth doors and alloy shielding — a screen blinked on.

A hidden camera feed.

Unauthorized.

Sharper than academy-grade.

It had seen everything.

The dented locker. The approach. Iro’s entrance. Every movement. Every glance.

A gloved hand reached forward and tapped the screen.

Paused.

"Rook Vale" flashed green."Iro Velkan" flashed yellow.

The hand hovered, then tapped again — zooming on Hernan’s face, mid-turn.

Smiling. Barely.

The feed went dark.

Whoever was watching said nothing.

He’s being watched. And not just by heroes.