Rayne stands barefoot in the front yard of her childhood home, though something about it feels different now. A memory stitched together from fading dreams. The front steps are the same—drenched in an eternal dripping of beige, paint splattered on too thick by tiny hands. She and her sister had helped her father paint them once. The color seems haunted now, drained of life throughout the years. The pebble path leading up to the porch is familiar too, but it's also all wrong. Weeds choke it, curling through the cracks like grasping hands, and the grass around it lies in brittle, jaundiced clumps.

Each step feels like wading through molasses. As Rayne walks, she feels the same dip in the second step that had always managed to capture her foot since she was five years old. The wood groans beneath her, a soft yet tortured sound.

Something's wrong, her mind whispers, and the thought lingers like a distant echo, trembling in the corners of her consciousness. She pushes open the door. The hinges creak with the touch, and for a moment, the world fractures. Her vision blurs. Yes, this is her childhood home, however, it feels entirely different now. The air hums with different memories now—newer ones—just at the tip of her tongue. Flashes swarm her mind beneath closed eyelids—bodies intertwined in the kitchen, shadows draped in moonlight. Her heart lurches in her chest, but as soon as the vision appears, it vanishes, leaving only a vague sense of mourning behind. Like something lost.

The room before her distorts, like a poorly developed photograph—colors bleeding into one another, the edges soft and blurry. Rayne blinks, struggling to grasp her surroundings. The wallpaper, once a soft floral print, now shimmers with a sickly hue, and outside, the sky crackles with green lightning, a sinister glow creeping through the clouds. The light filters through translucent curtains, casting long shadows that twitch and stretch along the floor.

She eyes them for a moment too long. Fingers emerge from the blackness.

Rayne's breaths are shallow now, her body sluggish, all while time feels like an entity surging all around her and through her veins. She counts each slow breath, acutely aware of time speeding up and shifting in the air. Rayne tries to call out, but her voice is a faint whisper.

Then she hears it—a voice, familiar but distant, calling her name.

"Rayne."

Her heart falters. Slowly, she turns toward the sound, and down the hall, by the window, stands a figure. His face is shrouded in shadow, but his eyes—those piercing, haunted blue eyes—glow with a light her bones know all too well.

Daniel.

It can't be. It has been months since she last dreamt of him, and yet, here he stands, calling out to her. He looks so much like Mr. Matthews, and yet, her heart beats a little quicker, taking in their differences. Daniel is unaged. Youthful. Scarred. Rayne begins to feel a different sense of déjà vu; a memory tugs at her, faint and elusive, as though this moment has happened before, just beyond the grasp of her waking mind. She has been waiting for this, to be able to see him again, to finally speak to him! But now that he's here, something holds her back.

Her lips part, but her voice barely rises above a whisper. "Daniel?"

His name feels strange on her tongue, like a forgotten melody, and the sound of it reverberates through the room, weighing heavy on her heart. The energy shifts, a dark current sweeping through her, pulling her toward him. At the same time, an undercurrent of dread stirs beneath her skin. Something isn't right. Rayne can feel it—a tension in the air, a pressure building at the edges of her awareness.

He steps forward, but the movement is slow, as though time itself stretches around him. Those pale blue eyes catch the strange viridian light, reflecting the storm just beyond the windowpane. An emerald bolt flashes through the glass, splitting the horizon. It casts a ghastly glow over his scarred face, and his features twist, momentarily grotesque—a broken mirror of her homeroom teacher.

Rayne's pulse quickens, panic swelling her breast.

"Rayne," he whispers, but his voice is fractured, splintering into a dozen droning echoes. His lips fall open, mangled and malformed, and Rayne longs to run away, but her limbs are leaden—as though an invisible force grips her chin, forcing her to watch. Along the walls, torsos emerge from the shadows, crawling and writhing like living things. Her eyes dart around frantically, for anything that could help her move, but her gaze falls over a small figure standing in the doorway.

Effie.

Her baby sister looks so much younger now—just as Rayne remembered her appearing back when she was just eight years old. Effie's eyes are wide, glistening with fear as she clutches a teddy bear to her chest. Rayne tries to shout for her, but her voice comes out strangled. Then, Effie's face begins to shift, her features melting, brown coils straightening out until they're slick and shiny—until, she's no longer Effie at all.

"L-Lainey?" Rayne's voice trembles.

Cole's little sister, Lainey, looks up at her, a small hand reaching out and pressing flat against the wallpaper. "Touch shapes the storm," she whispers, her voice like a breath of wind. "Beyond the veil."

The pressure in the room swells, suffocating her. Daniel's eyes flash with a dangerous emerald light, the color swirling his irises. Her heart thumps raucously, something dark and terrible—something inhuman—lurking just beyond her vision, tugging at her consciousness.

"Daniel!" she calls out, but her voice is swallowed by the storm blowing against the walls outside. His figure seems to warp and stretch, becoming both closer and more distant at the same time. Suddenly, a searing pain lances through her head, and Rayne stumbles. Another crack of green lightning flares the horizon, contorting the shadows in the room. They writhe, crawling toward her, their forms shifting, growing monstrous.

Daniel's words are a garbled mess. "The shadows—"

His sentence is lost in a thunderous crack, a viridescent flash blinding her momentarily. When her vision clears, Daniel is gone. The shadow people claim the room. Lainey's soft whimpers sound in her ears—no, Effie's—but Rayne cannot find her now. The shadows are too thick now, suffocating her, pressing in from all sides.

And then, in a final blinding flash of green, everything is gone. Time and space fray at the edges, slipping away from her grasp. The room around her crumbles, swallowed by the shadows. Rayne's outstretched hands meet cold emptiness. The truth—whatever it is—slips from her grasp as the darkness devours everything. The last thing she sees before the house falls away is Daniel's eyes, glowing like distant stars in the night.

Then, silence. Cold, consuming silence.

◢✥◣

Rayne's eyes fluttered open, the afternoon sunlight hesitant in its warmth. Her mind was hazy, caught in that foggy space between sleep and wakefulness, where memories lurked just beyond reach. Something was wrong—something she couldn't remember. What was it? A dream? The sun, now a timid visitor, crept along tangled bedsheets, painting them in uneven patches of gold and shadow. Her room was a haven of stillness, but her thoughts swirled with fragmented nightmares.

Then, it hit her: Class.

Rayne stumbled out of bed, her limbs heavy with sleep, and gathered her uniform without even thinking. She had already missed most of her morning classes, but thankfully, the teachers had been more lenient in the days since homecoming. Sharp gazes had softened, words of discipline replaced with quiet nods—a collective mourning among both students and faculty. The halls were quiet, swelling like the breath before a sob. Hillary's death cast a heavy pall over Maria J. Westwood.

As Rayne slunk into her afternoon science class, her late entrance did not go unnoticed.

Whispers rose in waves, soft but insistent, a symphony of speculation and curiosity wrapping around her. Eyes darted toward her, a synergistic gaze that felt like needles prickling her skin. She took her seat at the back, cheeks burning as the murmurs continued.

Her fingers curled tightly around the desk as it dawned on her.

They knew.

The rumor had already spread—like something alive, with claws, tearing into every corner of the school. The moment Rayne had dreaded, the one she had hoped to avoid, was now staring her down with venom in its eyes. She barely heard the whispers that flitted about the room, but she saw those looks. And it wasn't just gossip; it was wildfire.

Late last night, security guards had found her and Lucas—alone, together—in that shack in the middle of the woods. Their sanctuary had been exposed. Cole's sanctuary. No, no, no. Rayne felt her heartbeat pounding through her veins. It was like watching a nightmare unfold.

A group of students gathered at the windows, their heads bent close, exchanging heated whispers. Reluctantly, Rayne followed them too, squinting against the sunlight that streamed through the glass. Her heart sank.

Lucas and Cole.

They were locked in a fierce struggle around the old greystone fountain, its frigid waters glittering under the harsh afternoon sun. Lucas crashed to the ground, gravel scraping his back as his white dress shirt became untucked, smeared with dirt and blood. Cole straddled him, fists raining down in an unrelenting storm. The dull thud of flesh meeting bone echoed throughout the courtyard, each blow reverberating in Rayne's chest. He wasn't even fighting back.

Why wasn't he fighting back?

A slow horror overtook her as she watched Lucas simply take it—every hit, every savage blow. Each beat of her heart drowned in a flood of adrenaline. Without thinking, Rayne bolted from the classroom, her footfalls a frantic drumbeat against the marbled floor. The corridors blurred around her. When she rushed down the stairs and burst into the courtyard, the air felt too cold, too sharp against her skin.

Cole's fists were still falling over the broken canvas of red and white that was Lucas's face, blood streaming from his nose, pooling in the hollow of his lips.

"Cole, stop!" she screamed, voice cracking as she scrambled toward them. "Stop it! Get off him! What's wrong with you?"

Cole froze, his fist raised in the air. His head snapped up, eyes wild and burning with a rage she'd never seen before. His chest heaved as he slowly rose to his feet, wiping a thin trail of blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "What's wrong with me?" he spat, stepping over Lucas's body and stalking toward her. "What's wrong with you?"

Rayne's breath caught in her throat. What was she supposed to say? That it didn't mean anything? That she hadn't betrayed him, not really? Even she wasn't sure that was true anymore. Last night had changed everything.

Her gaze flitted to Lucas, blood streaming from his nose and a gash above his left eyebrow. His hair, usually golden in the sun, was matted with dirt, clinging to his forehead. She could still see it so clearly: the flicker of firelight, the jealousy that smoldered his amber eyes, the way his gaze lingered when she slipped slowly out of Cole's jacket, the way his breath kissed her lips when their faces hovered just inches apart.

Slowly, Lucas sat upright, spitting a thick, mouthful of blood onto the gravel. The sight—an abstract splatter of crimson on silver—seemed almost surreal. His bruised lips parted slightly, his eyes dull with exhaustion but still holding that same quiet intensity she felt the night before. Even now, beaten and bleeding, Lucas seemed to wait for her to say something. Unlike Cole, there was no pressure from him. Only patience.

She faced Cole, her voice tight. "Cole—"

"I took care of you!" Cole spat, his voice buckling under the pain. His clenched fist shot up, as if he was going to strike her, but he stopped, inches from her face, his breath hot against her skin. "I trusted you. And this is what you do? Sneaking around with him? My best friend. In my sanctuary? I showed you that place because I—"

"Because what, Cole?" Rayne cut in, a coolness creeping into her tone. "Because you wanted me? You are not entitled to any part of me, just because you want it. Showing me that place, spending time with me, that was all your choice, Cole. Believe it or not, I don't owe you anything."

His shoulders fell, as though the betrayal had replaced his blood with a leaden equivalent, something heavy that drained him of all his strength. The rage in his eyes dimmed, leaving behind something more hollow, aching.

"You're a bitch, you know that?" he whispered, his voice raw, as if each word had been dredged from the darkest depths of his soul. "You lied to me. You both . . . lied to me. The things I've told you . . ."

Her voice softened. "Don't be stupid. I've shared things with you too, Cole. You know I care about you."

"Bullshit." He shook his head, fists tightening at his sides. "You don't do this to someone you care about." He turned, his whole body trembling with unspent rage. He let out a guttural cry, and with a sharp swing, slammed his fist into the nearest tree. The bark shredded his skin, blood pouring through ripped knuckles. He shook the hand as if it could shake away the pain, and without another word, ambled toward the South Hall, leaving behind a trail of red droplets in his wake.

Rayne stood, the world feeling too quiet all of the sudden. The courtyard was eerily calm, nothing but the gentle trickle of the fountain dripping behind them to break the silence. Her gaze returned to Lucas, who struggled to his feet, scarlet streaming down his nose, pooling at his lips, and dripping from his chin. She rushed to him, ripping the inside pocket from her blazer and pressing it to his nose to slow the bleeding. Now that the confrontation had ended, her fingers trembled as she held the fabric to his face, heart aching at the sight of him.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of the fountain, which seemed to mock them with its serene splashing.

Lucas winced, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "I'm fine."

But Rayne could see the truth written in the sag of his shoulders. He took the fabric and wiped his face, smearing the crimson across his chin before pressing it to his nose again. When he looked at her, something softened in those honey-amber eyes—a moment of warmth in the midst of this chaos. He rolled his shoulders back, as if shrugging off the weight of his self-imposed penance. Then, without a word, and in front of the entire school, he cupped her face in his hands. His touch was soft, despite the blood smeared across his skin. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"We're going to be okay," he whispered, pulling her into his arms.

The murmur of the crowd, the whispers of judgment, the echoes of Cole's rage—all seemed to fall away. The courtyard, once a battleground, now felt distant, like a forgotten dream.

Touch shapes the storm, Rayne thought suddenly, though she had no clue what it meant or where it had come from.

Rayne focused on Lucas, the feel of his warm embrace, the quiet promise of his words. She took his hand, leading him inside, away from the shadows that crowded the windows to stare.

Everything had changed.

But at least, for now, they had each other.

◢✥◣

Emma Scott paced her small motel room. Outside, the wind howled like a distant, wounded animal, rattling the single-pane window that did little to keep out the cold. Her suitcase, already packed and zipped tight, sat like an accusatory ghost beside the door, a silent reminder of the escape she should have made by now.

Leaving was the logical choice—Dorian had insisted on it—but every time she reached for the handle, something held her back. The tangled web of thoughts in her mind felt as suffocating as the room itself. She saw her boys, waiting for her at home, their innocent faces unburdened by the darkness she carried. Her husband, whose absence now felt like a gaping wound, a void that had grown far too wide to bridge. And then there was Dorian—his lips brushing her cheek, a simple gesture laced with so much complexity.

But it was Rayne who anchored her here, the girl's fate intertwined with shadows. The demon, the murders—everything spiraled around Rayne like a vortex, dragging Emma deeper into a world she had no desire to understand, yet could no longer ignore.

A knock jolted her from her thoughts. The sound was firm, measured, echoing through the room with a weight that made her heart stutter. Emma hesitated, then crossed the room, her breath shallow as she peered through the peephole.

Standing on the other side of the door was Deputy Malik Thompson, his broad frame filling the narrow corridor. He exuded a calm yet commanding presence, his muscular build and tailored jacket giving him an air of unshakable authority. His dark eyes, intense and penetrating, seemed to miss nothing. A black shirt hugged his chest, and his strong jaw was set in a serious expression, though there was a glimmer of something softer in his gaze.

Emma opened the door slowly, her heart pounding a little faster. "Deputy Thompson," she greeted him with a tight smile. "I wasn't expecting a visit."

Malik gave her a brief nod, stepping into the room with a fluid grace that belied his size. "Miss Scott," he replied, his voice deep and resonant, with just a hint of concern underlying his professionalism. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all," Emma lied. The truth was, she had been looking for a reason to stay a little longer. "What brings you here? I thought the Berkshire case was all wrapped up."

Malik's eyes scanned the room, taking in the packed suitcase, the disarray of her bedsheets. "It is," he said, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in his shirt. "But we found another body this morning."

"Another?" Panic edged her voice. "Don't tell me it was—"

Malik shook his head, cutting her off gently. "Rayne is fine. It was one of the faculty," he assured her, pausing to take note of the way her hand unconsciously reached for her cheek. "Monica Shaw. The onsite psychiatrist."

Emma's face blanched when she realized she felt relief, an unsettling feeling in the face of such horrifying news. She gestured for the deputy to take a seat on the mattress, while she took the chair opposite. "How did it happen?"

Malik settled onto the edge of the bed, his posture deceptively relaxed, the sharpness in his eyes never dulled. "They're calling it a suicide."

Emma raised her brow. "Sounds like you have doubts?"

Malik leaned forward, clasping his hands. "Tell me what you know about Rayne Foster."

Emma shook her head. "Absolutely not. You can't possibly think she's involved."

"I'm just doing my job, Miss Scott." His gaze flicked to the suitcase. "You leaving town?"

"I've been here too long," she admitted, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Why is that?" Malik pressed, his studious gaze never leaving hers.

"Rayne needed me."

Malik tilted his head, the gesture small but telling. "See, the thing is, I checked the school logs. Rayne hasn't had any visitors since the Legacy Gathering." He let the statement hang in the air, a tactic she was very familiar with, before adding, "And that was a few weeks ago. Which means, you didn't even visit her after she found that poor girl's body. So, what have you been up to here in town?"

"Deputy—"

"You and Matthews," he interrupted smoothly, "seem close."

Emma scoffed. "Alright, deputy, am I free to leave? Or do you need to take me down to the station?"

Malik didn't blink, his eyes holding hers with an unnerving intensity, as though he could see right through her. "No need," he said finally, his voice softening just enough. He stood from the mattress, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a card. "If you hear anything—or see anything—that doesn't sit right, you call me. Directly."

Emma turned the card over in her fingers, mind racing. "Why not your office?"

"Trust isn't something I give lightly." Before Emma could ask him why he didn't have trust in his own department, the deputy continued, "Look, that Matthews guy—I'm sure you already know this, but on the off-chance that you didn't . . . . . He was definitely lying about Davenport and Berkshire. Just keep that in mind."

Emma's grip on the card tightened. "Thank you, Deputy, but I can assure you, he's a good man."

Malik hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the tan-line over her ring finger. "Sure." His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if weighing her words. "I've learned not to take anything at face value, Miss Scott. You should too. Keep your eyes open."

"Understood," she said, her voice steady. She opened the door for him, and after he crossed the threshold, she called out for him. "And Deputy?"

Malik turned around, his movement deliberate and controlled.

"You might want to keep your mind open, too," she said, loudly over the roar of the wind. "To things beyond the ordinary. After all, that school—it's no ordinary place."

The deputy's gaze darkened slightly, his expression unreadable as he nodded once before walking toward his cruiser. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Emma alone in the dim room, her bag still packed and her mind a whirlwind of doubts.

◢✥◣

The empty shower room echoed with the faint drip of water, its cold tiles a stark contrast to the heat coursing through Rayne's body. She dipped a washcloth into the lukewarm sink, wringing it out until it was only damp, then gently wiped Lucas's blood-streaked brow. He was seated on a small bench beside the windows. She stood over him, feeling his breathing hitch when she pressed the cloth against the gash, his jaw tight, every breath a battle against the sting.

"Why didn't you fight back?" she asked quietly.

Lucas fixed his gaze on the sink. "I deserved it."

Rayne paused, her hand hovering. "That's stupid. Look at you." The words just tumbled out of her. She shook her head, wringing out the cloth with a little too much force. The water ran pink as it swirled down the drain. "You didn't deserve it. We didn't do anything wrong."

"We would have." His voice was soft, but his words were anything but.

The dim light from the window cast a soft glow over his face, accentuating the curve of his lips. A loose strand of sandy hair fell across his forehead, and his golden eyes darkened with a quiet, aching regret. Rayne stood between his spread legs, his hands resting loosely on his knees, fingers twitching. He glanced up at her, unspoken words lingering between parted lips. Even in his injured state, there was something undeniably powerful about the way he stayed there, searching her eyes with a palpable need. Sharply, she inhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Images from the night before flooded her mind: the breath before the kiss that never happened, the way his hand held her face, and even the gentle kiss he'd placed on her forehead barely fifteen minutes ago—it all felt like a lifetime away. A warmth began to pool low in her stomach, but she avoided his eyes, moistening the cloth again and continuing to cleanse the blood from his skin.

"Neither of us knew . . ." Her voice faltered, her hand pausing mid-motion. ". . . this was going to happen."

Whatever this was . . .

"I was hoping," he whispered.

His hand wrapped around hers, gently pressing the cloth to his cheek. Rayne glanced down at him, surprised by the touch, and his eyes searched hers. "I don't think I ever wanted to admit it," he murmured, "but the day after we found out we weren't alone anymore, you . . . Rayne, you ran up to me with that smile on your face—"

"Stop talking," she said with shaky breath. She slipped her hand from his and threw the cloth into the sink.

Her pulse raced, every nerve alight. If he kept talking, she had this sneaky suspicion she was going to start agreeing with him and feeling guilty, too. And that terrified her more than the truth she'd been hiding from herself. How many times had she lied to Cole? Outright manipulated him just to get what she wanted?

Before she could step away, his fingers curled under her chin, pulling her eyes back to him. "Rayne," Lucas whispered, his thumb gently tracing her bottom lip. Her skin pebbled at the touch. His golden irises flickered up to hers, so warm, so inviting, so comforting—like sipping hot chocolate under the covers on a cool wintry morning. They dropped to Rayne's lips, lingering for a moment too long, and then drifted back to her eyes.

Before she even could breathe his name, Lucas closed his eyes and stood, his lips crashing into hers with a kiss so impassioned, she nearly fell backward.

It was exhilarating—a fierce blend of yearning and tenderness that nearly consumed her. Lucas's arms slid around her waist to steady her, pulling her closer, and she let herself be swept into the storm of him. Her fingers tangled instinctively in his sandy curls, tugging at the blood-streaked collar of his shirt. The sensations came in waves, crashing through her—the firm press of his chest against hers, the lick of iron mingling with something sweeter on her tongue, the way his hands roamed her sides, tentative but hungry. His touch brought forth visions—flashes of the two of them intertwined, sharing stolen nights, her laughter bright in the darkness. She had no idea he'd felt so strongly toward her. How many times had they touched, and somehow, he had shielded this from her? Shielded these feelings from himself?

Rayne surrendered, melting into his arms as he lifted her with ease and placed her on the edge of the sink behind them. His body pressed firmly against her, settling between her parted legs, and their lips met again, harder this time—feverishly, raw and urgent. He kissed her as if he had waited his whole life for this moment, as if every unspoken desire and stolen moment had ignited in the heat of their kiss.

Her breathing hitched when he pulled back, both of them panting, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Her heart raced her lungs, beating faster than she could catch her breath. His lips hovered over hers, brushing them softly with each ragged inhale—a messy peck here, a soft nibble there—until eventually, his forehead fell to rest against hers. For a moment, they stayed like that, foreheads touching, breathless, suspended in a shared rhythm—neither wanting to move, as if they could hold onto this fleeting, primal connection forever.

Then, just as he leaned in for more—

"Lucas." Pierce's voice cut through the haze as he knocked and cracked the door.

Lucas pulled back, his expression hardening instantly as the moment shattered. He looked down, his jaw tightening as he wiped his lip with his thumb. "Yeah?" His voice was rough, probably moreso than he'd intended, the word thrown gruffly towards the door.

Pierce slipped into the room, and Rayne hopped off the sink with flushed cheeks, willing her racing heart to slow as she avoided their eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt, man," Pierce said quietly. "But there's something you need to see."

◢✥◣

Tensions ran high as Lucas Abbott followed Pierce through the narrow halls of the boys' dormitory. Rayne's hand was light in his, her steps hesitant, as if each one brought her closer to something she desperately wanted to avoid. He kept stealing glances at her, catching the lingering flush on her cheeks, the part in her lips, like they'd been moments ago when they were pressed to his. Oh, if he could take her back to that kiss, he would—her warmth, her fingers in his hair, the way everything between them had finally broken free.

There was no denying it anymore. They both knew. This connection had only grown stronger with each passing day. But even as her touch still burned in his memory, unease nipped at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to let him sink fully into that fleeting comfort.

Pierce's voice pulled him to the present. "Sorry I didn't warn you about Cole," he muttered, his tone apologetic but distracted. "And the courtyard."

Lucas ran his free hand through his hair, the other still holding onto Rayne like he was afraid he could lose her at any moment. "I get it. Don't worry about it."

"You did deserve it, though," Pierce added.

Lucas nodded. "I know."

As they continued down the corridor, Lucas couldn't help but feel the weight of everything that had passed between all of his relationships—Rayne, Cole, Pierce, and even Spencer. When they reached his dorm room door though, all thoughts vanished, replaced by the icy wash of dread. His heart sank, eyes locked onto the twisted symbols carved into the wood.

The same ones he'd found on Hillary's door . . .

Beside him, Rayne's breathing quickened, a reminder that she was there with him at this moment, sharing the same fear. "It's Cole. He's angry, and he's just trying to scare you."

Lucas would have loved to cling to that explanation, to believe their biggest problem was Cole's rage. But he knew better. The connection he had with Rayne, the kiss they shared—it was all real, but so was the darkness that now stared back at him from his dorm room door.

He pressed his lips into a sad smile. "He doesn't know about the markings, Rayne."

Rayne's eyes darted to Pierce, as if searching for any sign of reassurance.

"I didn't tell him," Pierce said, his voice quiet and serious. "Also, I'm not sure how to say this, but . . . there's nothing on the cameras."

"What?" Rayne's voice wavered, but the heat rising in her cheeks suggested it was out of a growing fury. "What do you mean there's nothing?"

Pierce's face tightened as he looked at the door. "I checked them first thing. The symbols just appeared. No one was in the hallway."

"So?" Rayne spat. "The footage was tampered with."

"No. It wasn't." Pierce shook his head slowly. "I saw the moment it was engraved." He hesitated, glancing at Lucas. "But there was no one there. You have to remember though, I can't see what you can see, so maybe there was . . . something. Something supernatural."

Lucas's hand moved on its own, reaching for the door. Just like Hillary's door, the wood was so cold, unnaturally so, sending a shiver up his spine. The memory of Rayne's warmth washed over him. If only it had been strong enough to ward the chill creeping through his fingers. As his hands traced the symbols, he thought he could feel the darkness lurking beneath the surface, something ancient and malevolent, waiting.

"We have to watch that tape," Rayne urged, her voice tinged with desperation.

"I'll watch it," Lucas replied, keeping his voice steady. "Alone."

"Like hell, you will."

Lucas turned to her, his touch gentle as he swept a stray curl behind her ear. "I'll be fine," he promised, though the words felt fragile. He pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead—his second that day, though it felt infinitely more final.

How many more would they have, after all?

Though the moment flickered with warmth, it could not quell the chill that settled deep into his bones. He couldn't let her see that fear. Not Rayne. The thought of dragging her deeper into this darkness twisted his stomach into knots. The moment he heard of the security footage—Hillary's hand tracing the blade across her own throat—everything had changed.

He had always believed the shadow people were responsible for the students' deaths. But Hillary? Olivia? They would never have done this to themselves. Something darker, more insidious was at work here.

Would he be next?

Lucas felt lost in a labyrinth of half-formed answers, searching for threads of truth in the darkness. His mind raced. The symbols carved into his door—they couldn't be meaningless. There had to be some record of them somewhere, a history buried in forgotten texts. He had to find out what they meant, why they were surfacing now, before time ran out.

But it wasn't just the markings. What about the shadow people? How were they involved in all of this? What were they really? Where did they come from? There had to be stories of them, myths whispered through generations. Yet even as he considered these possibilities, a darker, more terrifying thought clawed at his conscience—one that had been haunting him ever since he learned the truth about Hillary's death.

Possession—the idea that someone, or something, could crawl inside of you, seize control, and bend you to its will—was the only explanation that made sense now. What if this darkness, the symbols, the shadow people, were all tied to something even more sinister? What if the real threat wasn't just lurking in the shadows, but lingering inside anyone it touched?

The thought of Rayne being exposed to something like that, of her falling victim to the same forces that had driven Hillary to such a gruesome fate, made his blood run cold. He had to find answers, not just for his own sake, but for hers. He had to protect her, even if that meant keeping her in the dark about the full extent of the danger they were facing. For now.

"We'll figure this out," he whispered.

Rayne nodded slowly, her hand slipping from his arm, though she didn't move away. She trusted him—he could see it in her eyes. And that trust was a weight he couldn't afford to lose. Lucas took one last look at the door before turning back to her, his determination hardening into resolve. Whatever this was, whatever darkness had marked him, he would face it.

For her.

And for himself.