Emily woke to the dull buzzing of her phone vibrating on the bedside table. She blinked open her eyes, still tangled in the heavy haze of restless sleep. The screen lit up: a message from Riley.
Can we talk later?
Her heart twisted. The simplicity of the text felt like a weight pressing down on her chest. They hadn't fought, hadn't even really argued—but everything between them felt like it was fracturing beneath the surface.
Dragging herself out of bed, Emily scrolled through the morning routine mechanically, her mind stuck on that message. When they finally met in the dorm hallway, Riley looked worse than Emily expected.
Her dark hair was messy, strands falling in her eyes, and those eyes—normally sharp and full of fire—were red-rimmed and clouded with exhaustion and something deeper: fear.
"I didn't sleep," Riley whispered, voice fragile. "I keep replaying everything. The messed up art supplies, the cracked laptop… the notes. I keep wondering if it's really happening or if I'm just losing it."
Emily felt the air go thick between them. "You're not losing it," she said, voice low but steady. "This is real. And I'm scared, too."
They walked slowly down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the groups of students who seemed to be watching them with quiet judgment. The whispers that trailed them weren't loud, but they filled the air with a kind of tension that made Emily's skin crawl.
When Emily caught a glimpse of Dylan across the hall—leaning casually against a locker, his crew nearby—her stomach twisted. He smiled, just the barest smirk, but it felt like a challenge.
"Do you think he's behind this?" Riley asked, clutching her sketchbook tight to her chest like a shield.
Emily hesitated, the truth heavy on her tongue. "I don't want to give him that power. But yeah… I think he's the one pulling the strings."
Riley's lips pressed into a hard line. "I'm scared, Emily. Scared that he's already won."
They ducked into the common room, the only place that felt even slightly safe. Riley sat on the worn couch, placing her sketchbook in her lap but not opening it. Her fingers twitched nervously over the blank page.
"I don't know how to fight this," she said quietly. "How do you fight someone who's invisible, who smiles at you like a friend but poisons everything behind your back?"
Emily moved closer, resting a hand over Riley's trembling fingers. "We fight together. We don't let him break us."
Riley looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Slowly, hesitantly, she flipped open her sketchbook. With shaky strokes, she began to draw — not her usual vibrant work, but jagged lines and dark shadows. The image was raw, jagged, and full of pain.
"I need this," Riley said, voice cracking. "It's the only thing that makes sense right now."
Emily smiled softly, grateful for the small moment of peace.
But that peace shattered faster than either of them could brace for.
Later that night, Emily's laptop screen flickered to life—only to reveal a message smeared across it in crude, scrawled letters:
"Nobody cares about your secrets."
Her breath caught. The threat was clear. The slow war wasn't just outside anymore. It was inside their lives—infecting every quiet moment.
Emily stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Somewhere in the shadows, Dylan's smile was still there—cold, knowing, unstoppable.