A shower of precipitation fell over Rayne Foster's face as she emerged from the tunnel, blinking away droplets that splashed her eyes. Suddenly, she slipped and fell backward, but Cole caught her by the hand and heaved her to her feet. Her heart stilled, forgetting to pump a beat when she saw the little red eye of a camera perched in one of the trees. How many other eyes were watching her, unseen?

"Don't worry about it," said Cole. "My friend, Pierce, has been tinkering with the office system. That camera's been offline since the start of the school year."

Rayne wanted to believe him, although she wasn't sure why. Still, she followed him through the downpour, weaving between trees as water drenched the ground. By the time they reached the cover of a small, abandoned shack, Rayne was actually smiling. She always craved the adrenaline rush that came with risky adventures, but lately, she noticed it was one of the few things that made her feel alive again, too. The thrill numbed the ache in her bones far better than any medication they could've forced down her throat in the infirmary.

"Now that's a smile," Cole whispered, breathing deeply. The rain had plastered his damp dress shirt to his torso, revealing the flex of muscles sculpted by the storm. His brown hair, free from the restraint of styling gels, clung to his forehead in thick, sopping strands. Her own curls had become a wild, textured mane framing her cheeks, and she caught him glancing at her own wet shirt too. "You liked that, didn't you?"

She stepped back and frowned. "Don't get used to it."

Pausing to take in her surroundings, Rayne noticed the shack was incredibly small, barely more than two-hundred square feet. Cole slammed the decaying wooden door behind them, the impact swiftly transforming the loud roar of rainfall into a dull drumroll. He flicked open his Zippo, flaring it over the wick of a white candle. Its flickering light threw harsh shadows over the wall, over the melted wax that clung to the floor—a testament to previous visits.

"What is this place?"

"Welcome to my sanctuary," he said, waving his arms in display. "Found it three years ago with Lucas. The dorms have a strict 'no visitors' policy, so this is where we come to unwind after hours."

With that, Rayne's thoughts flickered to Lucas. She couldn't deny she was curious about him too, even if he didn't seem to like her very much. What was it about these boys that drew her in? Maybe it was their secrets, or perhaps, it was the reflection of her own darkness in their eyes? She cleared her throat. "You've never been caught out here?"

"I think the History teacher might have his suspicions, but I caught him with one of Bianca's friends, so he knows better than to say anything."

It was starting to seem like money wasn't the only power in this place. Knowledge was power, too. "Which friend?" Rayne asked, more interested in gathering intel than gossip.

With a dark, knowing glint in his eyes, Cole leaned against the wall. "You're thinking about blackmail, aren't you? To get that whole crew off your back?" He let out a thoughtful hum, lips curling into a faint smile. "I must say, it's not a bad move. Takes guts to play that game around here." His eyes locked onto hers. "Says a lot about you."

Instead of responding, Rayne began to pace the room and survey her surroundings. She didn't want to admit it out loud. Power was intoxicating, especially during this time in her life when she had become so utterly powerless.

Cole nodded, seeming impressed. "Alright then. Hillary Berkshire. She's the, uh, cute, reddish blonde one. If you knew what she did to wind up here, then this whole student-teacher thing really wouldn't be much of a surprise."

"And what about the other girl?" Rayne spun around. "Black hair? Bangs?"

"That's Jackie Kwon. She comes from a long line of influential business tycoons. Probably one of the most powerful families you'll come across." He cleared his throat. "She's, uh, off limits though. Pierce has a thing for her."

"Means nothing to me. I'm not friends with your buddy, Pierce."

"That's fair," said Cole, and strangely enough, Rayne could tell that he meant it. "But if you want blackmail, then you're gonna have to dig up your own dirt on that one. Bro code and all." He cocked his head and smiled. "Are you saying that you and I are friends?"

"Hell no." She turned away from him and continued to examine the walls.

Next to a time-worn table set in the back corner, a steady drip of rainwater leaked from the roof and pooled, staining the floor. Rayne looked up, tracing the source to a rusting raft bar bolted to the ceiling with a large metal hook in the center. She wondered how long that had been there. After all, the russet barnwood boards that built the shack were all cracked and rotting, and the smell of pine needles and mildew hung heavy in the air.

As she traced her finger along the wall, a jolt of energy surged through her. Cole stepped behind her, his hands brushing through her damp hair, as if he had done it a thousand times before. The touch was fleeting, yet deliberate, filled with an assertive force that seemed to challenge her. Rayne shivered. The energetic sensation increased tenfold, a chaotic vision flashing before her eyes: It was Bianca Hawthorne, again, with Cole, more passionately this time, his lips on her neck as he pressed her against this very wall; then Lucas and Cole, tangled in a fistfight on the ground, blood streaming from Lucas' nose, falling and pebbling on the hardwood planks; then a party, about ten people, dancing, smoking, drinking, making out; and lastly, she saw a pair of broken eyeglasses on the floor.

Blurred in the background, someone was dragging the lifeless body of a blonde student by her feet into the shack.

A splinter slipped into Rayne's finger. "Ouch," she huffed, trying to remove it herself with stubby nails.

"Let me." Cole took her hand in his, and Rayne realized how different their hands were—hers sprinkled with dry skin and hangnails, while his were perfectly groomed, cuticle beds smooth and pushed back.

As he tried removing the splinter, Rayne ventured a tender topic: "So . . . you and Bianca. Was that ever a thing?"

He looked up, then turned his attention back to her finger. "Who told you?"

"Gut-feeling," said Rayne, unsure how to talk about her visions. "What's her story?"

Cole pinched her a little hard, digging for the splinter. "I think it's your turn to answer some questions. What made you think we were a thing?"

"Honestly, it was just a guess." It was hard to find the right words to explain the phenomenon. She sighed. "Long story short, I used to be really good at guessing things. It started in middle school. All the kids used to have me guess whatever they did over the weekend. And I wasn't always right, but I was right more often than not. At least . . . I used to be."

Cole stopped pinching to look her in the eye.

Answering the unspoken, Rayne said, "Now, I'm wrong all the time. And I just went from knowing . . . so much . . . to not knowing . . . anything."

"Guess that explains the twenty questions," said Cole, focusing his attention on her hand once more. "How'd you do it back then? Just really good at reading people?"

"Just a feeling in my gut." Rayne smirked. "So, seriously . . . you and Bianca?"

"A couple of months junior year. We've been at each other's throats ever since."

Rayne saw a flash of his lips on Bianca's neck once more, and for a second, her mind drifted to the vision of the blonde student. The broken glasses. Was that vision real? Or was it just a product of the meds?

Suddenly, Cole pulled her finger to his lips.

"What're you—?"

The warmth of his mouth brushed her fingertip, his eyes meeting hers for only a second before sucking to draw out the splinter. This time, the slideshow in her mind revealed Cole's lips on her own neck, pushing her onto the small green loveseat. Perhaps a desire of his? The vision continued. Hands slipping under clothing, until—

Cole withdrew, a small smile playing on his lips as he flicked the splinter away. "There you go."

Rayne wasn't sure if she should thank him or slap him, but he left her no time to do either.

"So," he began, turning away. "We're having a little get-together tonight, me and the guys. I wanted to show you this place so you could find it later."

Rayne raised a brow. "You want me there?"

"Yes," he replied, and his forthcomingness surprised her. "Will you?"

She considered it. The visions his touch had triggered were confusing at best and alarming at worst. But going back to her dorm room alone felt like stepping into a nightmare, one where shadow people and the blue-eyed man lurked in every corner. This offer felt like an escape.

"I'm in," she said. "On one condition."

Curiosity lit his green eyes. "I'll bite."

Rayne tried to ignore his phrasing. "Tell me about you and Lucas. Who are you, really? Why are you here?"

"That's more than one condition."

She crossed her arms and echoed his sentiments from earlier. "Take it or leave it."

He smiled, catching on. "Okay, then. I'll leave it."

Even as he said it, he'd been eyeing her lips, so she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "No, you won't."

"Hm . . . You're not wrong." He exhaled. "You ever hear the name Abbott?"

It took a moment, but eventually, her eyes widened. "Wait, Abbott? As in the Abbott Foundation? That Abbott?"

Cole nodded. "Closest thing America has to a royal family."

More like a dynasty. Rayne's mind raced. The Abbott Foundation—renowned for its vast philanthropic efforts supporting education, mental health, and environmental conservation—was a name she had grown up hearing. Their publishing house had shaped the cultural landscape for a century, championing works that reflected their values and beliefs. Rayne recalled seeing a young boy on TV when she was little, his face plastered on magazines and newspapers, a symbol of the Abbott legacy after his parents perished in a tragic car accident over a decade ago. She wondered if that little boy was now a fellow inmate in this strange institution.

For some reason, she instantly thought of—

"Lucas," said Cole, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "As soon as we're out of here, that entire empire is his."

"Wow." Rayne didn't know what to say. She deduced that this must have been why they used his money to bribe the guards. "I . . . I'm confused. If everyone knows the Abbotts, then why would Lucas be an outcast in a place like this?"

"That's his story." Cole shrugged. "Mine's a bit less glamorous. Anything come to mind when you hear Bradford?" He paused, giving her enough time to answer. She had nothing. "That's what I thought. My family tends to work in the shadows."

Just the word "shadows" called to mind visions of the obscure humanoid masses that she had been seeing on campus so far. She tried to shake the image away and focus on Cole instead. Why did he seem to have more power here than Lucas who was practically American royalty?

"Well," Cole began, interrupting her thoughts, "I've answered most of your questions. So that means I'll be seeing you tonight, right?"

In this place, where affluence was everything, Rayne could afford nothing. Even trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. Yet for some reason, Rayne took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Cole's smile widened, and he opened the door, letting the sound of the rain flood back into the shack. "Then it's a date."

◢✥◣

With the student on his mind, Dorian Matthews walked down the marbled hallways of Maria J. Westwood, toward the teacher's lounge. It was unnerving to have had such a bumpy first encounter with a new student. He always knew exactly what to say, when to say it, and how to broach the subject, but this time, he really missed the mark. It seemed Rayne Foster was completely unreceptive of his colloquial frolics, unwilling to budge when he took a light-hearted, laid-back approach, and even more reluctant when he offered outlets of support.

Teenage trust was always difficult to buy; the students here were certainly more guarded than most, but Dorian took pride in his ability to connect with each of them, a delicate high-wire balancing act, requiring grace and agility to navigate the youthful reactionary pathways of the adolescent mind.

Rayne Foster would simply take time.

As he approached the teacher's lounge, Dorian noticed an abnormal bustling through the frosted window in the door. He stepped leisurely, unable to make out the chatter when Portia bounced over to him with a rolled-up Self-magazine in one hand and an apple in the other. Her red curls sprang about her round cheeks. "Did you hear?"

"What is it?" he asked, heading straight for the espresso machine on the rear-wall coffee counter. "But speak slowly now, I've got a headache the size of Manhattan."

"It's that new student," Portia began as Dorian pulled a cup from the cupboard and loaded finely-ground coffee into the machine. "You know, the one who just started today? Well, the guards have their panties all in a pinch, 'cause somehow, she managed to slip past them and skip gym class. Hasn't shown up for her counseling sesh with Creepy McCreeper-Face either."

"Creepy McCreeper-Face?" Dorian laughed. "You know, this is precisely why you shouldn't date in-house, Porsh."

Portia smacked him with her magazine, and Dorian laughed softly, trying not to spill the milk he was pouring into his cup. "It was one date," she said, smacking him again, "and I will never stop regretting it." Smack! Smack! "And you, mister"—smack!—"are on your fifth cup of coffee today. You seriously need to cool your jets."

As he rubbed his left bicep, his laughter fell away. "Wait a minute. Portia, are you saying Miss Foster hasn't shown up for class since she left my class?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Dorian felt a pang of responsibility, and Portia continued: "They checked the dorms, the bathrooms. They have no idea where she is. Hasn't popped up on any cameras since she left the gymnasium with that Cole Bradford kid. They're hoping that the two of them will pop back up after lunch, so they're gonna wait until the end of the day before calling the authorities—you know, for the school's sake. Reputation and all that. But I don't feel good about it. You don't think he'll hurt her, do you?"

"No, no. I don't think so," he answered swiftly.

Cole Bradford, much like Rayne, had been fiercely hostile towards Dorian at first. Ever since his first year at Maria J. Westwood, Cole Bradford was constantly in and out of Dorian's classroom for detention. He built his walls high, but over the years, the boy began to open up, just a little. Dorian had a better feel for the kid now, even though the rapport between them remained minimal. There was a part of Dorian that was not at all surprised Miss Foster found herself tangled up with a kid like that, but there was another part of him, an instinctive paternal part, that didn't think it was a good idea.

"Do you know where Doctor MacGowan is now?" asked Dorian.

"Do I know where Doctor MacGowan is now," Portia repeated with disdain. "Of course, I know where he is. I've got eyes all over this freaking place. I know where he is at every possible second, so I know exactly which rooms I need to stay far away from at all times, and—"

"Portia, Portia, Portia," said Dorian, waving her to settle down. He tried not to laugh as he asked: "Where is he?"

"Oh. Right. He's in his office."

◢✥◣ 

Rayne Foster had been gone much longer than she'd intended. The two only planned to skip gym class, but when she returned, she realized she was thirty minutes late for her therapy session with Red. Cole apologized and promised to make it up to her, but she didn't really care anyway.

She hated therapy.

What little Rayne could remember of her stay at Aurora Psychiatric was torment. Time, it seemed, was not an object of concern to her in those days—the numbered boxes on calendars held as much significance as hefty books written in foreign tongues—Rayne could not understand their meaning, and she did not care enough to learn. She could vaguely recall the voices shouting her name, directing her feet to new locations for new "discussions", as they had politely called them, where they would ask her more questions about the night that she could not remember.

Rayne had slipped into a shadowy crook in the back of her mind for six months, unresponsive and unaware of the world around her. They constantly probed her about the events that took place on the night of August 7th, 2017, but every time, there was only one thing she could tell them: blood.

Rayne could remember that much, clear as day.

The way it gathered between her fingernails, caked the folds of her skin like a fetid velvet frosting, and how it stayed there for days, days, days. They washed it off, scrubbed it out, but it was still there. In her skin, in her veins, swimming through her, staying in her.

Then, there were the waking nightmares. Rayne used to thrash in the middle of the night with shrill screams, trying to escape something terrible, something that existed in her own world. Often, she needed to be held down with restraints so that she wouldn't injure herself. And she attributed every single one of these horrible, negative memories with the word "therapy".

Therapy was invasive. Therapy was uncomfortable. And she hated every second of it.

After having changed into her dry uniform, Rayne finally made her way to the psychiatrist's office. She quickened her stride, rounded a corner, and nearly bumped into her English teacher.

"Miss Foster," said Mr. Matthews, seeming surprised. Swiftly, he scanned the hall for onlookers, placed a hand on her shoulder, and dipped his head to look her in the eye. Those snowy-eyes were too familiar, yet something about them felt more at peace than the blue-eyed man. She was becoming less and less afraid of him. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Everyone's been looking for you."

She staggered back. "U-uh, yeah, I'm fine. Why would you think I'm hurt?"

"You missed your second and third classes. So did Cole Bradford." He nodded his head a little. "He's been known to make things difficult for other students."

"I'm fine," she said, and it surprised her to hear no attitude in her voice. "Were you . . . worried about me?"

He smiled, a gesture that was neither haunting or frightening in any way. It was warm, carrying an unexpected comfort. "Of course."

She stepped back.

"Come now," he said, waving her along, "let's get you to Doctor MacGowan."

Unlike before, Mr. Matthews did not ask her any questions. He never queried where she had been or why she had disappeared. He simply put his hands in his pockets and walked with her to the psychiatrist's office.

Rayne thought about the man from her dreams, and the more she concentrated on the thought, the more it began to blur and shift to that shadowy place in the back of her mind. She began to doubt the memory's validity. What if she had never really dreamt of him before? What if she made it all up? What if she conjured the memories only after meeting Mr. Matthews? What if the boy from her dreams looked different before, but her consciousness now twisted the memory to make him look like this teacher? The mind was a powerful thing, after all. And there was something so unsettling about how the memory seemed to resist her grasp, slipping through her fingers like sand.

She studied the intricate weaving of gray on white in the marble flooring, trying to organize her thoughts. "Thanks," she finally whispered.

"What was that?"

She looked at him, and slowly, a small smile played her lips. "Thanks. For not asking any questions, I mean."

He raised a brow, then nodded. "Well, you've been through a lot today. I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable earlier."

"No. It was me," she admitted. "I think maybe you look like someone . . . someone from my past . . . who haunts me."

"Haunts you? Ah . . . I must resemble an old bully of yours."

"Something like that," she agreed, her voice trailing off. A haze of uncertainty clouded her mind. It was sort of close to the truth . . . Right?

Rayne felt a cold, prickling feeling trickle down her spine and turned around to see the blue-eyed man standing in the hallway she'd just come from. The wall sheathed half of his jumpsuit-clad body as he peeked around the corner. That ghostly aura stirred a sense of urgency within Rayne's breast, a sense of impending doom, as if a rogue vehicle suddenly strayed from the road, veering straight toward her along her sidewalk sanctuary.

There was a small smile on his lips and an icepick of fear in Rayne's heart.