The administrative office was a mausoleum of anguish and tension. Emma Scott sat perched on the edge of a chair, elbows on her knees, hands clasped too tightly together. She could feel the tension in her muscles, the kind that ached from being coiled too tightly for far too long, ready to spring but never quite given the chance. Across from her, Dorian stood by the window, his silhouette stark against the afternoon light that fought its way through the bars. Long, dusky beams sliced through dust motes, hanging like suspended breaths. His expression was carefully neutral, but Emma knew that beneath his calm exterior, something darker was brewing. She could sense it, like the zizz of electricity in the air before a storm.

The secretary, Portia Maxwell, flipped through papers, the mundane motions of her work an awkward contrast to the crackling energy in the room. The floral gown falling over her figure was an affront to the gloom—a riot of pink and purple, a small rebellion against the suffocating sorrow that hung in the air. Her usual cheerfulness had become a faint glimmer of light, struggling against the shadows of grief.

"Alright, this is the last one," Portia said, her voice wavering slightly as she slid documents across her desk toward Dorian and Emma. "Standard procedure after an incident like this," she explained when Emma's lip twisted in confusion. "Confidentiality agreement. I'll need both of your signatures. We can't let the death of a student reach the press."

Dorian took the papers with a distracted nod. "Of course, Porsh. We'll sign right now."

"Get it over with," agreed Emma. Her gaze drifted to the half-open door of the headteacher's office. The only sound was the muffled urgency of Miss Wilson's voice cracking into a telephone, a thread of desperation weaving through the fabric of her words. She was undoubtedly discussing the student's death, her words seeping into the quiet like poison, tainting the very air they breathed. Emma felt the chill of it, an icy hand closing around her throat.

Emma's eyes snapped back to Dorian. She watched him read over the agreement, his dark hair falling in a messy curtain across his forehead. Those pale blue eyes, cool and penetrating, seemed to cut through the room, holding a depth that could either pull someone in or freeze them out. He had changed into a black dress shirt for the memorial, the collar casually undone and the sleeves rolled up, revealing lean, muscled forearms that feathered with every movement, a strength tempered by control. There was an effortless, rugged allure to him, a paradox of refinement and raw edge. The square lines of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble along his chin, the way his tailored shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. She could not ignore the duality he embodied—a gentle protectiveness layered with a quiet intensity, a steely brooding aura that both repelled and fascinated her. But there were lines Emma could not cross, the shadow of a ring that should have been around her finger.

Right now, she just needed answers.

The silence stretched thin between them, taut as a wire. She finally broke it. "Dorian," she began, her voice low and steady, "why did you lie for that man?"

His face flickered with a hint of confusion before settling into a guarded neutrality. He frowned. "What man?"

Emma tightened her grip on her pen. She was not in the mood for games. Not today. The edge in her voice sharpened as she replied, "Don't play dumb."

At her tone, Portia's movements across the room slowed, her attention subtly shifting toward the exchange. She glanced up from her desk, her usual expression slipping into something more curious. Dorian sighed. For a moment, Emma thought he might not answer at all. His eyes flicked to Portia who quickly averted her own. He seemed to be weighing his thoughts, hesitation speaking louder than words as his gaze flickered between the two women in the room. Then, with reluctant breath, whispered, "He threatened me."

Portia gasped across the room. "You were threatened? By who, Pookie?"

Emma blinked at the nickname, and Dorian's posture tensed. It was clear he didn't want to have this conversation in front of her, but Emma didn't care. "What could he possibly have on you? For you to lie to the police," she pressed.

Dorian set the paperwork down in an empty chair beside him. He was trapped between Emma's relentless interrogation and Portia's silent curiosity. He shot a quick glance at Emma, his expression unreadable. He placed his hand on her shoulder, turned her away from Portia's prying eyes, and swallowed hard, his voice quieter now, almost fragile. "He said . . . if I didn't lie for him, he'd spread a rumor about me."

Emma's stomach twisted. Part of her knew what was coming next. Still, she gave him a look that said, Go on.

His eyes fell. "He said if I told anyone about his relationship with Berkshire—"

"I knew it."

"—then he would say that I had a relationship with Rayne."

Emma's world tilted on its axis. The room seemed to narrow, the air growing hot, more suffocating. She wanted to scream at him—hell, she wanted to draw her firearm and demand answers—but all she could manage was a quiet and strained, "Do you?"

Her voice was so small, so unlike her. It felt wrong, but she couldn't help it.

His head snapped up. "Of course not. What kind of question is that?"

"It's the kind of question that demands an answer, Dorian. You're not only on a first-name basis with her, but you ran off to meet some random woman—me—in the middle of nowhere all because I said she was in danger. Then Braiden says you're having weird dreams about her. And now, you're vouching for a man who sleeps with his students."

Portia shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the room, perhaps not entirely hearing, but clearly sensing the conversation had gone beyond something she should be privy to, and yet, she didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the two of them with a nearly flippant nosiness.

Dorian's jaw tightened, a flash of hurt flickering his eyes. "I am not that kind of man, Emma."

"Well, what kind of man are you then?" Emma shot back. "Because the picture that I'm starting to get here is pretty gray."

"Is it really?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur as he closed the distance between them. "These past few weeks have felt like a lifetime to me, Emma. And now, the only person I trust in all of this . . . doesn't trust me." He leaned in, his eyes reflecting a profound, almost melancholic sincerity. "Look me in the eyes and tell me—do you really think I'm that kind of man?"

Emma glanced at Portia, suddenly aware of her presence again, the intrusion of another person in this moment that felt so raw, the kind that unearthed a sort of teenage nervous flutter in her chest—the way he looked at her, the way he said her name. She shook her head. "Why does it matter what kind of man I think you are?"

"Because—" His voice faltered. He regained his composure and took a deep breath, steeling himself for a truth she hadn't been expecting. "Because for some reason . . ." His hand hovered near hers, just a hair's breadth away, as if he wanted to reach out but didn't dare. "I care what you think about me."

Emma looked up at him, the space between them charged with a thick, pensive tension. And then, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, Portia awkwardly cleared her throat. The sound shattered the fragile bubble that had formed around them, and Emma blinked, suddenly aware of how close Dorian was, how the room had shrunk to just the two of them. He pulled back his hand, running it through the hair at his nape.

Portia surveyed the interaction with an almost wistful look, her usual teasing edge softened only by the weight of recent events. "I should probably . . . give you two a moment."

Emma and Dorian both looked at her, and she gave them a small nod before gathering her papers and slipping out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving them alone in the thick, heavy silence that followed. The moment stretched into an eternity. Emma felt like she was standing on the edge of something vast and unknown, with no way of knowing which way she was going to fall.

In her pocket, her phone began to ring . . .

◢✥◣

The evening sky draped itself in a shroud of bruised purple and lingering orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. The memorial for Hillary sprawled across the soccer field was drawing to a close, a somber tableau of flickering candles and floral tributes. Bianca Hawthorne stood at the edge of the field, her heart a maelstrom of confusion and agony. The night air clung to her skin like a suffocating veil, as if the darkness itself sought to devour the bitter remnants of her shattered soul. Her recent ordeal left her feeling so exposed. Having regained control of her body, only to find herself utterly powerless, was a cruel irony she could barely endure. Every step she took toward Cole Bradford was a monumental effort, weighed down by the turmoil within.

Cole blinked slowly at her approach, his eyes as distant and detached as the twilight. Beside him, Rayne cast a brief, measured glance at Bianca, and the look provided her with a fleeting moment of clarity in the swirling chaos. Despite the undercurrent of their past friction, Bianca knew that any lingering resentment she might have harbored toward Rayne had dissipated. She wasn't quite sure how Rayne felt about her though.

"Bianca," Cole murmured. He looked at Rayne and nodded, as if to say, Can you give us a moment? Rayne understood, and seemed almost eager to withdraw. Whether that was to get away from Cole or Bianca, she wasn't so sure.

"Cole, I need your help," Bianca whispered.

"I've got nothing to say to you."

The ice in his voice was like a knife to her throat. Which only brought back memories of Hillary. Her final, anguished moments. What torment she must have endured. Oh, God! Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, their path traced by flickering candlelight. "Please," Bianca begged.

At first, her sorrow seemed to surprise him, but it was as if that surprise had swiftly enraged him. His face darkened. "Hillary killed herself with my knife, B. My knife. How could you let that happen?"

Bianca's tears turned into gut-wrenching sobs. "I know. I—I'm so sorry," she choked out, hiccupping for air.

"What were you thinking?" he demanded. And yet, he threw his arms around her and pulled her close with a force that bordered on bruising. His hand pressed against her cheek, holding it so close to his chest, she could hear his heartbeat in her skull. His voice became a tortured whisper. "Dammit, B, what were you thinking . . . ?"

"I'm so sorry," she uttered, her sobs muffled by the closeness of his embrace. Though he held her physically, emotionally, he seemed leagues away. Her apology fell into the abyss between them, swallowed by the rift that had grown ever since the eyeless girl began haunting her last year.

Bianca's mind was a whirlwind of revelations ever since she'd been freed from possession. When the body snatcher was in control, Bianca had learned so much about the eyeless girl. Her name was Nicole Livingston, and she had been trying to warn Bianca of the impending danger for months. The spirit had feared Cole because he resembled her killer. And of course he would—her killer was Cole's uncle, Elias Bradford. What Bianca had also learned, however, was that Nicole's haunting had actually made Bianca susceptible to her own possession, a cruel irony that weakened her resolve.

Yet no one—absolutely no one—had a greater resolve than Cole Bradford. His unwavering strength had once been the very thing she admired. And with that, Bianca's time with the body snatcher had come with another discovery: The eyeless girl could not have been more wrong about Cole Bradford. He was not the danger she needed to fear. He was the safetynet she needed to latch onto! The body snatcher longed for Cole with an insatiable hunger, but Cole's resolve was impenetrable. Nothing could break him. He was impervious to possession, and he didn't even know it. Bianca knew that this thing—whatever it was—needed to be destroyed, and if she had any chance of defeating it, she needed Cole Bradford.

He was the key to everything.

"I need you, Cole," she began softly.

How could she explain it to him? If only he would listen!

His anger flared like a dying ember, bright and fierce before something akin to compassion extinguished it. "I'm sorry for your loss, B," he said slowly, pulling away from her, "but this is the last time I ever wanna see you again. Please, stay out of my life."

As Cole left her standing alone at the edge of the memorial, Bianca's pleas turned into desperate echoes. "Cole! Please don't go!" The candlelight cast a spectral glow over her tear-streaked face, but her calls were blanketed by the vast, indifferent night. "Don't go," she whispered. The shadows of the memorial seemed to stretch and bend, mocking her with their silent witness to the death of her last hope.

Cole's retreating figure was a dark silhouette against the waning light. The night deepened. The stars blinked coldly above. Bianca wiped her eyes, trying to regain her composure. Her gaze wandered over the gathering of mourners until it landed on someone standing apart from the others: Red, the on-site psychiatrist. Dr. MacGowan.

He was staring . . . at her. No, glaring. His eyes, sharp behind wire-framed glasses, bore into her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. It was as though he could see right through her, as though he knew what had happened to her, and it terrified him. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, Bianca felt completely exposed, like he was dissecting her soul with his gaze. But then something changed. His stern expression softened into one of pity, and perhaps even shame, as though her skittishness evoked something in him he didn't want to face. He looked away, and she noticed a glass bottle in his hand. He raised it to his lips, the liquid glinting in the moonlight, and took a long, deliberate swig. With one final glance in her direction, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Bianca hugged herself tightly. Dr. MacGowan was supposed to be the one helping them cope with Hillary's death, yet here he was, drinking alone at the edge of the memorial, just as haunted as the rest of them. But Bianca needed someone. The truth of Hillary's death carried with it a weight that was too heavy to bear, the burden of knowing that she could do nothing to mend what had been so irrevocably broken.

Because there was one more thing Bianca had learned during her possession . . .

She had learned the truth about the shadow people.

◢✥◣

Later that evening, Rayne Foster's breath misted in the crisp air of the shack as she set a laptop on the rickety table in the corner. The building creaked and groaned. It had always been a relic of decay, but tonight, it felt more ominous than ever. By some quirk of fate, or sheer dumb luck, Pierce happened to have borrowed the laptop from Jackie just a few days prior, and tonight, they were finally about to view the long-buried footage.

Spencer and Pierce huddled around the table, their faces etched with apprehension. Lucas, having just finished starting a fire, joined them. Rayne could feel the tension in the air, coalescing around the room along with the shadow people. There was an entire crowd of faceless beings towering over them, their torsos rippling with a motion that seemed to mock human breathing. They stood taller these days, and their whispers grew louder—a grating drone that hummed in the deepest recesses of Rayne's ears.

"They're with us right now?" Pierce asked, referring to the shadow people.

Rayne nodded, then shot an irritated glance at Lucas. She was still fuming over the fact that he'd let Pierce in on their secret. Pierce, though confused by the strange events surrounding them, had developed a steadfast trust in the group, even if he couldn't quite grasp all of the details yet. Spencer, too, seemed unsettled. His boyfriend had been distant lately, a clear result of Spencer's relentless involvement in their investigations. The strain between them seemed to be at its peak with Spencer's decision to watch this tape tonight, too.

Suddenly, the laptop's screen flickered to life, casting an eerie pale light over their faces. The footage began with a darkened forest. At first, the forest floor appeared lifeless, until a dark figure walked into frame. His back was toward the lens, but the moonlight reflecting off the knife in his hand was unmistakable. Then, a young girl—Nicole Livingston—scurried into frame, looking over her shoulder, before she ran straight into him! Straight into the knife . . .

Rayne looked away as the scene became more gruesome, studying the collective tension of the others around her instead.

"He's taking her into the shack," Lucas said slowly, placing a hand over his chest.

Rayne chanced a glance at the screen once more, only to witness a different angle, as the footage had switched cameras. A figure—his actions hidden in shadow but unmistakably the same person from earlier—dragged Nicole up the wooden steps. A shiver ran through her. The familiar setting of the shack, with its broken windows and dilapidated structure, was too close to the present moment.

The drone of the shadows around them grew louder, just as Rayne noticed them on the screen. "There they are!" she said, pointing to the shadows that rushed the walls in a horde, surrounding the shack. Their demented limbs appeared to be slamming on the walls, begging to be let inside. "The shadow people."

"What? On the screen right now?" Pierce asked.

Lucas, Spencer, and Rayne all shared a look. Apparently, only those who could see the shadow people in real life could see them on the tape, too. Around them, the shadow people moved closer, closer, and closer. The only person who did not notice this was Pierce.

On the screen, the figure's actions were methodical, almost ritualistic, as he prepared the room. Their view of him was obscured, as they only saw a tiny peek into the shack from the rearward window. They saw Nicole's pale wrists, bit by rope, as the figure hoisted her up.

A chill swept the room. The group collectively glanced up at the old hook in the ceiling. The cold, unfeeling metal seemed to echo the brutal reality they were witnessing. The figure began dragging chalk all over the walls. As the camera captured the room through the grimy window, the figure's face finally came into view, and everyone gasped.

"Is that . . .?" Spencer began, pointing a trembling finger to the screen.

"Cole's uncle," finished Rayne, a bit too matter-of-factly.

"I was gonna say Cole," whispered Spence.

"It looks like Cole, but that's definitely his uncle," said Lucas, though his voice was strained. "Elias Bradford is the reason everyone's so afraid of Cole around here. Elias was known to be ruthless and cruel. Violent. But I had no idea he did . . . this."

Rayne could feel Lucas's eyes on her then, hurt and confusion clear even through the intensity of the moment.

"You knew?" he asked her.

"Of course not." Rayne's throat tightened. "Look at him. They're just obviously related."

"No," he breathed, his voice a mix of pain and disbelief. "You knew he had an uncle who went here. You knew his uncle killed her."

The room fell silent.

His unspoken question was a heavy burden on her shoulders: Why didn't you tell me?

"Uh, you guys," said Spencer, looking at the screen with horrified eyes.

As the footage continued, the camera captured strange symbols etched on the shack's walls and floor, their patterns eerily similar to the markings found on Hillary's door. The sight made everyone's skin crawl. 

The shadow people behind them seemed to grow taller, their presence a haunting reminder of the darkness that had been looming around them all along.