Noah didn't sleep.
Not after the greenhouse. Not after Reign vanished into fog like a breath held too long.
He paced the edges of his room as the sky slowly paled, his thoughts circling like vultures. When he closed his eyes, he felt Reign's voice in his chest—soft, broken, and full of a truth that tasted like blood.
"You're not the first to be brought here. But you might be the last."
"The Thirteenth."
Thirteenth what?
Thirteenth student? Thirteenth experiment? Thirteenth victim?
The number echoed through his skull like a countdown.
By morning, Montvale felt colder.
The hallways were too quiet, and the walls seemed to lean in. Noah made his way to class, half-aware of the other students drifting around him like ghosts in uniform. No one greeted him. No one looked directly at him. It was as if he were only half-there—some echo slipping through the cracks.
Except one.
"Rough night?" a voice said from behind.
Noah turned sharply.
The boy beside him was taller and lean, with almond eyes that flicked up from a leather-bound sketchbook. Ink stained his fingers, and he wore his uniform like it didn't quite belong to him.
"You look like you saw a ghost," the boy added.
"Maybe I did," Noah muttered.
The boy raised a brow. "Montvale's full of them."
"Do you believe in that stuff?"
"Doesn't matter if I do," he said, sketching again. "This place believes in you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, tapping the page, "don't look in the mirrors after dark."
Noah frowned. "Why?"
"Sometimes," the boy said, "they look back."
Before he could ask more, the boy slipped away—quiet as a shadow.
Noah caught a glimpse of the sketch before it closed.
It was him.
Standing in the greenhouse.
But in the drawing, his eyes were bleeding.
The first period was Philosophy, but the teacher never arrived.
The students sat in a wide semicircle of desks while the classroom buzzed with tense, restless silence. Some flipped pages. Others doodled, stared at the wall, or chewed pens down to plastic.
One girl, sharp-boned, with long black hair and dark lipstick, was openly staring at him.
"What?" Noah asked, unnerved.
"You're the new one," she said simply.
"And you're…"
"Astrid," she said. "Like the star. But more dangerous."
"Thanks for the warning."
"No problem." She leaned forward slightly. "Has he found you yet?"
Noah froze.
"Who?"
Astrid smiled slowly. "You'll figure it out."
He looked around. No one else seemed to be listening.
"What do you know about Reign?" he asked.
Astrid blinked, just once, and her expression shifted from smug to something else. Pity, maybe. Or fear.
"He's not a student anymore," she whispered. "He's a memory."
"That doesn't—"
"If he's talking to you, Grey, then you're in deeper than you think."
Noah wandered through Montvale during his free period, needing answers or maybe just somewhere to breathe.
He found himself in the East Wing, where the ceilings dipped low and the walls were lined with portraits of students long dead. None of them smiled. Some were missing eyes. Others had names scratched out entirely.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
Then, movement. A flicker in the corner of his vision.
He turned to the nearest mirror.
The hallway behind him reflected perfectly.
Except…
In the glass, he wasn't alone.
Reign stood behind him, face pale, eyes wide. His reflection screamed, a silent, contorted howl of grief and rage and something that didn't belong in this world.
Noah spun around.
No one was there.
He stumbled backward, heart racing, breath short.
The reflection was still there. Staring.
And then it faded.
Like fog clearing from glass.
He didn't speak the rest of the day.
Even Theo, his overly cheerful roommate, seemed to notice.
"You okay, dude?" Theo asked later in the dorm. "You're jumpier than usual."
Noah nodded absently. "Yeah. Just tired."
Theo dropped onto the bed across from him, kicking his shoes off. "Don't let this place get into your head. It's designed to test you."
"Test me?"
Theo paused, like he hadn't meant to say that.
"I mean… It's hard here. You know?"
Noah stared at him. "Do you ever see someone that no one else sees?"
Theo's gaze shifted.
"Like a ghost?"
"Like a boy. Black hair. Pale. Blue eyes."
Theo's expression twisted briefly into something Noah didn't recognize.
"Reign," he said.
"You know him?"
Theo stood. Too fast. His smile was gone.
"Don't talk to him."
"Why?"
"Because he's not Reign anymore."
That night, Noah returned to the mirror in the East Wing.
He didn't know why. Curiosity? Desperation?
He stared into it, willing Reign to appear.
Minutes passed. Nothing.
But then,
A whisper.
So soft it was almost a breeze.
"You're waking up, finally."
Noah turned.
Reign stood across the corridor, hands tucked into his pockets, hair messier than before, face lit by moonlight leaking through the window.
"You were in the mirror," Noah said.
Reign didn't deny it.
"Montvale remembers us better than we remember ourselves."
"Us?"
"You loved me once," Reign said quietly. "Even after they erased you."
Noah swallowed. "Why do I feel like I'm losing my mind?"
Reign stepped forward. His fingers brushed Noah's jaw.
"Because your mind isn't yours anymore."
In the silence that followed, Reign leaned closer.
"You were the Thirteenth," he said. "The final test. The final reset. They thought if they erased your memories, they could break the cycle. But you're still here. Still remembering."
"What cycle?"
"The one that ends in blood. Every time."
Noah's heart slammed in his chest.
"Are you dead?"
Reign's eyes glitzerten.
"Not yet. But I'm not alive, either. I'm… what's left."
He pulled away.
"They'll come for you, Noah. When they realize you're remembering. You have to choose—fade like the others, or fight your way out."
"How?"
"Start with the portraits," he said. "Count them. There's only supposed to be twelve."
"And if there's thirteen?"
"Then Montvale lied."
When Reign vanished again, Noah stood alone in the hallway—the mirror still humming behind him.
He turned back to the portraits. The scratched-out names. The blackened eyes.
He began to count.
One. Two. Three…
His breath quickened.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve…
He stepped forward. Hands trembling.
Thirteen.
The last portrait was buried in shadows. The face was blurry. But the eyes… the eyes were his.
His own.
And the name etched beneath the frame?
Noah Grey
Status: Deceased