Over the next ten minutes, staff from the Academic Affairs Office rounded up the four students who had fled in terror, finding them one by one in corners of the Teaching Building.
Lebon was found in the first-floor men's restroom, crouched in a stall and refusing to come out.
Thompson was intercepted beside the Sports Ground, clutching his backside as he headed for the school gate. He claimed he needed to see a doctor.
The other two had hidden in a storage room at the end of the second-floor corridor. When a staff member knocked and got the door open, their faces were deathly pale, like rabbits dragged from a burrow.
By the time the four were brought to the Academic Affairs Office, they were disheveled and still badly shaken.
A piece of gauze hastily obtained from the school infirmary was stuck to Lebon's forehead. Blood had soaked through its first layer, leaving a dark red stain.
But the injury on his forehead was not what drew the most attention. That was the dark wet patch on his trousers.
It stretched from his crotch down the insides of his thighs. He walked with his legs awkwardly apart, the damp fabric making a faint rubbing sound against his skin.
A faint smell of urine hung in the air. Everyone noticed it. No one mentioned it.
After briefly questioning several students who had witnessed the incident, three teachers from the Academic Affairs Office soon pieced together what had happened.
The group was taken into the Dean of Academic Affairs' office.
The office was small. An oak desk occupied most of it, with a green-shaded lamp, a stack of documents, and a copper inkwell on top.
Sage University's motto plaque and a portrait of the Founder hung on the wall.
The five students stood in a row, Evan on the far left and the other four on the right, with a telling gap between them.
Lebon spoke first, his voice high and trembling, like a string pulled to its limit.
"Sir! Arkham's a murderer! He brought a weapon! He tried to kill me!"
Evan stood to one side without speaking. He simply took out his fountain pen and compass.
The Dean of Academic Affairs looked up from behind the desk.
He was a stern-faced man in his fifties, with black-framed glasses and neatly combed, graying hair.
His dark gray three-piece suit was buttoned all the way up, and his tie was impeccably knotted.
He looked as though he had stepped off the cover of a textbook on administration.
"Enough. Close your mouth."
He had not raised his voice, but Lebon fell silent at once.
A few minutes later, the office door opened again.
The Class Adviser entered, followed by the Science Department Head.
The Class Adviser was named Kars. He was in his early forties, from a middle-class background, and dressed respectably.
His gray-blue suit fit him well, and wire-rimmed glasses rested on his straight nose.
He had a habit of pushing up his glasses with one finger when he spoke. Everything about his manner suggested carefully cultivated refinement.
He was the sort of teacher parents liked at school meetings: gentle, proper, and always on the side of the "majority."
The sequence of events was soon clear.
Four students had ganged up to bully Evan, covering his head with a blanket and blowing smoke inside through a pipe.
Evan had fought back, injuring one of them.
After hearing the account, Kars glanced at the four students, his face settling into an expression of measured disappointment.
Not because they had bullied someone, but because they had made a spectacle of themselves.
Then he turned to Evan, his tone tinged with condescending displeasure.
"Arkham, you went too far."
Evan did not argue.
He knew exactly whose side Kars was on.
Lebon's father was an importer in the East District. Thompson was a rising star on the American football team. The other two came from middle-class families as well.
And he was Evan Arkham, a poor student in a patched jacket, an outcast with syphilis.
On Kars's scales, those weights had never been equal.
He waited.
He waited for the Science Department Adviser.
When the door opened once more, Professor Mons walked in.
The old gentleman looked as he always did: bald, wearing reading glasses, a white shirt buttoned to the top, and a dark gray wool vest.
His gaze swept over everyone in the room above his lenses, paused on Evan for a second, then settled on Kars.
"Kars."
His voice was quiet, but every word carried weight.
"Being attacked by four people and bravely fighting back counts as going too far?"
Kars froze for a moment.
He had not expected Professor Mons to speak up for Evan.
As far as he knew, Mons was famously stern and distant, equally demanding of every student and never inclined to favor anyone.
Mons did not look at Kars again. He turned to the Dean of Academic Affairs.
"What do you think?"
The Dean of Academic Affairs was silent for several seconds. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk twice.
He did not want the matter to escalate.
Four students had attacked a classmate, covered his head with a blanket, and blown smoke inside. If word got out, it would be a serious blow to the school's reputation.
Parents would make a fuss, newspapers would write about it, and the Board of Trustees would start asking questions.
"Both sides were at fault."
His voice was steady and formulaic, as though he were reading out a verdict drafted in advance.
"Arkham, you used excessive force in self-defense and took part in a fight. One written warning."
"Write an apology letter to the female students you frightened. Pay Lebon two dollars for his medical expenses."
Two dollars. Evan's eyelid twitched, but he said nothing.
Apart from the two-dollar medical bill, everything was within his expectations.
He had defended himself against superior numbers, and the only injury was a minor flesh wound.
The other three would be sore for a while at most. Nothing serious.
The school still had to preserve its dignity as a prestigious institution.
It was not going to take harsh measures against him.
"Lebon, Thompson, one written warning each."
The Dean of Academic Affairs' tone suddenly hardened, his gaze fixing on the four students standing to the right.
"Ganging up to bully a fellow student has seriously damaged our school's reputation. Your conduct was disgraceful."
"If it happens again, you will not be let off lightly."
And that was it. There was no substantive punishment.
Faced with such blatant favoritism, Evan said nothing.
He knew whom the school favored, and he knew he could not overturn its rules yet.
Two dollars for medical expenses: half his savings, or five days' worth of food.
But compared with having the school come after him, he was willing to pay.
"Do you accept the school's decision?"
All five answered almost at once. "Yes."
And so the matter was put to rest.
At least on the surface.
They each returned to class.
Because of his trousers, Lebon asked to leave early.
As he hurried down the corridor with his head lowered, the gauze on his forehead was every bit as conspicuous as the wet patch at his crotch.
Every student he passed saw it, but no one laughed.
Not out of sympathy. Out of fear.
Evan walked back toward the classroom with Professor Mons.
The corridor was long. Their leather shoes struck the marble floor one after the other, at different rhythms but heading in the same direction.
Professor Mons said only one thing the entire way.
"Study hard."
Evan nodded and said no more.
When he opened the classroom door, forty pairs of eyes turned toward him in unison.
The room fell silent at once.
It was a different silence from yesterday's.
Yesterday, there had been mocking whispers. Today, there was a hush of wary respect.
Every pair of eyes held the same thing: shock.
Evan's old canvas satchel hung from his shoulder, its broken strap temporarily tied together with a length of cord, leaving it crooked.
A blotch of dark red blood had dried on the side, stark against the gray canvas.
Under everyone's gaze, he walked to the corner of the back row, pulled out his chair, and sat down.
He set his satchel on the desk and took out his textbook and stationery, as calmly as if nothing had happened.
Professor Mons stepped up to the lectern and opened his notes, his gaze sweeping over the class.
"Yesterday, we studied the medical applications of heavy-metal compounds."
He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote two chemical formulas on the board.
"Now, can anyone tell me the formulas, valences, and solubilities of calomel and mercuric chloride, and why the former can be taken internally while the latter is highly toxic and used only externally?"
Unlike his restraint yesterday, Evan did not wait for everyone else to fall silent.
He raised his hand at once.
"Professor, I know."
Mons nodded.
Evan stood, his voice clear and steady, without a trace of hesitation.
"Calomel is mercurous chloride, with the formula Hg₂Cl₂. The mercury has a valence of positive one. It is nearly insoluble in water and relatively mild. It was once used as a laxative and an anthelmintic, and could also be taken internally in small doses."
"Mercuric chloride has the formula HgCl₂. The mercury has a valence of positive two. It dissolves readily in water, releasing large quantities of Hg²⁺ ions. It coagulates proteins and kills microorganisms, making it highly toxic and suitable only as an external disinfectant or wound wash."
"The key differences are their valence states and solubility. Hg₂Cl₂ barely ionizes, so most of it passes through the digestive tract unchanged, giving it low toxicity. HgCl₂ ionizes readily, and the mercury ions it releases directly damage body tissue, causing irreversible harm to the kidneys and digestive tract."
Professor Mons nodded with satisfaction.
"Very good. You understand it thoroughly."
The rest of the morning passed in a rush.
Chemistry was followed by physics, then a biology lesson with Professor Pulis.
The vampire stood at the lectern, his hooded trench coat replaced by a dark suit vest suitable for indoors. As usual, the curtains were drawn tight.
His voice was low and composed as he taught, his pace unhurried. Now and then, he drew an anatomical diagram on the blackboard with the precision of a printed illustration.
Nothing seemed unusual.
He did not so much as glance at Evan again or offer the slightest hint. He was elegant and restrained, like a genuine scholar.
If not for the "Basic Sanguine 2%" label on his panel, Evan might almost have wondered whether he had imagined it all.
At lunchtime, Evan sat down in the cafeteria with a hearty twelve-cent meal.
Brown bread, butter, bean soup, milk, and an apple.
There was still no one near him.
The tables within two meters were empty, as though an invisible wall separated him from everyone else.
But the whispers had changed.
Before, they had been about "syphilis," "filth," and "a prostitute's disease."
Now there were new words: "gang," "enforcer," "mafia," "I heard he has connections in the Dock District," and "I heard he carries a knife."
As Evan chewed his bread, he felt relaxed and comfortable.
Rumors always traveled faster than the truth.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and bergamot perfume drifted over.
Pulis appeared in the chair opposite him like a passing breeze. He set down his tray with precise, soundless movements.
"How did it go yesterday?" His voice remained calm, as though he were asking about the weather.
Evan put down his bread, his face lighting up with undisguised excitement.
"Great! Professor, I feel frighteningly strong now!"
He lowered his voice, but could not contain the excitement in it.
"I even worked as a porter at the harbor yesterday and hauled cargo for five hours! I can feel my body getting stronger all the time!"
He swung his fist, then added, "And today, I struck back brilliantly at the people who bullied me!"
Pulis gave a quiet acknowledgment. He picked up his fork, cut off a small piece of fried fish, and put it in his mouth.
Behind his lenses, his pale blue eyes studied Evan without giving anything away, as though reading an experimental report.
"Any unusual urges, or other side effects?"
Evan rubbed his chin, putting on a thoughtful expression.
In front of a Beyonder vampire, he did not dare make his story too false.
The best lies were not inventions, but carefully chosen truths.
"I felt hot. Had a powerful urge to exercise. Low blood sugar. Got hungry quickly."
He paused.
"That's all."
The corners of Pulis's mouth lifted slightly, so slightly the smile was almost invisible.
"Good. Keep eating."
He set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin, his tone casual.
"By the way, you haven't taken any other medicine these past few days, have you?"
Evan scratched his head, looking a little embarrassed.
"I took some Mercury Pills and Aspirin. When I took those two medicines you gave me together yesterday, my body hurt badly."
Pulis studied his face for a second.
"Stop taking those while you're taking the medicine I gave you."
Evan nodded respectfully. "Understood."
Then Pulis stood and left.
He had eaten only a few bites of his lavish twenty-cent lunch. Most of the fried fish and vegetables remained untouched on his plate.
He had finished the milk, though.
Evan watched him disappear through the cafeteria door, then quietly pulled Pulis's plate toward himself.
The fried fish was still warm, and the butter on the vegetables had not yet congealed.
He mixed the leftovers together, covered them with his own empty plate, and took them away.
A twenty-cent lunch—no sense letting it go to waste.
Back at the Laboratory, Pulis shut the door and let out a low laugh in the dim light.
The laugh was soft and brief, but it held a complicated mix of emotions.
Excitement, greed, and the certainty of a hunter who had finally confirmed the value of his prey.
Beside a storage cabinet stood the plain-faced Female Assistant in white, a record book in her hands. She looked up at the sound of his laughter.
"Just as I thought." Pulis removed his glasses and polished the lenses with his shirt cuff, moving slowly, with evident pleasure.
"He didn't mutate. Instead, he absorbed the Beyonder Characteristic in the Magic Potion."
Shock appeared on the Female Assistant's usually expressionless face.
"Absorbed it?"
Pulis nodded and put his glasses back on. Behind the lenses, his pale blue eyes burned with a cold, fierce light.
"I sensed it. There's a Beyonder Characteristic belonging to the Sanguine inside his body. Faint, but unmistakable."
He went to the workbench and took a wooden tray from a drawer.
Several glass slides lay neatly arranged on the tray. Each bore a thin layer of dark red sample: blood drawn from Evan's arm the night before, then separated and processed.
"No mutation, no craving for blood, and no fear of sunlight."
"A strong desire to fight, and a substantial increase in physical vitality."
He held a slide up to the desk lamp, and his smile widened.
"The anemia Side Effect barely took hold. His Blood Quality rose instead of falling."
He returned the slide to the tray, turned around, and braced both hands against the edge of the workbench. His voice strained with excitement he could barely contain.
"He's immune to the Side Effects."
"Blood Father above, I've finally found someone with such a rare Physique."
The Female Assistant's lips trembled slightly. She kept her voice low.
"Master, then... shall we capture him?"
Pulis fell silent.
Within seconds, his excitement vanished, as though someone had tightened a valve.
His pale blue eyes regained their usual cool, cautious look.
"No."
He walked to the window and felt the warmth of the sunlight beyond the heavy curtains. His voice settled.
"First, we'll find out from the shadows exactly what kind of special Physique he has, and whether there's anything strange behind him."
He paused, his tone turning pointed.
"Don't forget what happened in Innsmouth."
The Female Assistant stiffened slightly and said nothing more.
That had been more than a failed experiment.
It had been a Nightmare...