It wasn't a short drop, but I didn't feel pain. Somehow, I landed without a bruise, and even my phone, lying a few feet away, was untouched—just like me.
I stood, brushed off the dirt, and flicked on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, revealing a room even dimmer than the one above.
It looked like a forgotten office, frozen in some twisted timeline. Ornate furniture lined the space, their once-golden edges dulled with dust. Velvet sofas sagged under cobwebs. Heavy curtains drooped like mourning veils, draped over what might have once been windows.
The air was thick. Every breath tasted ancient.
To the left, a regal desk caught the light. Behind it, a tall armchair sat like a judge's throne. Above it hung a stern portrait: a man with a thick mustache stared back at me, unsmiling.
The plaque read: "Xavier Paragon – Founder of Blackridge Academy, Since 1001."
I barely had time to process it when my foot tapped something metallic. It skittered across the dusty floor with a clink.
I pointed my flashlight and blinked—a key.
"You little miracle," I whispered, crouching down.
Hope swelled. I turned toward the gaping hole I'd fallen through. No way back. No ladder, no light, nothing.
Then I turned back to find a door—tall, ominous, but solid.
I rushed to it, inspecting every inch. No knob. No keyhole. Nothing.
My stomach dropped.
But then—a glint. To the right, bolted to the wall: a plastic-and-glass first aid box. Oddly placed. And on the frame's edge... a keyhole.
"Let's gamble."
I fit the key. It turned. And with it, a groan echoed from the walls—like one lock had triggered a thousand. Clicks cascaded into the shadows.
The door creaked open.
Beyond it stretched a narrow brick path, flanked by towering trees. Dead leaves blanketed the trail. The forest stood silent—unnaturally so.
Then, a squeak.
My light caught it: a swing, dangling from a gnarled branch, swaying gently.
No wind.
Goosebumps crawled up my arms. I slammed the door and spun.
Now, a staircase spiraled upward where none had been.
"You weren't there before," I muttered.
I ran, but it felt as if someone is chasing after me, no footsteps nothing but it felt like a hand outstretched hovered just above my shoulder to grab me. I bolted up the stairs, back to the warehouse door. Jammed.
I tried the key but it didn't work!
I kicked it. It flew open.
I only took a second to catch my breath but then I didn't stop until I was home.
My aunt opened the door, startled. I waved her off.
"I tripped on the way back. I'm fine."
In my room, I sat on my bed, key still clutched tight. I didn't sleep. Every creak twisted my nerves.
I learned something that night.
The world isn't just strange.
It watches.
---
By morning, I was a fuse waiting for flame. And Frederick? He was the match.
I tried to sit through school. Failed. My thoughts clawed their way back to last night.
To him.
We were in the canteen—Cris, Dorian, Shawn, and me—when he strolled in like royalty.
That was it.
"Hey, Fredd!" I shouted. Voices died. Heads turned.
He froze. Then slowly turned, flashing a smile made of barbed wire.
"Zinnia," he said, syrupy sweet. "Everything alright?"
I shoved my chair back and stormed toward him. Each step pounded like a drumbeat.
"You disappeared last night. No goodbyes? How rude."
His smile faltered. "I was—"
"Too busy? Laughing it up with your buddy?"
His brows twitched. I got close. Too close. I wanted him to feel the fire.
I was done letting him hold the matches.
But then—hands gripped my shoulders. Cris.
"Zinnia, what the hell?"
I yanked away. "He locked me in."
"Wait, what?" Her eyes widened.
"And you," I snapped at her. "You gave him my address."
Cris looked like I'd slapped her. "What? Why would I ever—?"
I paused. Her confusion was real. She hadn't given it.
Then how did he get it?
I turned back. Frederick was walking away, hoping the scene would dissolve.
"Where are you going?" I blocked him.
He stopped. Taller, smugger. "Zinnia. Stop."
"You made me a joke. You locked me up and vanished. Now I'm supposed to shut up and smile?"
He laughed. "You girls are all the same. A little haze and suddenly you're the victim. You know what they made me do in my first year? They made me run naked around the school!"
"Cry me a river."
He rolled his eyes and tried to brush past.
I stepped in. My fingers twitched. I was ready.
He wasn't walking away again.
Then Cris slipped between us, arms wrapping me tight.
"Don't," she whispered. "He wants this. He wants to see you break."
I clenched my jaw. Not for him.
I pulled away, but I didn't strike. Not yet.
"This isn't over!" I hissed, my teeth barred.
As he left, I knew I had to end his reign of ragging here, and I wasn't going to let it go.
The game just changed.
---
The day dragged. But as we walked toward the gate after school, something cracked.
A loud bang echoed behind us. We turned.
Two workers were dragging a massive wooden table toward the principal's office. One of the legs snapped.
They cursed, lifted it again.
I looked past them.
Inside the office: modern furniture, sleek walls... and one portrait hanging dead center.
I stepped closer.
My heart stopped.
Same layout. Same aura.
Same face.
Only this time, the man had a beard. His plaque read:
"Nile Paragon – Founder of Blackridge Academy, Since 2002."
I blinked.
That's not what the other portrait said.
One was Xavier, in 1001.
This? Nile. 2002.
But both Paragon?
No school survives for a thousand years and rewrites its founder.
Unless it has something to hide.
There was definitely something going on.
And I intended to find it.