There once lived a man whose life teetered on the edge of a dream. He was a sophomore at one of the country's most prestigious universities - brilliant, effortlessly handsome, and known for making the impossible look routine. But none of that was what truly set him apart. He could read minds. At will, as easily as flipping a switch, he could hear the unspoken words of anyone around him, as though whispered directly into his ear. Every thought, every secret, every buried desire - his for the taking. He moved through the world like a chess master among checkers, always ten steps ahead. He had everything. Or so he believed. Until that night. It was after an after-party, the kind that leaves the air thick with sweat, bass, and half-formed regrets. The bar was a dim, sticky dive near campus - cheap beer, cheaper neon. He was drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed, drunk. The kind of drunk where the pavement seemed to tilt gently beneath your feet. That's when he saw her. She stood alone in a narrow alley behind the bar, bent slightly, searching for something in the shadows. Her posture was intent, as if what she'd lost mattered more than anything else. He watched her for a moment, the thought forming in his mind like muscle memory: I'll read her thoughts, find the item, and hand it to her like a magic trick. Effortless. A smile curled at the edge of his lips as he prepared to dive in. But he heard nothing. No voice. No whisper. Just the dull throb of the city behind him - honking horns, drunken laughter, the flicker of glass against asphalt. Her mind was silent. A void. He froze. She turned then, catching him standing there with that startled, half-vacant expression. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice clear and steady. Nothing came out of his mouth. In his life, he'd never failed to hear someone's thoughts. Not once. It wasn't just confusion. It was terror, a splinter of something unfamiliar. He frantically glanced behind him and reached out again with his ability, grasping at the first stranger he could sense. The man's thoughts sliced into him like a serrated blade: 'I'm going to kill that asshole, and that's just the beginning. Nobody has any idea what I'm going to do with that asshole's lifeless corpse. Yum yum.' He flinched. Gross, yes - but his gift was still working. Perfectly. Except with her. He cleared his throat. "Umm... it looked like you dropped something?" She nodded calmly. "My ring." He hesitated, then dropped to his knees and began scanning the ground, eyes adjusting to the shadows. But even as he searched, one thought pulsed louder than the rest: Why can't I hear her? Then he saw it. A golden ring, wedged beneath the rusted curve of an old oil can. He reached out, picked it up, and turned to her. "Ah," he murmured. "Is this the one?" Her face lit up with relief and joy. "Yes! That's it! Oh my god, thank you so much!" He should've said something clever, something charming. That was his move. But all he did was stare into her eyes, searching, sinking. A thousand questions danced behind his quiet expression, and still, her thoughts stayed hidden. And then, without warning, the words fell from his mouth like a blade: "Give me all your money." (to be continued)