The classroom buzzed with low conversation. Students scattered across desks, notes and textbooks spread like evidence of industry.
Jade sat with papers arranged around her, neat stacks beside her notebook. Across from her, Blake leaned back, flipping through a history book.
For the first time in days, almost normal. Not easy. Not fixed. But calmer. Then the teacher's voice cut through. "I'll be checking each group's progress."
Jade sat straighter. They'd spent hours last night. Everything sorted, highlighted, placed neatly in the folder between them. Ready.
Or they had been.
The teacher stopped beside their desk. "Let's see what you've got."
Jade reached for the folder. Opened it without thinking.
Then froze.
Her stomach dropped. The pages were wrong. Their notes—gone. The organized articles—vanished. Instead: messy, incomplete pages that barely connected.
For a second, she couldn't breathe.
"What…?"
Blake leaned forward immediately.
Expression hardening. "That's not ours."
She flipped faster, panic rising with each page. "No. We finished this last night. This isn't right."
The teacher frowned. "This doesn't look like much progress."
"But we did it." Too quick, too desperate. "We had everything ready."
Arms crossed. "Whatever happened, I expect better preparation next time."
The words stung more than Jade expected.
Around the room, whispers started. She felt them looking. Watching. Judging.
Then she saw Amber.
Across the classroom. Sitting back with that sharp, satisfied smile.
Jade knew instantly. Hands curled against the desk edge. "You did this," she whispered.
Blake followed her gaze. Amber didn't look away. If anything, her smile widened.
Something inside Blake went tight. The room blurred at edges. Whispers. Teacher. Scraping chairs. All distant beneath pressure building in his chest.
Not new. He knew this feeling. Since the message. Since the accident. Since anger and grief twisted into something harder to control.
It always started the same. Heat beneath skin. Sharpness in thoughts. Urge to break something. Make someone hurt the way he had.
He stood so suddenly his chair scraped hard against floor. The sound cut through. Every head turned.
"Blake?"
He didn't answer. Eyes locked on Amber. Cold. Dark. Unreadable in a way worse than anger.
Her smile faded.
He walked toward her. Slowly. Deliberately. Students shifted without being told. Tension thickened with each step.
Amber straightened. But he caught it—that small flicker of nerves. "What?" Too quickly.
He stopped directly in front of her desk. "You touched our work." Not a question.
Careless shrug. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He leaned down slightly. Close enough that her expression faltered. "You think this is funny?"
She tried to laugh. It came out thin. "You can't prove anything."
His hands clenched. Knuckles white.
The old anger surged. Hotter. Meaner.
A voice whispered thoughts he hated himself for having.
'Make her afraid.'
"Blake." Jade's voice cut through. Clear. Immediate. Real.
He froze.
The anger didn't disappear. But it cracked enough for air. He inhaled once, slowly. Stepped back. Amber looked shaken now, trying not to show it.
He kept his eyes on her. Voice low enough to make the whole room listen harder. "You stay away from her."
She lifted her chin. Recovering. "Or what?"
He stared. Something dangerous still flickered. "You don't want to find out."
Silence.
Then the teacher's sharp throat-clear. "Everyone back to work."
No one moved. Then slowly, the room resurrected itself.
Blake turned. Walked back to Jade's desk. Sat down.
She watched him carefully. "Are you okay?"
He kept eyes on scattered papers. "Yeah."
Both knew it was lie.
Because whatever had been buried these past two years—anger, grief, something darker he never named—
had just opened its eyes.