Hillary Berkshire's high heels chase the ticking clock of the corridor. Her golden ball gown appears tarnished in this realm, patches of corrosion eating away at the tulle to unveil a greenish underbelly. "Please, wait!" she cries, tears burning her cheeks.

In the distance, Vincent Davenport hurries around a corner. "I can't do this anymore," he says, and his voice echoes throughout the empty halls. The finality of his words hang over her, a cold breeze to a quivering flame. Hillary trembles.

Memories resurface. She recalls a time when her confidence and assertiveness, which had once been her armor, had become her undoing. She was the sassy daughter of a wealthy family, manipulated into a web of deceit by a cunning classmate. The scheme involved a romantic entanglement with an older executive, a competitor to her father's business, whom she was meant to blackmail. Unfortunately, their plans were discovered. Instead of elevating her status, the scandal led to her expulsion and placement in Maria J. Westwood, the reform school for America's elite. There, amid the privileged and the broken, she met Davenport, who became both her tormentor and the object of her ill-fated affection.

She had never meant to repeat a pattern.

But old habits die screaming . . .

Hillary sobs, trying to expel the memories, when suddenly, Bianca appears before her, eyes glowing with a green, preternatural glaze. She charges Hillary. There's a dagger, glinting in Bianca's hands. Panic seizes her, and Hillary staggers backward, raising her arms instinctively overhead. Why, Bianca? Why!? The corridor seems to ripple around her. Time, as she knows it, fractures, ripping her away from the danger and into a different moment, into another dimension.

When she opens her eyes, Hillary is no longer in the vast hallway. She is standing in the present. Her eyes survey the somber spectacle that is her own memorial. It is horrifying. Spread out across the Maria J. Westwood soccer field, she sees tearful eyes. Bianca, in particular, is on her hands and knees at the edge of the field, her body convulsing with sobs. Guilt radiates from her in oppressive waves, and Hillary longs to comfort her. It's not your fault.

She extends her hand, her arm passing through Bianca's shoulder, just as she whispers, "I'm here." But the words are swallowed by the void, lost in the chasm that separates the living from the dead. Forever unable to reach Bianca's ears.

Suddenly, the ground beneath Hillary gives way, and the soccer field vanishes. Hillary plummets back to the darkness of that awful, dreadful night. Her final moments replay, like a macabre film reel, each scene etching itself deeper into her spectral consciousness. The weight of those seconds—when life slipped from her grasp—clings to her, dragging her back, again and again and again, to that terrible night.

With the dagger held high above her, Bianca's eyes widen with horror, dropping its hilt as though it had scalded her. The electric green of her possessed irises fade, revealing the dark brown eyes that lay underneath—eyes which are now overflowing with tears. Bianca's cries grow louder as she turns to run, her footsteps echoing the hall like a death knell.

Confusion swarms Hillary, until . . . a cold invasion floods her bones.

Hillary is no longer herself.

She is a prisoner to her body, a marionette with strings pulled by something dark that twists her limbs against her will. It forces her hands to lift the dagger from the marbled flooring. Hillary wants to scream and cry, but her body smiles, pressing the blade against her skin. The terror is all-consuming, but she is too drained, too broken to fight back. Davenport had taken everything from her—youth, power, innocence, and now, life itself. Her scream is silent, trapped within her throat as the knife finds its mark, and then . . . nothing. 

◢✥◣

Rayne Foster stood on the outskirts of the soccer field, studying the expanse of black-clad figures gathered for Hillary's memorial like charred grassland after a wildfire. The once vibrant field had been transformed into a somber garden, adorned with darkly draped chairs and white lilies. The skies, painted in muted hues of late afternoon, cast a soft, mournful light across the horizon. A gentle breeze whooshed through the garnet leaves of the ancient oaks that stood in the corner of the field, but it did little to ease the heavy atmosphere.

Many of the students and their families had gathered in opulent formal attire, but the chatter seemed more focused on the collapse of the Berkshire empire than the tragic loss of Hillary. The mourners wore fifty shades of grief: women in sleek black dresses and men in dark suits, each lost in their own world of feigned sorrow and false pretense. Hillary was more like an afterthought amidst the rehearsed condolences. That is, until Lucas Abbott took the podium.

Clad in a navy black suit and obsidian tie, Lucas stared out across the field of mourners. His honeyed hues were weary and veined with crimson, his face lined with the strain of the day. Regardless, Rayne had to suppress an audible sigh at the sight. Having captured everyone's attention, he was undeniably the heir to the Abbott Foundation—a fact that Rayne just kept forgetting for some reason.

"I don't have much to say," he began, "but I wanted to share this poem with you all." He cleared his throat, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket. "I've walked with shadows, challenged Death's glare with rage-ripped skin, fingernails slicing clenched fists. But today, I wandered a blackened meadow, cursing the god who created this sin—who pushed us to the edge, saying 'Don't you dare leap from this cliff.' But my friend, you are not what you've done. The shadows have not won. For we are what we've lost, and we have lost . . . the sun. This time, the shadows . . . will run."

Rayne felt a presence behind her as something was draped over her shoulders.

She turned to find Cole standing close, his emerald eyes earnest beneath tousled hair. "Can't have you catching a cold now, can we?" he murmured, his voice a soft contrast to the solemn surroundings. His suit jacket was warm and comforting, the scent of his cologne faint but familiar. He rubbed her arms through the fabric, remorse in his touch. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

The apology surprised her. Next to them, David and Spencer stood, holding hands despite the publicness of the affair. Spencer's face was streaked with tears, his suit rumpled, his usually well-groomed hair now disheveled. He cried softly, shoulders shaking with every breath. David squeezed his hands three times.

Rayne blinked, trying to process Cole's words over the low hum of murmured conversations and the rustling breeze.

"Before you left the dance that night," he clarified, rolling his dress sleeves up to his elbows. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Rayne studied his face, searching for sincerity, and then, finding herself worried she might actually find it, looked away. "It's what we do," she said quietly. "We fight."

"I don't want to though," he said under his breath. "In fact, I'd really like to go back to the night we kissed."

"Even that kiss was a fight, Cole."

"Kiss?" a voice interrupted, sharp and curious. Rayne turned to see Jackie approaching, her black dress flowing behind her like an inky shadow in the lawn. Pierce, in a dark gray suit, trailed closely behind. Her eyes, red-rimmed and glistening with fresh tears, were wide with disbelief. "I thought you two weren't dating."

Overcome with shame, Rayne looked away yet again, her eyes seeking some sort of escape. Anything. Unfortunately, they found Lucas. Her throat instantly swelled with regret. He had been standing just a few feet away the entire time, his jacket hooked on his finger and slung over his shoulder. He had lost his tie and loosened the first several buttons of his pale blue dress shirt. His tanned chest was alluring, even in a suit vest. Their eye contact was fleeting, his discomfort notable as he averted his eyes. The realization that he was just now learning about that kiss for the first time too added to her unease. Her hand fell over her beating heart, pounding like a war drum in her chest.

"For the last time, we're not dating," she said, fixing her eyes to the field.

Cole's boldness cut through the air. "Are you interested in someone else?" he asked.

In. Front. Of. Everyone.

She wanted to scream, Someone just died! Would you leave me alone!?

Lucas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his face flush with something Rayne couldn't quite comprehend. Meanwhile, David's eyes darkened. And Pierce seemed to observe the interaction with a hawk-like intensity, his gaze flitting between Lucas, Cole, Rayne, and David.

Rayne sighed, feeling the weight of the moment press down on her. "We're at a funeral, Cole. That's inappropriate."

As the conversation simmered, Rayne's attention was drawn to a small cluster of figures standing nearby, their voices carrying a sharpness that countered the somber mood. Pierce and Cole's fathers were at the affair, chatting with two other men. Richard Harrington's voice, thick with ruthless calculation and cold satisfaction, sliced through the ambient murmur of heartache. "When I heard she died, I immediately shorted their stock—I mean, I just knew the man couldn't handle it," he said, referring to Hillary's father. He punctuated his words with a dismissive tap against Mr. Bradford's chest. "And we made thirty-mil that day, didn't we?"

Michael Bradford's response was nonchalant, as though the enormity of their gain was trivial. "Damn right, we did."

Jackie, having overheard the callous exchange, blanched with disgust. Until, revulsion swarmed her cheeks with a fuming, hot scarlet. "That son of a bitch!" she spat, lurching herself forward.

The visceral reaction stood out in the sea of subdued sorrow. Pierce's reflexes were sharp; he wrapped his arms around her waist, trying to cage her wild fury, but she turned toward him, pounding desperate fists against his chest. Pierce struggled to hold her. When Jackie's tears finally spilled over, a dam of grief ripped open within her, and his grip faltered. It was clear he had no clue how to engage with such raw, unfiltered sadness, so Pierce could do nothing but let her go and watch her collapse.

Rayne moved toward Jackie then, her own heart aching to console her. She placed a tentative hand on Jackie's shoulder. Jackie's reaction was swift and violent still. With a fierce shrug, she dislodged Rayne's hand. Their eyes met for a moment, a moment that revealed to Rayne that whatever connection they'd had . . . died the night that Rayne found Hillary's body.

And the damage was irreparable.

Jackie hoisted herself to her feet and stormed off with a determined stride. Pierce called out to her, "Jackie, wait!" but when she made no move to turn around, Pierce shifted his anger toward Cole. He rushed him, face flush. "Dammit, Cole, this is all your fault!"

Rayne half-expected Cole to become defensive. Instead, his usual bravado was replaced with an unexpected display of vulnerability. "I should have never given Bianca that knife."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Pierce snapped. "Your father is in my dad's head! He's always in his head. And now, Jackie thinks I'm just like him. Like I'm just like you."

Cole stood silent. How long had that hurt been festering under the surface of Pierce's quiet exterior? Like a landmine, lying in wake, waiting to detonate beneath just the right footfall? Lucas ambled toward Pierce, his expression cloudy and guarded. Rayne wondered what lay hidden beneath his stoicism—sorrow, failure, shame, or perhaps, something that looked painfully like betrayal? He moved toward the heated exchange with a heavy resolve.

"That's enough, Pierce," said Lucas, his voice steady but edged with the authority of someone who had already endured too much today. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from Cole. "Come on, man. Walk it off."

Pierce hesitated, his anger still boiling, but something in Luke's demeanor made him relent. With a final seething glance at Cole, he allowed Lucas to steer him away. As they neared the edge of the field, Lucas met Cole's eyes, a silent exchange passing between them. It wasn't gratitude—that much, Rayne could tell—but perhaps it was something akin to it, a reluctant acknowledgment that Lucas had improved the situation somehow? But there was also a shift, a palpable tension that hadn't been there before, something unspoken and undefined hanging in the air between them.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves overhead, and Rayne felt her blood run cold. A shower of leaves fell from the sky. One single red leaf drifted toward her on a melancholic breeze. Rayne caught it in her palm. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was the end of everything. Something had shifted—not just between her and Jackie, or even Cole and Lucas—but something within the delicate balance of their entire world as they know it. Rayne closed her fist, the leaf crackling in her hands, and sprinkled its remains to the field below.

◢✥◣

Deputy Malik Thompson sat behind his cluttered desk, a grim expression etched into his gritted jaw as he flipped through a file folder. The desk lamp's harsh light cast long shadows along the walls, amplifying the circles underneath his eyes. The quiet of the County Sheriff's office was punctuated only by the occasional creak of his chair as he leaned forward, scrutinizing the documents before him. His baggy khakis were tucked into rugged combat boots, and he'd slipped his arms out of his short-sleeve shirt, which was still tucked into his pants, unbuttoned and draped loosely over his waist. Underneath, a white tank top clung to his flexed muscles.

Malik had never wanted to be a man of the law. It was his uncle, Sheriff Terrence Williams, who had nudged him into this career, pushing him to follow the family tradition. Malik had resisted this calling, preferring to avoid the weight of responsibility. But now, two months into his transfer to his uncle's precinct, he sat surrounded by scattered files and photographs, and Malik felt the weight of his uncle's legacy now more than ever. He was meant to work this case.

His desk was strewn with various files and photographs, but his focus was on a particular set of papers—records of Hillary Berkshire's last days, her interactions with Davenport. His brow furrowed as he reviewed the notes from his interview with Matthews, the pieces of the puzzle refusing to align. Malik picked up a still-frame from the video footage that revealed the victim's final moments. She ended her own life. Yet something in her body language set off an alarm in his mind. He placed the photo back on the desk with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

"Something's not adding up," he muttered to himself.

He picked up another file, one containing records of Dorian Matthews' recent activities. Meetings with the headmaster, sudden changes in his schedule—it all seemed too deliberate. His finger's brushed over another memo that had been buried among documents related to the institution—an unsigned offer letter addressed to Matthews to join the Board of Education; a note hinting at large sums of money being funneled to key individuals at the school; and one other document, a document that—

A shadow fell over Malik's desk. Chief Deputy Roy Parker stepped into the room. His expression was inscrutable, but Malik could sense an underlying tension.

"Everythin' alright, Deputy?" asked Roy, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You're really burnin' the midnight oil on this one, huh?"

Roy, a weathered figure with decades of experience etched into his face, presented a facade of tradition and authority. Yet Malik never could shake the feeling that beneath Roy's veteran exterior lay something darker.

Malik met Roy's pointed stare. "Just going over some details."

"Think you're readin' too much into it, kid."

Malik narrowed his eyes, a flicker of intuition igniting in his chest. "Maybe," he said carefully. "But if there's one thing I learned from my uncle, it's that a real lawman follows his hunches."

Roy's eyes shifted momentarily, a shadow crossing them. "You oughta be careful, son. Sometimes it's best to let sleepin' dogs lie. Don't you forget that now."

As Roy walked away, Malik's gaze lingered on the door, the unspoken warning clear. Malik knew the school had influence, and sometimes, influence could reach places it never should. He turned back to his desk, determination setting in. Whatever was happening, he was going to find out. As he continued to sift through the files, his sense of unease grew stronger. The deeper he dug, the more cases he found connected to Maria J. Westwood, dating back decades. And though the evidence was still fragmentary, he stumbled upon records of account transfers . . . in his uncle's name—Sheriff Terrence Williams.

◢✥◣

The hallways of the girls' dormitory were quiet, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights doing little to dispel the uncanny stillness that gripped its walls. Lucas Abbott led the way, his footsteps resounding loudly off the barren corridor walls, especially since most of the students were still at the memorial service, leaving the building destitute. Pierce trailed behind him, his usual swagger replaced by an agitated restlessness.

"I'm furious," Pierce muttered, clenching his fists at his sides.

"I get it," Lucas replied, and he really meant that. His eyes flickered toward Pierce briefly before returning to the dimly lit passageway. He kept his hands in his pockets but found it hard to keep his breath. Over and over again, his mind kept conjuring some imagined scenario of Rayne and Cole entangled in a fervent kiss, Cole's greedy hands roaming her body. The thought gnawed at him, sharp as a splinter lodged deep within his ribs. He had always known that Cole liked her—hell, it would've been obvious to anyone with half a brain. But Rayne? He never thought she felt the same.

As Lucas walked, his hand drifted to his neck, fingers tracing the place where Rayne's lips had lingered on homecoming night. She didn't remember this, of course—she couldn't have. She'd been asleep when it happened. But the memory wouldn't leave him; it was vivid and uninvited, rising up at the worst moments.

That night had been a descent into chaos—a dance with Rayne, the warmth of her against him, exposed to the world, followed by a confrontation with Cole, an interrogation of his feelings. The nightmare of losing Hillary . . . The image of Rayne, drenched in blood and clutching the knife, burned into his mind. Eventually, the evening came to a close with a flood of relief when the police finally cleared Rayne's name. As always, they found themselves back in that shack, on the small green sofa that had become their refuge. Rayne's cheeks were sticky with dried tears, her hands still crusted with the remnants of the night's horrors. The silence between them had been profound, but there was a fragile solace in their closeness, even as shadow people loomed over them.

Lucas could still feel how her fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt, a silent plea for comfort that spoke louder than words. He had held her close, feeling her tension slowly melt away as sleep overtook her. At some point, she had shifted closer, the soft caress of her lips pressing into the groove of his neck. A heartbeat—his or hers, he couldn't tell—drummed loudly in the quiet, a pulse of raw vulnerability that seemed to thump hotly in the space between her cheek and his shoulder.

The memory faded as Lucas forced his attention back to the present, to the corridor that stretched ahead of them. He couldn't understand his rage. Cole had been his best friend for years, and Rayne . . . Rayne was just someone he watched out for. Someone he was responsible for. Someone he shared a sanctuary with from the shadows. Or at least, that was what he kept telling himself. He had no reason to care about who Rayne kissed, who she liked, who she spent her time with—whether it was Cole or even Mr. Matthews. Why should he care?

He clenched his jaw, forcefully kneading his neck before stuffing his hand in his pocket. He couldn't afford to be distracted, not now. There were more important things to focus on. The growing list of unsettling coincidences were starting to feel less like coincidences and more like a pattern. But even as he forced his mind back to the present, the bitterness lingered.

"Let's just walk," Lucas said softly. "Breathe a little."

"Fine." Pierce exhaled as they continued traversing the girls' dorms. "Wanna tell me what's going on with you and Cole?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Pierce wasn't having it. "I'm serious."

"It's nothing," Lucas whispered. "We've all been through a lot this week."

"If you like her, you're gonna have to tell him eventually."

"It's not like that," Lucas replied, but even to his own ears, the denial sounded hollow. The groove along his neck felt hot.

"I don't believe you. I've seen the way you look at her." Pierce paused, the gravity of his words finding their mark. "You're keeping a lot of secrets these days, Luke."

Lucas felt a pang of guilt twist his chest, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on the task at hand. His eyes scanned the halls as they continued, the wooden doors seeming to loom over them, each one identical except for small nameplates and the occasional personal decoration. Eventually, they reached Hillary's door. Lucas stopped abruptly, his breath catching in his throat. This is what he'd been looking for all along.

Intricate markings were etched onto the surface of Hillary's dorm room door, strange and foreboding. The patterns twisted and curled in a way that seemed eerily familiar. A cold dread settled in his gut.

Pierce noticed his reaction and followed his sightline. "Is that . . . ?"

Lucas stepped closer, his hand reaching out almost instinctively to trace the markings with his fingertips. At the center of the swirling lines was a sigil—a double-barred cross resting atop the number eight, which had been knocked onto its side: the symbol for infinity. It was a strange, twisted version of a religious icon, but the infinity sign beneath it created an unsettling sense of endlessness. As if this nightmare was destined to be everlasting. The wood felt freezing beneath his touch, the grooves sending a shiver down his spine.

He had seen them before.

"Just like Olivia," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

A heavy silence fell over them. Lucas's mind raced, memories of the past year flooding back with sickening clarity. He could still see Olivia's door, marked in that same exact way, just days before he found her lifeless body. His stomach churned.

"I have to go," he said abruptly, pulling his hand away from the door and turning to leave. The urge to escape, to find answers, gripped him with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

But Pierce wasn't about to let him off that easily. He grabbed Lucas by his forearm, squeezing threateningly and forcing him to stop and face him. "What are you up to?" Pierce demanded. "First the security footage. Then Rayne. Now this."

"It's complicated."

"Lucas," Pierce began, his tone softening, but no less insistent. "I have never doubted your character, man. Ever. If there is one thing you can trust, it's that I will always have your back." He paused, searching Lucas's eyes. "So tell me, what's going on? What's gotten between you and Cole? What did you need the DVD for?"

Lucas hesitated, the weight of the truth too heavy a burden to bear alone. But he knew that once he'd spoken the words, there would be no turning back. The markings on the door, the memories of Olivia, and the creeping suspicion that Hillary's suicide was not . . . a suicide.

"I'm not sure you'll believe me," he finally whispered.

Pierce's grip on his arm tightened. "Try me."