The digital 4 blinked to a 5. Five minutes more, that was what it now said on Jack's watch. Five minutes more to keep watch.

    The assembly would start at five, everyone knew that. It was part of the Ravenwood Academy tradition, an assembly on the first day, an orientation and welcoming of some sort. And attendance was mandatory. All students and faculty must be in the auditorium no later than half past four. But, if truth be told, students would rather skip it—there was nothing interesting about announcements and welcoming remarks.

    Jack turned his attention to Sander, who sat with the other sixth formers, some rows back to his right in the auditorium. It was a relief to know that the jerks of the football team were seated behind everyone else, a good distance away from his new bespectacled friend. Sander, on the other hand, sat among the first row of sixth formers, and seemed to be rather enjoying himself. He and Talya were talking, exchanging words across the border, smiles on their faces.

They actually look good together, Jack thought to himself, watching them in conversation.

And seated beside Talya was the weird girl—what was her name again? Adelina? Lyn, as Damien often called her? The raven-haired girl, quiet and apathetic, did nothing but fix her eyes on the book in hand, flipping a page every few minutes.

"Dude," said a voice to his left, a smooth tenor. Jack whipped his head around, his brown eyes meeting blue ones. "Dude, you see Damien yet?" asked Max.

Jack looked back again at the rows of fifth formers. "No, bruh. Don't see him," he said.

It's been a while now, no less than twenty minutes, since Damien disappeared and told Jack to keep an eye on Sander and the jerks, texting him that there was something he had to do.

    "Bruh didn't you pay them $1000?" replied Jack, upon reading the text. "Besides Sander's sitting in the first row.. And the jerks are all at the back, rows away from him.." Send. Then he typed, "You were there with us"

    "I don't trust them tho," answered Damien, a minute after.

    "But bro I'm gonna have to transfer seats," complained Jack, through text. "With ma bro's right now, the basketball team.. And Max. Can't see a thing from where I'm at"

    "Then go transfer," replied Damien.

    "But bruh.."

    "Just in case
    I don't trust them"

    "Fine.. Alright.. Alright..I'm going. Max said he's gonna transfer with me"

    "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

    "You suck bro.."

    "( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

By now, someone was walking up the stage, a balding, stern-looking man in a gray blazer—Mr. Grisham, the deputy head teacher. And Damien was still nowhere in sight.

Jack pulled his phone out, typed a quick message, tapped on SEND.

Behind the curtains, there was no other light but the radiance of a laptop screen. Fingers pounded on keys at lightning speed, eyes intent behind thick glasses, a boy with bushy hair wracking his brain to crack the code, to get in.

Somewhere in the shadows, behind the boy and the screen, something buzzed. Damien slid his phone out of his pocket, glanced at the message across the lit screen, and it read,

Jack Forster
Bruh where you at?

Damien typed in response,

    Somewhere
    Not done yet

And he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Yes!" exclaimed a voice, ecstatic. "I'm in."

"We would like to advise all students," announced Mr. Grisham over the microphone, "to put their mobile phones on silent mode, or better yet to turn them off to avoid any interruptions during the assembly."

"He isn't done yet with what?" asked Max, having read the reply.

"Dunno," said Jack. "I'm guessing he's up to cause some trouble. He and his gang, they're known around here for that." A quick pause. "You'll never know," he said, the corners of his mouth quirking up into his signature smile, "maybe they're all taking the world's biggest group dump, planting atomic stink bombs in the toilets."

Max threw his head back and burst into laughter.

"Tsk, tsk. Dunno what the school's gonna do about that, though."

"Do I have to repeat the announcements for you, Mr. Forster?" asked a thin middle-aged woman, her dark hair tied into a neat bun. She stood straight and still in the aisle, right beside Jack's seat, her small eyes peering down on him.

"No, Miss Pince," said Jack.

"Then turn your phone off and put it away, now," she said, sternly. "Or I might have to confiscate that."

Jack looked away from the teacher, pressed a button, pocketed his phone.

"Better," she said. Then her eyes flew to Max, and she said, "And as for you, Mister—" She paused to think, and she looked quite lost for a moment, unable to recognize the boy nor recall his name.

"—Gascarth," said Max, helping her.

Her beady eyes opened wide, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Gascarth?" questioned Ms. Pince. "Donald Gascarth's son?"

"Yes, Miss—uh—"

"Pince," whispered Jack.

"Yes, Miss Pince."

"I expect better behavior from you, Mister Gascarth," she said. "So I expect you to control that boisterous laugh of yours. It's atrocious." Then she looked up and forward, and walked away.

Once out of earshot, Jack asked, "How does Miss Pince know your dad? Is she your dad's ex or something?"

Max choked back a laugh. "No," he chuckled. "What the freak, dude? She's not my dad's ex." Still suppressing a laugh, he wiped a hand over his face, grossed out by the thought. "My dad works here now," Max went on to explain, "as a Math teacher. That's why we had to move here, and that's why I'm here."

"The new Math Teacher," said Jack, nodding. "Mister Vanstone's replacement."

Max asked, "What happened to the old Math teacher?"

"Hit-and-run," said Jack. "It happened during the winter break, in the city. That's what I heard. Saw it in the local news. The school posted it on the website and the Student Council Facebook page, too. Some drunk guy was driving his car early morning. Mister Vanstone was in his front yard—I still wonder what the old man was doing at three, four o'clock, though. Dude's car spun out of control—said it slipped over the ice on the road, but no one believes that—crashed the fence, ran through Mister Vanstone's yard. Then—bam!—ran him over. When they got him to the hospital, dead on arrival."

"Sad," muttered Max, unable to suppress the memory coming to mind. Quickly, he managed to hide his fear behind a calm facade. No one needs to know about that, not now, not yet.

"Yeah. He was scary for a Math teacher, though," said Jack. "I almost failed his class. Couldn't understand a thing. And he's strict as hell, so it'd be scary to ask him anything and not look stupid. And his tests—man, it's like his tests were written by Martians or whatever his alien language was. And to top it all of, his classes were freakin' boring, too."

    Max chuckled. "You hate Math?"

"No, bruh. Math hates me."

"Excuse me," said Ms. Pince's voice. Max and Jack looked up at her cadaverous face, her sour expression. "The program is about to start, boys, so you both better zip those mouths shut. I do not want to hear any more ruckus from you two. Do I make myself clear?"

Both boys nodded in response.

The teacher fixed them with one last unfriendly look, and muttered, "I'll be watching you two." Then she strode down the aisle, her motions stiff and restrained.

Then Jack said, in a whisper, "Your dad's not like that, is he?"

"No," said Max, reassuringly. Just then, he finally caught sight of the new Math teacher. Mr. Gascarth, his father, sat in the row nearest the stage, far away from where he and Jack were, and was speaking to the other members of the faculty. "He's cool," added Max. "Trust me."

An eye peered out a crack in the curtain, examining the auditorium beyond, watching Mr. Grisham's still, silent form. The teacher inched forward, positioned his mouth closer to the microphone, then continued with announcements.

"The program will start in a minute," said Mr. Grisham. "And we would like to remind everyone once more . . ."

But the boy paid no more attention to that. He pulled his finger backstage, allowing the edge of the curtain to slide back to place, concealing the little eye-hole. "Yo, bros," he said, in the shadows. "Program's gonna start."

"We're good, boy," said another boy, a gruff yet mischievous voice, tapping a long, candle-like stick against his palm. "We're ready."

In the dark, the corners of a bespectacled boy's mouth crept up into an ecstatic smile, the glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. Damien simply nodded in approval, resting a hand on laptop-boy's shoulder.

"Let's do this."

"Our dear students and faculty," addressed Mr. Grisham to the audience, now watching in silence, "a pleasant afternoon to each and every one of you . . . "

"You see Damien?" whispered Max.

Jack glanced behind him and to his right. No stocky, curly-haired, brown boy in sight. He shook his head.

"The assembly shall commence further," said Mr. Grisham, "as we welcome onstage our beloved headmaster, Doctor John McKenna."

A roar of polite applause filled the room. The headmaster walked up the stage, gave Mr. Grisham a firm formal handshake, then took his place on the podium, behind the lectern.

"Good afternoon, everyone," said the headmaster, his voice clean and modulated. The stage light shone down on him, his silver hair gleaming beneath its radiance. "I would like to welcome each and every one of you—students, faculty, and staff—to the first day of the academic year. It is also a pleasure and an honor to welcome our special guests this afternoon. Please give your warm Ravenwood applause to the members of the Association of Boarding Schools joining us today in this very assembly."

The members of the Association stood, and there came another round of reverent applause. The sounds soon died down, as the members took their seats, and Dr. McKenna went on to say, "Today marks the beginning of another year of learning, of knowledge, of wisdom to be imparted and shared. Today also marks the beginning of new memories—joys, laughter, and new experiences . . ."

Only then did Sander feel something wasn't right. There was something missing, he thought to himself, realizing the vague feeling of an absence. Something missing. Something he had forgotten. His left hand dug into his pants pocket—he could feel the smooth surface of his phone, the hard fabric of his wallet. Yet he still felt a particular lack, but one he couldn't properly determine. His right hand then went on to rummage the contents of his other pocket, which turned out to be empty.

Then he remembered: he was the only one among the five of them—him, Damien, Jack, Max, and Adelina—who had brought a pen. His new friends—if he could call them friends within this short a time of acquaintance—had borrowed it as they signed the attendance sheets right outside the auditorium doors. Then he thought back to that moment and its sequence of events: after Sander signed his name in, Jack had asked if he could borrow his pen, which he later passed to Max (who hadn't brought a pen, either), who then later passed it to Lyn (who did bring a pen, just one that no longer had any ink), then to—

His eyes scanned the rows of seats before him, flitting from one junior to another. He tapped the raven-haired girl's shoulder, and she turned her head towards him, the look in her hazel eyes expectant.

"Adelina?"

"Just Lyn," she said, simply. "If that makes things any easier."

"Right. Anyway," said Sander, "have you seen Damien?"

"I saw him a while ago, like half an hour before."

"No. I mean now."

Lyn glanced to her right, then to her left, and her eyes looked upon the heads in front of her. It took her some time, before she shook her head. "I don't see him."

"And so I stand here before you," Dr. McKenna was saying, "encouraging each of you, student, teacher, or staff, to welcome in these moments to come—to live life and learn boldly, to find strength and wisdom amid life's challenges, even to start again if it be necessary; for we can never truly take a step forward if we are to keep glancing back . . ."

Sander looked again, his eyes doing a sweeping, searching gaze at each individual seated within the rows of juniors. He did a quick double check—still nothing. Still no head of curly dark hair. Still no sign of Damien. He thought it strange, then, wondering to himself how Damien had just gone. Wondered how no one had noticed him slip out of sight. Wondered how no one had paid any mind to the clear vacancy of his seat for thirty minutes, more or less. There was something wrong about this, Sander felt that, but he said nothing of it and instead turned back to Lyn.

"If you do see him," Sander said, "well, before I do, ask him if he's got my pen. And if he does have my pen, tell him to return it to me."

"That's if I remember, though," Lyn muttered.

"What?"

"Don't worry, I will."

"From this day on," said Dr. McKenna, "we must promise ourselves to strive nowhere else but forward. And with this to end, we shall say . . ."

And from the audience resonated a chorus, loud and clear, "Wherever Ravens soar, may they bear wisdom perpetually upon their wings. Long live the Academy." Once more, a roar of applause reverberated through the space of the auditorium.

Lyn chuckled quietly to herself. "That's the spirit," she murmured, sarcastically.

The headmaster stepped down from the podium, and made his exit off the stage, down a few steps, and Mr. Grisham returned, taking his place behind the lectern.

"Thank you, Doctor McKenna," said Mr. Grisham. "Now let us proceed further." A pause, as he cleared his throat. "Ravenwood Academy is one of the best schools there is in the state, and one of the best boarding schools there is in the country, that we hold with great pride . . ."

Max's eyes widened with surprise. "Really?"

Jack shrugged and chuckled. "Beats me. Sometimes I think it's self-proclaimed."

"Since its founding," said Mr. Grisham, "the school has garnered several achievements over the years, and has provided quality education for its students through the exceptional expertise of its faculty. Today we are proud to present to you the best of Ravenwood Academy." He made a gesture, a signal rather, hand raised high, as if beckoning someone to come forward. Then the lights shut off at the back, and the middle, and the front, till the audience found themselves in the shadows of the auditorium.

Two huge screens lit up, one on each side of the stage, each set into a wall. The sudden glare of the monitors cut through the dark, drawing most of the audience's attention. Then—

Nothing. A couple white blank shapes still before their eyes, a long strange silence enveloping the place.

Somewhere else, up in the small control room, someone was jabbing a finger on a key, pressing hard, stabbing many times, to no avail with each attempt. The crowd outside was waiting, and this was wasting time.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Try again."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Down in the auditorium, the scene on stage was something Lyn found quite comical, an inadvertent smile creeping onto her face—the balding teacher in a gray blazer stood almost motionless on the podium, save his head that turned from one screen to the other, his mouth gaping open. This wasn't planned, was it? she thought to herself, the smile lingering on her face. Poor guy.

Without warning, the double doors at the back of the auditorium burst open, light from the outside spilling in, the silhouette of a boy in the middle. All eyes flitted to the door, a chorus sound of movement, of people shifting in their seats. Everyone—students, teachers, members of the Association, and even Mr. Grisham, with his mouth still hanging open—watched as the boy descended the steps, his feet shuffling down the middle aisle, from the row farthest back to the middle to the front, and he climbed up a handful of steps, onto the stage. There he approached Mr. Grisham, and muttered something only the both of them could properly hear.

"Just now?" barked Mr. Grisham, unable to keep calm.

The boy nodded, helplessly.

"Didn't we have a test-run an hour ago?"

The boy nodded once more.

Mr. Grisham grunted, and turned to the microphone. "We are currently experiencing technical difficulties," he announced. "We apologize for the inconvenience, and we request for your patience as we address this problem. Thank you."

The light turned back on—first the front, then the middle, then the back of the auditorium.

And, with his hand, Mr. Grisham made another signal, gesturing the boy to get a move on. The boy and the deputy head teacher quickly made their way off the stage. Approaching the rows of Ravenwood Academy faculty, Mr. Grisham called out, "Arnold, come with us."

In response, a lanky man with big black-rimmed glasses rose from his seat, his ginger hair receding high up his pale scalp. His long legs maneuvered awkwardly through the row, brushing against the legs of other faculty members, his feet stepping inadvertently on a few shoes, then the CommTech teacher hurried up the steps, catching up with the boy and Mr. Grisham in no time.

All around, people began speaking amongst themselves, a concoction of murmurs filling the place.

The three scrambled up the last few steps. Someone yanked one of the doors open. Someone shut the door with a slam.

"Quiet! Quiet, all of you!" ordered Ms. Pince, walking down the aisle, raising her arms. "Quiet! Quiet now!" But no one listened, the noise drowning out her calls for silence.

In the shadows behind the curtain, a boy smiled to himself, his friends gathered around him. "Five," he said. "Four. Three. Two." The grin stretch wider this time. "One." And he pressed a key.

Amidst the noise, something began to play, a voice began to sing. Whoa oh oh, whoa oh, sang the disembodied voice. Whoa oh oh, whoa oh, it sang again, concomitant with another man's voice, one that spoke and did not sing, words incomprehensible. The audience fell silent, then—listening, waiting.

Then the prelude began to play, loud drum beats and guitar riffs filling the air, and the monitors no longer displayed a white blankness: a supercut of embarrassing photographs and video clips—of both students and teachers, including a boomeranged clip of Dr. McKenna posing a queer stance on stage during one of his speeches from last year—flashed on screen, in time with the music.

    Whoa oh oh, whoa oh
    Whoa oh oh, whoa oh

The scene onscreen changed, then, just as the first verse began. The song—something Max recognized as a track by Sleeping With Sirens—had become the soundtrack to a series of phone video clips: one of Mr. Grisham taking a seat, only for the chair to collapse as he sat his weight on the seat's surface; another of a group of pretty feminine girls gossiping over lunch, until the drop of a fake dead rat in the middle of all the plates and trays and phones, leaving them terrified, screaming, quickly evacuating the table . . .

Then it struck Max—this was what Jack was talking about, this was what he meant. And this must have been Damien's then-unfinished business, why he had disappeared and till now had not returned. Now it all made sense.

Up in the control room, the CommTech teacher was tapping on keys, the others in the room having given up. But it was futile—the video persisted to play.

"Arnold," barked Mr. Grisham.

"I'm trying," said Mr. Stepanek. "But the monitors are out of our control. Someone must have hacked into the system."

This time, the screen showed a memory unforgettable—bells resonating long urgent screeches around the school, classroom doors bursting open. The audience watched as the scene unfolded: students and teachers proceeded frantically out the doors, pouring into the hallway. The one filming, phone or camera in hand, decided to join the throng, slipping into a narrow gap in the crowd, running with the current.

"I don't know who's doing this, Sir," said Mr. Stepanek, "or how he even gained access into the system." He kept his eyes on the monitor, and his fingers hovered over the keyboard. With the back of his hand, he wiped off the film of sweat on his forehead.

Mr. Grisham grunted. "Hooligans," he muttered.

In the dark, the boys all had amused smiles on their faces. Everything was going perfectly, as intended, as planned.

"Awesome job, boys," said one of them, his fist bumping into Damien's. Laptop-boy didn't tear his eyes away from the screen, but the boy with messy brown hair, whose face was long and thin and flawed with ever-present acne, offered him a fist bump anyway, and, having sensed it, laptop-boy didn't miss. The brown-haired boy raised his fist once more, expecting another one to collide against his, but nothing came of it . . .

He looked around, then. "Hey, guys," he said. "Where's Schmidt?"

Damien's eyes scanned the darkness. And so did laptop-boy. Then the boy with messy brown hair remembered—it wasn't a joke, was it?

Upon realization, he swore under his breath, then muttered, "Stupid Schmidt."

The video was still playing on screen when someone appeared out of nowhere, taking his place center stage. With a stupid grin etched across his face, the large blond boy raised a red stick up in the air, and he yelled, "Long live the Academy!" And with that, he tore off the cap, struck the stick's end, and ignited the flare.

The men had a way of hiding in the shadows. Just as they did now, at the farthest back of the auditorium, overlooking the sea of students and teachers.

    On stage, a boy lifted a scarlet, candle-like object. He yelled something like a battle cry, and lit the end of the candle, producing a vibrant unnatural flame at the tip. Light of a muted red color emanated from it, and smoke rose into the air.

    One of the men smiled a crooked grin. "Let us have our taste of bliss, shall we?"

    "Brother, no!"

    But he was too late. The long pale fingers had snapped, and it was done.