Conversation ripples through the room, and my mind reels as I struggle to process the news. There must be a mistake. And yet the first hit that comes up when I search for more information is a story from the local section of the Chicago Tribune—Man Found Dead in Fulton Heights—accompanied by a smiling photo of my art teacher.

Jesse T. Strauss, 29, originally of Richmond, VA, was found dead behind the wheel of his car late last night on Montebello Road. The body showed signs of violence, and according to Fulton Heights authorities, the suspected cause of death is blood loss from a deep wound to the shoulder area. A police spokesperson said that the Fulton Heights High School art instructor probably died between 6:00 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. last night, and that the death is being treated as a homicide. Strauss’s car had rolled into the drainage ditch that runs alongside Montebello, and was noticed by a passing motorist, who called 911.

My eyes go hazy for a moment, static filling my ears. It couldn’t have been later than 6:30 when Daphne and I were jumped last night—and Montebello Road is less than two minutes from the mall. In my mind, I keep seeing that wooden stake coming down, the pointed end plunging through neoprene and flesh and burying itself in the ninja’s shoulder.

That guy just now? He was human.

You should give some thought to a four-year art and design school.

I left him alive so he can crawl back to his friends.

You’ve got a gift, and an academic environment would provide an opportunity to grow your skills and explore other media.

At the bottom of the article, it says the story is still developing, but I close the tab and delete the page from my phone’s history. I’m fighting to breathe, and for a moment I’m sure I’m either going to be sick or black out.

My favorite teacher tried to kill me.

Paris, France

1793

This one was a strong body, well cared for and well fed, and its original occupant had not surrendered control without a fight. Even now, sitting in the back of the lurching, rolling cart, the Corrupter could feel her deep inside, battling him for primacy. Like a stone lodged in a shoe, she was a constant irritant, and her plight was senseless. In less than an hour, this body would be put to a gruesome death, and the woman knew it.

Mortals could be counted on for nothing so much as acting against their own best interests.