The Dragon Awakens

The air in Professor McDonald’s office still held the faint scent of old paper and pipe tobacco, a scent that now felt like a ghost clinging to the walls. It had been days since the funeral, days since the muted grief of students and colleagues had settled over Howard University like a shroud. Yet, the questions, sharp and insistent, gnawed at me. Professor McDonald, my mentor, the man who had seen a spark of something in me and fanned it into a flame, was gone. Murdered. And the police, with their clipped questions and tired eyes, had no leads.

He had called me to his office, eager, almost vibrating with an energy I hadn’t seen in him before. “Kira, my dear,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble, “I think I’ve stumbled onto something… significant. A society within the university, hidden in plain sight. The brightest minds, the most… unique individuals. I need your sharp eyes, your journalistic instincts. Dig into it for me. Pretend you’re just another business major, eager to make connections. See what you find.”

And now, his office was a crime scene. The police tape, a stark yellow against the mahogany door, was a constant reminder of the unanswered questions. I’d slipped in, a borrowed key from a sympathetic dean who’d known of my close relationship with the professor. The desk, usually a testament to organized chaos, was now meticulously cleared, sterile. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.