The faculty lounge smelled of stale coffee and old paper, the kind of scent that seeped into wool blazers and never quite washed out. Aalam’s sandals squeaked against the linoleum as she stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click. Ishan Malik sat slumped in a corner chair, his back to her, shoulders hunched like a man carrying something too heavy. His hands moved in frantic, repetitive circles,rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at the blue ink staining his fingertips. The marker’s residue smeared across his skin, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he couldn’t stop.
Aalam's breath caught halfway up her throat. She'd expected fury, the stiff-backed posture of a professor gathering his dignity, the clipped tone of someone reciting university policy like scripture. Not this. Not the frantic scrape of his nails against his own skin, the way his shoulders curled inward like a man bracing against a storm only he could see. The marker ink smeared blue across his fingers, streaking his wrists like war paint.
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