Eleanore:
The hallway is a blur of moving bodies, a sea of shoulders I have to navigate like a ghost trying not to be seen. My fingers are locked around the handles of my bag, my knuckles white, the leather biting into my palms until it stings.
I don't breathe.
I just move, dashing through the gaps in the crowd, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.I reach the classroom first.
I always do.
The silence here is a temporary sanctuary, though it tastes like stale dust.
"Always nice to see you, Eleanore," Mrs. Victoria says.
Lies.
The word echoes in the hollow space of my chest.
They're all lies.
Her smile is too wide, too bright for a morning that feels this gray. It's a jagged edge of a greeting.
I give a sharp, robotic nod and retreat to my corner—the seat by the window, the furthest point from the door. My fingers find the button on my jacket, twisting and fiddling with the thread until it's a dull ache in my fingertips. It's the only thing keeping me grounded.
Then, the bell.
It isn't just a sound; it's a signal. A warning. I lower my head, my hair falling like a curtain to shield my face as the door bursts open.
They flood in like a pack of savage animals, a riot of noise and heat and arrogance. The athletes lead the charge, their laughter booming like cannon fire, followed by the hushed whispers of the pets and the shadows of the rest.And then… them.
Please don't look at me.
Please don't see me.
Please let me be invisible.
I refuse to look up. I stare at the wood grain of my desk until the patterns start to swim. Mrs. Victoria begins to drone on, her voice a distant hum. Only then do I dare to lift my head a fraction of an inch. My skin feels raw—my clothes itch, the fabric feeling like sandpaper against my nerves. My hair is heavy and slick with a film of dirt I can't seem to scrub away, and my glasses are tilted, the cracked lens distorting the world. But I sit straight.
I force my spine into a rigid line, a desperate attempt to look like someone who isn't falling apart.
The rustle of paper snaps my attention back. A stack of documents makes its way down the row. I reach out, my hand trembling as I take the sheet, and I turn to pass it to the person beside me.
I freeze.
A pair of icy blue eyes are already waiting for me. They're cold—colder than the winter air—and they're filled with a predatory kind of glee. A smirk tugs at the corner of their mouth, a silent, mocking laugh that makes the blood turn to lead in my veins. My heart doesn't just race, it stops. It hitches in my throat, a suffocating weight that leaves me gasping for a breath I can't find.
I shove the paper toward them—her, him, it doesn't matter, and whip my head back around.
The silence of the work period should be a relief, but it's a trap.
A small, crinkled ball of paper hits my desk with a soft thud. I don't move. I stare at it as if it's a live coal.
Another one hits my shoulder.
Then another.
Then, a heavy boot slams into the back of my chair. The vibration rattles my teeth, followed by a hushed, venomous curse that cuts deeper than any blade.
"Open it, you bitch."
My hands are shaking so violently I can barely grip the edges of the note. I slowly unfold the paper, the sound of the crinkling page feeling like a scream in the quiet room.
Death.
The words are scrawled in jagged, ugly ink. Threats that make my stomach heave, words that strip me bare and leave me shivering. And at the bottom, a time and a place.
The back of the park. After school.
The air in the room vanishes. My vision blurs at the edges, the cracked lens of my glasses fracturing the world into a thousand broken pieces.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The hunt hasn't even started, and I'm already cornered.