Night descended like a dying breath—quick and quiet, smothering the last warmth of the day.
Shortly after 7:00 p.m., the teacher, more out of routine than authority, instructed the students to head to the bathrooms to brush their teeth and sign up for shower rotations.
Within minutes, the classroom emptied like a lifeboat after a breach, leaving only Rayne, still seated, his eyes low, a faint smile touching his lips like the curl of smoke.
All those grim books. All those world-ending films. For once, they had value.
His fingers brushed over the notebook beside him.
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The plan was raw—short and hastily scrawled—but it served its purpose. Adaptable. Efficient. Necessary.
Rayne stood, stretching, joints cracking in the silence.
---
"58...59...60!"
Rayne collapsed onto the gym floor, sweat-slick and breathless. His arms throbbed. His lungs burned. But the familiar pain was grounding.
He'd already brushed his teeth—Navia had signed him up for a shower slot, saving him the hassle.
Lying on the cool floor, staring up at the fluorescent lights buzzing like distant cicadas, his thoughts spiraled.
*Should I ask Navia to come if I leave? Would anyone even go with me?*
He hated the answer that lingered like a lump in his chest: He didn't want to go alone.
And worse—he was afraid to.
He had always told himself he didn't need anyone. But in this silence, surrounded by strangers' laughter and the dull murmur of forced comfort, the truth bled through: isolation was not strength. It was a cage.
Rayne sat up.
The gym continued as if nothing was wrong. Conversations, snores, cheap jokes. A weak façade of normal.
He walked toward the hallway, where shadows pooled in the corners like oil.
There were still a few students wandering the corridors. That should have comforted him. Instead, it made him nervous—like being watched by mannequins.
He reached the shower list. Just one name ahead of his.
A lean teen stepped out moments later—black, athletic, his skin steaming lightly from the heat. He looked…off. Like something deep inside him had fractured.
"Sorry, I took a while," he muttered.
Rayne didn't hesitate. "It's cool... but, have you noticed anything weird going on?"
The boy's face twitched—uncertain. Hesitant. He leaned closer, eyes flitting around.
"Why you asking?" he asked cautiously.
"I saw something... not normal," Rayne admitted. "Just... be careful. If someone starts acting strange, stay away."
The guy hesitated, then said something that chilled the air between them.
"Don't play the game."
Rayne blinked. "What?"
"Just don't, okay?" he whispered, and walked away.
Rayne watched him—each step labored, trembling as though gravity had turned cruel. Like something unseen was forcing him downward.
He wanted to call out.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stripped in silence and stepped into the shower. The hot water ran down his back, but it did nothing to ease the cold knot growing in his gut.
*What game? What the hell did he mean?*
*And why didn't I ask for his name...?*
He cursed under his breath and dried quickly, throwing on his same clothes, damp at the edges.
The gym hadn't changed. But that made it worse. Predictability now felt like camouflage.
He settled against the far wall, near the exit. A good vantage point.
He set his alarm for 7:30 a.m., eyes flicking around one last time.
Sleep came slowly, like a rusted gate dragging closed.
---
Morning. His body felt leaden. His mind fogged.
But he called his mother first thing, and hearing her voice—normal, loving—was like an ember against the frost.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, as if the fear was just smoke. No new anomalies. No strange behavior. Even the internet had gone eerily silent, as if the chaos of yesterday had been swallowed by the void.
Rayne began to doubt himself.
Others acted like it was just a big sleepover. Laughter returned, though it rang hollow in Rayne's ears. He still felt something lurking. Watching.
He sat in the cafeteria with Navia and Mark.
"Ugh, school food is killing me," Navia groaned.
"Sometimes you just gotta thug it out," Mark replied with a smirk, leaning back.
Rayne narrowed his eyes. "Didn't you buy out the vending machine?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mark said with mock innocence. "Maybe a ghost did it."
Navia started yelling at him for hoarding snacks, but Rayne's mind was already elsewhere—studying the cafeteria gates, mapping a path to the kitchen in case things fell apart.
---
The next day passed uneventfully again.
The tension in Rayne's chest loosened. He even considered scrapping the escape plan. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe he had imagined it all.
He never saw the guy from the showers again. Odd. But not enough to raise alarm. Not anymore.
Entering the library with half a mind to escape into fantasy fiction, Rayne let his guard down.
That's when he saw it.
Motion.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the high-set library window.
Something peeking in.
Only a head—part of one. The top of a skull, with strands of brittle white hair clinging to parchment-dry skin. Eyes—bloated, bloodshot—locked onto him.
It vanished. Then peeked again. Then vanished once more.
Like it knew it shouldn't be seen.
The window was ten feet off the ground.
No one should be able to reach it.
Rayne didn't move. Couldn't.
The air felt thin. Time slowed.
This time, there was no denying it.
Something had found them.