Simma had finally freshened up. The faint scent of soap still clung to his skin like a shy ghost as he peeled off the kimono and laid it neatly over the back of the chair. He was now dressed only in simple black pants, a plain black top dangling from his hand, yet to be slipped on.

His gaze kept circling back to the raw injury on his shoulder. He flexed it once, feeling the twinge of pain rise like a small flame.

He sat in the chair beside a desk, letting his eyes wander around the new room. Though the arrangement mimicked the one he had just left, this space felt bigger, wilder, and far more alive, like a familiar melody suddenly played by a full orchestra. It was as if the walls breathed more deeply here.

The floor was soft beneath his bare feet, layered with sharply patterned rugs that looked fierce but felt heavenly, their threads whispering under each step. The window was the familiar ceiling-to-floor glass pane, yet the heavy brown curtains gave it a regal hush, muting the outside world.

At the base of his bed stood his wardrobe, a polished, deep-brown monument of woodwork, its grain shimmering like still water. It was more than furniture; it was craftsmanship that seemed to know its own importance.

The ceiling above was a clean, unbroken white, and from it hung a small semi-chandelier; a droplet of frozen gold light, just the right size for a room like this. Two smaller lamps fixed on opposite walls threw back its glow, making the room feel at once intimate and stately.

Everything Simma owned had already been moved into this new space. He didn't know who had done it... some silent worker or perhaps a group, but whoever they were, they had done it well. Even the little odds and ends were in their places, as though his belongings had tiptoed here themselves in the night.

His gaze drifted to the huge book; My Past Self and the Me, Me, that had mysteriously appeared some time ago, the one Delilah had brought. Someone had even imitated his handwriting to send it.

He sat upright at the memory. He had thought about the book often, about where and who it had come from. It had already helped him uncover truths about himself and the strange tides moving around him. Whoever had sent it clearly wanted him to understand something, maybe to prepare him or, maybe to manipulate him.

But who?

His first thought had been Zaro, but no. If Zaro wanted to tell him something, he'd do it face to face or at least by message. Zaro didn't play games with forged letters.

His mind shifted to Zolomon. The White Elder certainly did things in ways Simma couldn't predict, sometimes even in ways that made his skin crawl. Yet Zolomon had shown him his memories openly; that was honesty of a sort. Probably not him either.

Then Delilah; could she have wanted to give him the book but lacked a clean way to do it, so she invented the letter? But could she really copy his handwriting so flawlessly? He doubted it.

The more he thought, the less the puzzle fit. He let out a long breath and pushed the whole mystery aside for now. There were too many other things gnawing at him.

Chief among them were the memories Zolomon had revealed: his mother, his father, and those who had killed him. He remembered the Umbrax's words during the Wood Hint, when he had been trapped in the demon lair: that the Citadel had locked him inside baby Simma and left him to rot in the hands of the Singriths because his father was "great."

Coming to think of it, his father had been a White Elder, poised to become a Sentinel. Maybe that was why they killed him. If so, someone now wearing the Sentinel's robe might have blood on their hands.

Yes... perhaps the person had wanted to be Sentinel so badly he had to eliminate Simma's father, who might have been greater in rank. Now, by removing him, that person had climbed into the vacant seat.

"Don't be ridiculous, Simma," he muttered under his breath. Maybe it was grief making him spin conspiracies. Yet the feeling lingered, heavy as damp cloth: something about his father's death was still in the room with him.

He wished he had seen the face of the person who had spoken to Draco earlier. One thing was certain: the man had worn the white robe reserved only for White Elders and Sentinels.

The clues piled up like stones: Draco had attacked him during the tournament wearing a mask; a mask that was the same... (not similar to) ...but the same to the one those that killed his father wore.

And now someone had just slipped out of Draco's room in secret after threatening him into the silence of not telling anyone there affairs. That someone was a top-ranked Azren.

As his thoughts whirled out of control, noise from the hallway snapped him back. The others had returned from wherever they'd been. Their voices carried faint laughter, a contrast so sharp it almost made him smile.

He drew a deep breath and made himself a quiet promise.

'Whatever this is, I will definitely find out,' he vowed.

His eyes dropped to his shoulder, to the scar where the Singrith's claws had raked him. Four angry red lines stood out starkly against his pale flesh, like a handprint of rage.

"That beast," he muttered. The scar reignited his fury at missing one of his rare chances to end its life.

It dragged him back to Sonja, how she'd been killed without honour, after everything they'd endured. Worst of all, he'd been there and could do nothing. He loved her. Loved her so much. His throat tightened.

"AAARRGHH…" His groan cracked through the room like a breaking board. He buried his face in his hands for a moment.

It had been a rare chance, but it would only stay rare if he let it.

'I'm not letting him win this time,' he told himself, lifting his head.

A knock rapped at his door, sharp and sudden. For a heartbeat, rage swelled in his throat, but he forced it down, smoothing his voice until it was almost casual.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"It's me, Simma. I'm coming in." The door knob twisted and the door swung open before he could rise. Sarah stepped in. He had been on his way to open it for her, but she beat him to it, breezing in with the unthinking ease of someone who no longer felt the old walls between them.

The new wing arrangement had mixed male and female quarters alphabetically, so Sarah's room now sat close to his.

She walked in just as he neared the door.

"Hey, where have you been? You missed training today," she queried, smiling lightly. Her eyes swept over him and lingered. It was the first time she'd seen him bare-chested. All this time she'd only known him under layers of clothing.

Now she saw the truth: his abs stood out like six warm chocolate cakes fresh from some divine bakery, his chest tight and evenly built. Her gaze kept drifting back to those abs; it felt like they were calling to her, teasing her, seducing her to just trace even if it was her finger tips on them.

Well thanks to Zaro's relentless regimen of 400 push-ups and 450 sit-ups a day, that had carved him into this shape.

Sarah's eyes lingered far longer than they should have, and Simma noticed. A small, ironic smile tugged at his mouth. He felt as if he were making her uncomfortable, judging by the way she stared, but a mischievous part of him enjoyed it.

"Sorry," he said quickly, turning his back to her so he could put on his black top at last.

But as he slipped his arms into the shirt, Sarah caught sight of his back. His bare skin. Long pale muscles traced with faint scars and that one, fresh wound. She blinked and stared again.

"Oh my God…" she breathed, not even aware she'd spoken.

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