You stare at the carving.
Not just stare — you trace your finger over it. The grooves are fresh, sharp enough to bite the pad of your finger. Warm. Like someone had just finished carving it moments before you walked in.
The teacher is droning at the front of the class, her voice more static than speech. No one's looking at you. No one notices the way your hand trembles, the way your breath shallows.
You slide your other hand into your pocket.
The knife is there.
Not in there, exactly — it's more like you've always known it would be. Like it's been waiting. The hilt is warm, pulsing faintly against your palm, in sync with your heartbeat. You don't remember bringing it to school, but then again, memory has been unreliable lately.
It's yours now.
The thought isn't yours.
It's… older.
You close your eyes, just for a second — and in that moment, you see Caleb. Still strapped to the chair from your dream. Still crying. Except now, in the vision, he stops. He looks right at you.
And he smiles.
The bell rings. You blink. The carving is still there, but the warmth has gone.
As you shove books into your bag, a shadow falls over your desk.
"Nice art," a voice says.
You look up.
It's Mara. She's the only one in this hellhole of a school who didn't whisper "psycho" behind your back after the funeral. She's been sitting with you at lunch, sharing her fries, acting like you're just… normal.
You force a smirk. "Yeah, you know me. Always doodling."
Her eyes flick down to your pocket for half a second. Not long enough for most people to notice. But you do.
And your stomach tightens.
The Locker Note
By the time you get to your locker, there's a folded piece of paper sticking out through the vents. No name on it. You scan the hallway — just backpacks and blurred faces moving past.
You pull the note free. Unfold it.
It's one sentence:
Stop playing with it in public. They're watching.
Your hand goes cold.
You crumple the note, shove it into your bag, and slam the locker shut. The metal echoes louder than it should.
Who wrote it?
How do they know?
Who's "they"?
The knife hums again, faintly.
That night, you can't sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see the carving. You hear Caleb's voice. And somewhere, under it all, you hear Tom's.
"Once it chooses you, it doesn't let go."
You sit up in bed. The moonlight is fractured through the blinds, slicing the room into pieces. You reach under your pillow.
The knife is there. Again.
You didn't put it there.
You make a decision.
You're going to find whoever left that note.
And you're going to make them talk.
The Confrontation
The next day, you skip your first two classes and wait by the back entrance of the school — the one near the dumpsters, where only smokers and troublemakers hang out.
At 10:12 a.m., Mara shows up. No cigarettes, no friends, just her hoodie pulled tight and her phone in her hand. She sees you and freezes.
"Hey," she says slowly. "Why aren't you—"
"You wrote it."
Her eyes dart away. "What?"
"The note. Don't play dumb."
She swallows. "Look… I didn't mean to freak you out. I just—" She lowers her voice. "—saw it. In your hand. The knife."
Your pulse hammers. "You followed me?"
"No. I… I've seen it before."
That stops you. "What do you mean, before?"
She looks around, making sure no one's close. "It doesn't matter. Just—get rid of it."
You laugh. Not a funny laugh — a sharp one that even startles you. "You think I can just… toss it in the trash? You think it's that easy?"
She steps closer. "If you don't, they'll come for you too."
"They?"
But she's already walking away.
The Call
That night, your phone buzzes. Unknown number.
You answer.
Static first. Then a voice — not Tom's, not yours, but something in between.
"Session #18 begins now."
Click.
You sit there, phone still pressed to your ear, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs.
At school the next day, Mara's not there.
By lunch, the whispers start.
"Did you hear? Mara's missing."
"Cops found her hoodie in the river."
"They say it was suicide."
You don't believe them.
Because you dreamed about her last night.
Strapped to the chair.
The Glass Room
You think you're safe at home that evening, but the feeling doesn't last.
You hear something downstairs. A faint scrape. Like glass on tile.
You grab the knife. It's not courage — it's instinct.
The sound leads you to the basement. You don't remember opening the door. You don't remember going down the stairs. But you're there now.
And the basement isn't a basement anymore.
It's lined with mirrors.
You see yourself. Over and over. But each reflection is wrong — too much smile, not enough soul. In one, your eyes are black pits. In another, your skin is gray and stretched.
Then they all start moving out of sync.
And one of them speaks.
"You think you're in control. You're not. You never were."