The following week began with an eerie stillness. The school bell rang just like always—sharp, clear, and routine. But for me, every chime now echoed with suspicion. Each hallway felt like a stage, every face possibly hiding a role in a script I hadn't read yet.
I couldn't look at the school the same way anymore. It wasn't just a place of learning. It was a map of manipulation. And now that I had the first pieces, I couldn't stop seeing the cracks.
Ethan had been quiet since our last meeting. Not withdrawn, just… focused. He told us he was working on "a theory," but refused to elaborate. Henry, on the other hand, was growing more restless. The weight of secrecy wasn't his strength—he liked action, fast and tangible.
"We need more than notes and hunches," he said one afternoon as we loitered near the old chemistry wing. "We need someone real. Someone who can confirm all this."
"We have the documents," I reminded him.
He scoffed. "Yeah, and no one's gonna believe three kids dug them out of a dusty box on a dare. We need testimony."
He wasn't wrong. As damning as the evidence we'd collected was, it would all be dismissed without a face, without someone to say, yes, I lived it.
That's when Ethan finally spoke up.
"There's someone," he said, voice calm. "Someone I think was involved. But if I reach out, it could tip the system off."
"Who?" I asked.
He hesitated for a second. "Miss Halbrook. The old literature teacher. She left suddenly two years ago. Quiet exit. No goodbye message, no announcement. Just gone. But I remember—she used to talk with James Bennett after hours. A lot."
Henry's eyes narrowed. "You think she knew?"
"I think she saw more than she let on."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I kept rereading the forum post from Vigilance7, wondering who they were. A former student? A failed subject? Another casualty?
"He doesn't pick randomly. He waits until you're open."
I remembered that version of myself so vividly—the younger me, full of hunger, naive trust, desperate for validation. James Bennett had seen straight through me, straight into me. He hadn't tricked me with complexity—he'd used my own dreams against me.
The next day, Ethan handed me an address written on a scrap of paper. "She runs a private tutoring center now. About thirty minutes from here."
"You think she'll talk to us?"
"She might talk to you," he said. "You were close to Bennett. That gives you weight."
The three of us skipped class that afternoon—an act that once would've filled me with anxiety. Now it felt like following the only path that mattered.
The center was modest, tucked between a dentist's office and a shuttered cafe. Inside, a soft chime rang as we entered. Miss Halbrook was behind a desk, flipping through papers. She looked up and froze when she saw me.
"...I know you," she said slowly.
"I'm not here for tutoring," I replied. "I need to talk to you. About James Bennett."
Her eyes shifted. Not fear—but caution. She motioned for us to sit.
"I thought this might happen eventually," she said.
"You knew?" Henry asked.
"I suspected," she replied. "I wasn't part of it—not directly. But I saw students change after spending time with him. Some withdrew. Others… broke down."
"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
She sighed. "Because every time I brought it up, I was told to 'focus on the curriculum.' I filed reports. They disappeared. I tried to follow up. Nothing. And then one day, my contract was simply not renewed. Quiet exile."
"You think the school was involved?" Ethan asked.
She shook her head. "I think someone above the school was. Bennett had influence. More than a normal instructor should."
I felt a chill run down my spine.
She reached into a drawer and handed me a folder.
"I kept copies. From my time here. Profiles. Emails. One note even referred to students as 'segments in development.' I didn't understand it at the time."
I took the folder, hands trembling.
"There's more," she said quietly. "A few weeks before I left, I overheard a call. Bennett said something about 'Phase Two.' He said, 'The profiles have matured. Time to initiate the control layer.' Then he hung up."
We left the center in silence. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
Phase Two.
Segments in development.
I stared down at the folder in my hands and realized the truth was far larger than I had ever imagined.
Whatever James Bennett—Thomas Brant—had started at our school, it wasn't over.
It was evolving.