“Shit, it’s almost 10 PM already,” you whispered in frustration as your blaring alarm went off. You set it not to remind yourself to go home, but to warn you that the deadline is closing in, and that no grace will ever be given by that professor. 

You frantically double-check every last detail before hitting save. After all, this project demanded that you fully lock in, sucking out what little life you had left. Even with the confirmation of submission glowing on your screen, the moment  feels unreal—like a fever dream. The library lights that once offered warmth dimmed hours ago. Only your laptop’s glow remains, casting light over your coffee-stained reviewers and scratch papers, backed by a distant building’s display lights. 

Only ten percent battery is left in your body, now running on the fumes of yesterday’s energy as every muscle drags with leaden ache. You realize this upon standing, your bag now slung over your shoulder, yet you push forward. You walk despite knowing it is past your limit to finally get less than an hour of freedom—that is if you’re lucky enough to ride a jeep that isn’t a rocket in disguise. 

DING!

DING!

DING! DING!

DING! DING! DING! DING!

DING! DING! DING! DING! DING! DING!

The statue in the rotunda barely pierces the fog from this distance, yet your phone has begun to get your attention once again. Messages from one of your groups insist that your output must run through one final revision before midnight’s deadline, a decision already agreed upon by the rest. At the mercy of the majority, you stand there before  the lake, unable to take another step as the strap of your bag bites into your shoulder. When you see the three pulsing dots of the typing message, your final tether snaps. 

With a desperate, guttural heave, you rip the phone from your grasp and hurl it into the abyssal, unreflecting surface of the lake. It vanished with a consuming gulp, silencing it before another chime can be heard. Without breaking stride, you push your body onward.

Upon reaching U-Lane, you notice that the once-lively campus road has been consumed by hungry shadows. The trees seem closer to each other, forming jagged teeth against the dim sky, and every building you pass lingers as if waiting for you to step into them—

the reviewer…
You stopped as your body slumped, suddenly weighted by dread upon hearing the voice in the back of your mind.

…did you put it in your bag?
Not caring if your laptop is inside, you immediately drop everything to search for the thick papers. Everything for tomorrow’s test depends on those pages, and there’s no copy on Schoolbook—this reading exists only in hardcopy.

WHERE DID YOU PUT IT?

(Aha! You slipped again! Bravo! Those papers are the ticket to your success, yet —like always—you’ve failed to follow the instructions! Ladies and gentlemen, let us stand and applaud the recklessness of the dunce onstage!)

Your frantic fingers tear through notebook spirals and drained pens until, at the bottom of the bag, relief strikes a sharp and dizzying blow: the thick, crinkled edge of a familiar bulk of papers meets your fingertips, stained at this point with not just coffee, but also a sticky yet faint residue of instant noodle soup and smudges of old ink. With a sigh that shudders through your chest and a flush of embarrassment at your paranoia, you shove your things back inside and drag your body to the next and final point.
The stairs to the gate, the final barrier to freedom, at last comes into view. “Finally,” you whispered underneath your breath.
Though the lingering spirits of the bypassed buildings have receded into the shadows, taking the first step up the stairs, you can’t help but feel someone watching over your shoulder. The weight of the gaze is pin-sharp and different from the quiet dread of empty halls—a cold hand digging into your nape, locking you in place.

Pretending to ignore it, you take the second step.

It can no longer be ignored. You just had to look, and there it is: the stone statue that everyone sees upon entering these grounds, still unmoving at his post. You fix your gaze on the statue, tracing the unblemished stone figure, convincing yourself that no harm will be done—

Until your eyes land on each other. The vacant stare you once knew is now a clear, active gaze—looking back at you. It wasn’t a look of malice, but of dead recognition that burrowed directly into the base of your skull. It doesn’t have to move its head or body for your hands to tremble and for your chaotic mind to lead to your fall. 

Panic. That is what pushes you to take the last few steps up to the gate, a few more steps until you reach the barrier that sets your fears apart from a heave of relief. But it takes no time to realize it is shut, and takes even less time for the clang of the locked metal to knock you to the floor. 

Calming yourself, you try to explain and apologize to the guard for your late exit from campus. “Sir, please, you have to let me out! My paper was due, and I couldn’t risk wasting my time stuck in traffic, so I finished it here. I have my ID if you can just loo—” your mouth hangs open, unable to finish your sentence as you watch him unstirred, his eyes looking through you, ignoring the desperation in your voice.

Upon seeing the padlock snap shut, you shout and bang at the gates, but the heavy iron bars refuse to yield.

Finally, with the guard’s departure, knowing no other path is left for you to take, you find yourself with no other choice: You turn your back on the sealed exit and begin to walk toward the only building with lights on. The chill of the open area strikes repeatedly as the fog builds up, making you crave the warmth of your guarded home.

You drag your feet toward the building, your eyes reflecting its glowing green front and the sickly luminescence of distant streetlamps. As you come closer, the warmth from the building’s amber-lit mouth mocks you, while the trees seem to serve as front-row seats for those who watch from the shadows.

Sitting at its front, you take the final step to secure your place: you are no longer a student passing through these grounds, but a spectacle for horror—a ghost of wasted effort that never left.

You open your cracked laptop and reply to messages you ignored earlier:

Sounds good to me! I can finish revising my parts in less than an hour!

You are, after all, still locked in.