Ravenwood had always been a school of whispers, but lately, they were louder than usual. Leah’s absence sat in the halls like a stain no one wanted to scrub clean. Students traded rumors at lockers and in bathrooms—some said she’d run away, others said she was dead. A few swore they’d seen flashing lights outside her neighborhood the night she disappeared.

  Silas didn’t bother entertaining either theory. He knew the truth lingered much closer to the second. He just didn’t know if anyone else was brave—or stupid—enough to admit it.

  Caldwell entered the room without her usual stack of papers. She placed her bag down gently, like a bomb about to go off, and studied her students with sharp eyes that seemed to strip excuses before they were even spoken.

  Before diving into her lesson, she said something that made the room tilt, just slightly.

  “There are doors here,” she said lightly, “better left unopened.”

  Her chalk scraped against the board, equations blooming beneath her hand. The students stared blankly, either too dense or too nervous to understand her meaning. Nobody reacted—except Silas. His eyes flickered, just once, toward the far hallway. The donor board lay there, hidden behind a lock that never seemed to stay locked.

  Evan sat beside him, tapping his pencil against his notebook until Silas finally shot him a look. Instead of writing notes, Evan filled Silas’s margins with doodles—dragons, stick figures with swords, ridiculous speech bubbles. Silas didn’t stop him. Maybe it was easier to let Evan scribble than to explain the calculations Caldwell was throwing at them.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He wasn’t used to tolerating people. But Evan… persisted. Somehow, it didn’t feel as annoying as it should.

  By lunch, the whispers had shifted to football tryouts, upcoming tests, and the cafeteria running out of fries again. Life in Ravenwood marched on like nothing had happened.

  But Silas’s mind stayed hooked on crooked letters etched into polished wood. His name alias—Samuel Tay—scrawled with jagged strokes. He replayed the sight over and over, and what unsettled him most wasn’t the letters themselves but the familiarity of the handwriting. Like something he’d seen before. On a worksheet, maybe. Or the corner of a note. It itched at him, refusing to settle.

  That night, the quiet followed him home. His apartment stairwell was unusually empty, each footstep echoing against the walls. He paused at the landing. Something felt off—too still, like the building was holding its breath.

  At his door lay an envelope. Thin. Plain. Unmarked.

  He crouched, picked it up, and opened it with steady fingers. Inside was a single piece of paper.

  A rough sketch of a church. The steeple was sharp, exaggerated, almost a knife against the sky. And beneath it, in bold, deliberate ink:

  Midnight.

  Silas straightened slowly, scanning the hall, shadows stretching long and patient. No sound, no movement, just the faint hum of a lightbulb that flickered as if on cue.

  He pushed the door open. The apartment was dark. Silent.

  “Elena?” His voice didn’t rise, but it carried.

  No answer.

  He flicked the switch. Pale light spilled across the living room. His sister’s shoes were missing from the entryway. Her backpack wasn’t slouched against the couch like usual.

  The air inside felt wrong—like someone had rearranged the silence.

  Silas moved quickly now, crossing the room in long strides, his hoodie brushing against his arms. He opened her bedroom door.

  Empty. Sheets half-pulled from the bed. Curtains swaying lightly though the window was shut.

  For a moment, Silas didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  Then the note crumpled in his fist.

  The game had changed. For the first time, the killer hadn’t waited for him to act.

  They had moved first.