Rayne Foster's heart was pounding as she filed books in the library. She worked mechanically, her fingers tracing the spines of books as she organized them on the mahogany shelves. Every few moments, she would steal a glance at the entrance, hope dwindling with every minute that ticked by. The silence of the library was occasionally interrupted by the creaking of a door and the soft rustle of paper. Rayne's heart sank every time the sound of footsteps didn't belong to Lucas. The lavish surroundings—golden tapestries, intricate carvings of mahogany—felt cold and distant.

As Rayne's shift neared its end, she was thoroughly panicked. The dread had already been building since detention, an insidious whisper in the back of her mind telling her that something was wrong. She kept picturing him in her mind, as clear as a vision, stepping through that entrance, garden stains over affluent clothing. But the library remained still. Neglected. And the minutes dragged on in oppressive silence.

When her shift was over, Rayne wasn't sure what to do, where to go. She had to find him—find someone who had seen him, at least. She pushed open the heavy doors and almost collided with something. 

Cole had been waiting for her, just outside the library. 

His face was a map of violence—a freshly split lip, glistening with the sheen of drying blood, a jagged cut across his high cheekbone, and a white bandage over a bruised nose. Another bandage still circled his knuckles from the fight a few days ago, too.

The sight of him battered and bruised was a reminder of the last time they saw one another. The explosive confrontation between Cole and Lucas in the courtyard—only this time, it seemed Cole was the one injured. She wondered what mess he had gotten himself into now, but at the moment, didn't really care enough to ask.

Cole's usual smirk was shadowed with a concerned frown, though he seemed to force its resurrection. "Well, well. Look who's still throwing herself at me."

"Cole," she said, nodding and pushing past him.

"That's all I get? An awkward nod?" He stepped in front of her again, his movements a little too quick, too urgent. The sight of his tattooed arms, flexing as he crossed them over his chest, combined with the disheveled state, amplified the uneasy air of intimidation that circled him. "At least Luke gave me this." He pointed to his face.

Rayne's eyes widened. "You two fought again? Is that why he missed detention? Cole, where is he? Did you hurt him?"

"Uh, hello? Look at me. Would it kill you to send some of that concern my way?"

Rayne's brow furrowed, but the worry clawing at her insides only deepened, and Cole stepped closer, the closeness making her body tense up. The panic in her eyes must have done something, though, because his expression softened, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes, like he hadn't expected to find her so shaken up.

"Rayne," he said slowly. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, Luke said that, too." His tone sharpened as he spoke, the edges of frustration curling into his words. "But you've both lied to me enough that I'm finally starting to catch on. What's really going on? He looked terrified."

"Do you know where he is?" she asked, her composure cracking. She hated how her voice wavered, but the image of Lucas somewhere hurt—or worse—drove needles of fear deeper into her heart.

"No." His jaw tightened. "Came to see you."

Rayne huffed and tried stomping past him. "Look, another time, okay?"

"Well, I'll help you find him," he said, rushing to keep pace beside her. She shot him an irritated glance, only to be met with something softer. His bravado slipped. "Look, I know things between us are . . . complicated right now. But it's obvious you're in trouble, and I can't just sit by when you clearly need me." He ignored her scoff and faced the corridor ahead. "And you're sure he's not just in his dorm by now?"

Rayne shook her head. "He wouldn't. Not without saying goodnight."

"Precious," Cole muttered.

She ignored him.

Just please be safe. The thought beat through her like a drum, each repetition louder, sharper. They still had so much left to do—tonight was supposed to be the night they finally uncovered the truth about the shadow people, sifted through their memories, and found some way to help. Some way to save Lucas. It was supposed to be the miraculous answer that would change everything, not a desperate chase through the dark. It couldn't be over already. Not when they hadn't even tried yet.

He had to be safe. He just had to be.

Rayne and Cole made their way outside into the cool night air, the sky a deep indigo scattered with shimmering stars. Before they could cross the courtyard and check the soccer field, two guards stationed at the perimeter blocked their way. 

"Too close to curfew," one of them said gruffly, hand extended.

Cole's answering groan was immediate, the kind that made Rayne certain he was about to escalate the situation. She could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, like a lit fuse ready to burn out. Just as he opened his mouth to deliver one of his trademark snarks, Mr. Matthews appeared around the corner.

His light blue dress shirt, slightly rumpled from a long day, contrasted sharply with his pale skin, making him appear even more intense under the dim lights. Rayne could tell that Cole was immensely dissatisfied by his approach. "Rayne, there you are," he breathed, concern woven into every breath.

Rayne looked around. "Were you looking for me?"

"Hillary two-point-oh," Cole muttered under his breath, wincing, probably when he remembered she was dead.

Mr. Matthews nodded curtly at the guards. With a subtle wave of his hand, he signaled for them to step aside, but his attempt at authority was met with stony refusal. Turning to Rayne, he spoke with restrained calmness. "I just"—he rubbed his chest—"got the feeling I'd find you here. Don't tell me you still haven't seen him."

Rayne's throat tightened. "Wanted to check the soccer field, but they won't let us pass."

His jaw feathered when he turned to the guards, his voice lowering into a steely calm. "Hey guys, I know you're just doing your jobs, but we need to search the field."

As the tension between Mr. Matthews and the guards began to mount, Cole's demeanor shifted. His stance relaxed slightly, and a familiar, sly grin crept back onto his face. Rayne recognized that look—it meant trouble.

"What are you planning?" she hissed.

Cole leaned in, his voice low. "Just making sure you don't get stuck here while Matthews tries to play Mr. Nice Guy." His grin widened as he glanced towards the guards, now engaged in a more heated exchange with the teacher. "Check the field, then the shack. Got it?"

Before Rayne could protest or even fully grasp his plan, he gave her a wink. Then, he lunged at one of the guards.

The man's surprised shout was abruptly cut off as Cole tackled him to the ground, the rough thud of their collision echoing through the night air. They grappled on the cold, hard pavement. The other guard rushed to intervene, pulling a taser from his belt. There was a sharp crackle of electricity as the taser discharged. A searing blue arc lanced out, striking Cole squarely on the back. His body convulsed, a strained cry barely escaping his lips until it distorted into a sort of demented, manic cackle, and then, silence.

As Cole wriggled on the ground, wracked by electric shocks, Rayne seized her moment and bolted towards the field. Mr. Matthews called out to her, chasing after her through the courtyard. Her breath came out in visible puffs as she scanned the area. It was empty, bathed in moonlight. Her eyes darted around, desperately searching for any sign of Lucas in the soccer field. The commotion caught the attention of two additional security guards, heavy boots crunching gravel. Her desperation grew. Rayne sprinted across the field, her gaze landing on a hole in the fencing. Without hesitation, she squeezed through, her clothes snagging on jagged edges.

She didn't stop. She couldn't—not until she found him.

The woods loomed, dark and impenetrable. She plunged into the trees, branches clawing at her as she pushed through. The sounds of the forest—leaves rustling in the wind, heavy boots breaking branches, her name in the air—all grew softer, beneath the raucous drum of her heart. Her breath was ragged. Rayne leapt over tangled roots and dense underbrush, searching for that damned shack. If she could just find that stupid little hut, she would find him. Lucas. She pictured him bathed in the warm glow of firelight. Writing in his journal. Looking like a honey-dipped daydream.

Suddenly, she collided with something solid. The impact stopped her short, and she stumbled back, disoriented. When she looked up, she found herself enveloped in her teacher's arms. His expression was a mix of relief and sternness. The guards' boots were still audible in the distance, their approach drawing nearer.

"Rayne, what is wrong?" Mr. Matthews' voice was sharp, a rare edge of frustration in his usually calm demeanor.

She blinked, the vision in her mind of Lucas, sweetly waiting for her dissipated. Her mind was a whirlwind of anxiety now—churning with images of Lucas in trouble, hurt, or worse. Her tears flowed freely, mingling with the dirt and sweat on her face. She buried her head in his arms, her voice trembling with defeat. "Mr. Matthews," she began breathlessly, "can you . . . can you please call the police?"

◢✥◣

Half past ten that evening, Lucas Abbott stood on the rooftop of Maria J. Westwood, every breath heavy with the scent of impending rain. Far below, the campus was quiet, an eerie calm before the storm that awaited him atop this forgotten corner of the world. The air was cool, almost biting, as it rushed past him, tugging at his uniform and tousling his hair, each gust urging him to leave. Yet, he couldn't. Not when the truth he'd been avoiding was finally staring him in the face.

He never meant to confront the darkness here, on this cold unwelcoming rooftop. Not like this. Not now. Not before saying goodbye.

The rooftop had always been a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could escape the noise of the school, the demands of the elite, and the eyes of the shadows. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, the silence was too loud, the shadows too deep.

And Tony, the janitor—no, something wearing Tony's skin—was waiting for him.

The janitor's posture was all wrong, too straight, too controlled. His eyes, once dull and tired, now glinted with a sinister light that Lucas had never seen before. The way he moved, smooth and predatory, set every nerve in Lucas's body on edge. Tony's work-worn hands hung at his sides, but there was nothing tired about him now. An energy coiled in the air around them, a promise of violence.

Lucas swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper as he forced out the question that had been plaguing him ever since he picked up this new textbook. Ever since he learned Hillary dragged that knife across her own throat. "What are you?"

Tony's smile was a cruel parody of warmth. "I'll give you three guesses."

Lucas breathed deeply. The words from old texts, the dark lore he had unraveled over the past two nights, flashed through his mind. Now that Rayne had woven her way into his heart, each stolen glance, tender word, and soft touch between them had deepened his resolve. He had faced his fears, deciphered the riddles, and the truth was undeniable. He had wanted to believe that this evil was something tangible, something they could fight together, hand in hand. But in the depths of his heart, where love and fear intertwined, he had always known.

They were doomed.

Without further hesitation, Lucas met the thing's gaze with unwavering determination. "Demon."

"Oh, look at that. You only needed one." The amusement in its voice was palpable, as if it were sharing an inside joke with the night itself.

Lucas's mind raced, the pieces clicking together in a sickening rhythm. The deaths. The shadow people. The whispers. The markings. "I didn't want to believe it," he whispered, the reality of the situation sinking into an abysmal pit in the back of his throat. He gritted his teeth. "But it all makes sense now, doesn't it? The timing, the pattern—those deaths were never random."

"Nothing in this world is random," the thing purred. "Everything is . . . connected, if you know where to look."

"I do know. And I see what you've been doing." Lucas clenched his fists. "Twisting people's fears, pushing them to the edge. You've been here all along, hiding in plain sight. The shadow people . . . I was too distracted."

"Oh, those poor things?" the demon cooed. "Yes, they tried to warn you, didn't they?"

"They're the students," Lucas muttered, but it wasn't a question. "The souls of the ones you've killed."

"Souls." The demon scoffed, the word rolling of its tongue like a bad joke. "Such an archaic term. But you're close, boy, closer than anyone else has ever been. And yet here you stand," it said, waving Tony's hands in the air, "unafraid."

Hardly. Fear was a living thing inside of him, crawling through his skin, but he buried it deep beneath a layer of steel. "They're trapped," Lucas continued. "Forced to wander, stuck between this world and . . . wherever you're trying to send them. I've read about them—the remnants of the dead who've been twisted by violent ends. Only, this isn't some random haunting. It's never been. You chose this place. God, you're using them, aren't you? Fueling whatever dark ritual—"

"Let's not bring Him into this, shall we?" The demon laughed, a sound like grinding bones. "Oh, you think so small, Lucas. But you were always clever, weren't you? The poet. The athlete. It's a shame, really. You're so close to understanding, yet still so far from grasping the full magnitude of what's at stake."

"All this time, you've been inside them, whispering in their ears, driving them to . . ."

"You have no idea the lengths I've gone to, boy. Who I've gone to."

His heart skipped a beat, horror stirring his irises and hurtling his body to the ends of the earth. "No."

"Oh, yes." The demon's grin widened, each word dripping with a malice that had the audacity to rip into Luke's chest and melt away his insides like acid. "I've been inside both of your little girlfriends, sunny boy." It bent down and whispered into his ear, "Olivia . . . . Rayne."

The whisper felt like a cold tongue slithering inside his ear, and though he couldn't see it, he could almost feel the demon's wicked smile.

"Oh, the chaos I've sown, the sacrifices I've made. And Rayne? I will take her again . . . But you?" The demon coiled one of Luke's curls around his finger and sprung it free. "Well, you're nothing but a loose end," it said, seizing Lucas's chin with a vicious grip, "one that I'm more than happy to . . . tie . . . up."

The evening air felt like a million needles against Lucas's freezing cheeks. As the demon's fingernails sliced into his chin, Lucas could feel the weight of its malevolence, like a physical force bearing down on him. Its voice was a low, rumbling purr that seemed to vibrate his very bones, each word a cruel taunt that dug deeper into his psyche.

The demon peered into Lucas's eyes. There was no longer any trace of Tony on that face—only the cold, endless void of something ancient. Something depraved.

Lucas's mind raced, desperation clawing at his chest. He had to escape, had to warn Rayne, had to protect her! For a moment, he thought he heard her name . . . calling on the wind. But as the demon dug its fingers into Lucas's chin, lifting him off the ground, he realized with chilling certainty that there was no escape. Not this time. The rooftop was a prison, the shadow people inching closer, crawling toward him along the floor, reaching out to him, as if to pull him back from the precipice of doom.

But the shadows could not save him.