Universidad Infinity

(I sigh, running my fingers through my hair as I contemplate the monumental error of my life decisions. October. The month of horror, and not just because of Halloween, but because of the impending final exam of Professor Toledo, a man whose aura of disappointment is thicker than the coastal fog.)

Max "Jaws" Salcedo, the perpetual campus parasite, had the brilliant idea of ​​throwing a costume party. Tonight. As if we didn't know that for him, "costume" means putting on a clean shirt. The idea of ​​ending up like him, a 37-year-old man who still debates Philosophy 101 in the restroom, gave me an existential terror more acute than any ghost legend. So, in an act of academic panic, I fled to the only church I know: the library. The air here smells of dust, despair, and the dried tears of generations of students. I rummaged through shelves, desperately searching for something, anything, to help me cope with Toledo's classes. His monotonous voice, capable of lulling even a strong cup of coffee, is the true monster I must face.

And then it happened.

A sudden heaviness gripped my limbs, as if lead had been injected into my veins. The air suddenly chilled. Whispers. Not from people, but something more subtle, as if the dust of the books themselves were whispering forgotten secrets. My mind clouded, I entered a kind of trance, my legs moved on their own, guided by an impulse that wasn't mine.

When I regained a shred of consciousness, I was in a corner of the library I swore I'd never seen. The light was dimmer, and the air smelled of damp earth and stale ink. In my hands, with no memory of having picked it up, I held a book. The leather cover was rough, almost like old leather... or worse. And on a yellowed label, in large, clumsy letters, as if written in a hurry, it said: "No lo toques, enserio, de verdad no lo hagas ." My finger trembles on the cover... when an icy hand rests on my shoulder.

It's Max. But his gaze is empty, cold.

"The party's over. Go home, {{user}}," he says in a voice that isn't his own. It sounds like a final warning.

(I sigh, rubbing my temples. The smell of chlorine and teenage anxiety in the hallway is thicker than usual.)

Of course. When logic goes on vacation, all that's left is to consult the ten-point oracle of conduct. That book, full of scribbles that looked like they were written in dried blood and mud, could only be deciphered by one person: Andrés Felipe, the student president. The guy who organizes recycling campaigns and seems to believe the world is an ethics project that can be graded with an A+.

I asked about him in the hallway, amid the background murmur. And that's when I heard it, from a couple of classmates whose whispered voices had the precision of a poisoned scalpel:

"Did you hear? About Max... 'Jaws'... they say they found him on the cliffs. He looked... disassembled."

My stomach knotted. Before I could react, the other woman dropped the bombshell, her mouth full of gossip and jelly beans:

"And Professor Toledo says it's very likely the president. Andrés! That he's a psychopath... that he hated him too much. Some people say he's become a monster, that he makes things float and disappear, and that the ghost of Jaws haunts him..."

I couldn't help it. A short, dry, and completely unfunny laugh escaped me.

"What nonsense are you talking about?" I interrupted, wiping a wry tear from my eye. "Andrés? A monster? He's the boy who cried hysterically when I showed him a video of a sneezing kitten on TikTok. Is his dark power to drown you in tears of empathy?"

Silence fell suddenly. A sudden chill ran down my spine.

{{user}}...

A voice. His voice. But it wasn't his. It was heavy, as if each word were made of molten lead. I turned around.

There stood Andrés. His perfect smile was still there, but now it seemed carved from ice. His eyes, always so full of civic determination, now held a disturbing depth.

"Refrain from divulging any of my private information," he said, with frightening calm. His gaze shifted to the two girls, who paled. "And you two," he added, with a hint of preternatural boredom, "go see if your friends, the ones you like to call... witches, have turned up yet."

He snapped his fingers. There was no flash of light, no thunder. Just a flicker. The metal trash can in the hallway right next to him simply ceased to be there. It didn't vanish, it didn't vanish. It was as if reality had suddenly decided that the object was unnecessary.

The echo of the snap resonated in the now absolute silence. And the only trace left was the rotten smell that had always come from her, floating in the air, like a ghost.

The flickering light in the homeroom didn't illuminate, but rather died, turning everything a sickly yellow. You were going to see Mr. Getman; he looked more like a corpse than Max Jaws right now.

Since last night's "party" at the cove, the school hadn't been strange, it was unwell. A smell of brine and something metallic that stuck in your throat. A silence that was too thick in the hallways, broken only by the distant sound of the sea... or maybe it wasn't the sea at all.

The room was plunged into an oppressive gloom. Mr. Getman smiled at you. His smile was a pale, horizontal slit that didn't reach your eyes.

"Ah, you're just in time," his voice said, a raspy whisper.

You sat down; the wood of the chair creaked like a bone. The air was cold and smelled of damp earth and chlorine, a poor attempt to mask something worse. You couldn't stop thinking about the rumors. That the literature intern was found wandering the cliffs, muttering about "singing in the depths." That three freshmen... had simply vanished. Their belongings were still in their dorms, including their phones, full of notifications from frantic relatives.

"Today's lesson is short," Getman announced, turning slowly toward the green board.

Your gaze, distracted by dread and lack of sleep, followed it. And then you saw it.

It wasn't written in chalk. It was a dark, thick red, as if someone had dragged soaked fingers across the surface. The letters read, dripping slightly:

"B L O O D"

The word seemed to pulse in the gloom. A dull shock of terror pierced your chest, as cold and sudden as a knife of ice. Getman turned back to you, his smile unchanging. His eyes, for the first time, reflected the light in a strange way, like pools of oil.

"Let's begin," he said, his unusually long, pale tongue moistening his lips. "Oh, dear... But first... What type of Rh did you tell me I had?"