Monday morning came like a ghost.
No sirens. No shattering glass. No headlines screaming disaster.
Just silence.
For once, Queen's Crest didn't feel like a ticking bomb. But peace here always had strings attached and it was never real, just... waiting.
Adrian hid out in the library. His usual crowd, the girls who pretended to "need help" with chemistry. He kept their distance this time. Whatever charm he had before had officially turned radioactive.
Down in Dorm A2, Amara sat cross-legged on her bed, reading a letter from one of the teachers who'd quit without notice. The handwriting was messy, rushed. But one line hit her hard:
"Some battles look like gossip until they tear down empires."
Her fingers tightened around the page.
Around the school, everything felt muffled. Conversations died halfway. Laughter sounded fake. Compliments? rehearsed. Even the staff walked in pairs now, like they didn't trust the hallways anymore.
By noon, the staffroom door had been shut for over an hour, way longer than usual. Word spread that Dr. Hajara had launched a new investigation. Not about students this time but about the administration. Apparently, money was missing. Records were "accidentally deleted." Archives were gone.
By four, the parents started rolling in.
No protests, no reporters, no sirens this time. Just silent convoys of SUVs and expensive perfume. Their faces were tight, unreadable. The kind of calm that feels like thunder holding its breath.
Headmistress Nwachukwu stood at the center of the assembly hall, with two board members and Dr. Hajara beside her, tablet in one hand, bottled water she never actually drank in the other.
"We've asked you here," Hajara began, "not to accuse your children, but to prepare you. Because things buried decades ago are starting to surface. And when that happens, reputations aren't the only things that break, safety does too."
No one spoke. No names were dropped, but everyone felt them, like ghosts sitting in the front row.
Then came the voice from the back. Mrs. Ojo. Loud. Sharp.
"Should we be withdrawing our daughters?"
Dr. Hajara gave a slow nod.
"That's your choice. But remember, leaving doesn't erase the truth. It just buries it deeper."
Some parents looked terrified. Others looked... defiant.
Adrian watched it all from the upper balcony, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy. He wasn't supposed to be there, but rules at Queen's Crest were more like suggestions.
He studied their faces. The guilt. The denial. The quiet panic.
And he remembered the file he'd read last night. A 2009 report that was supposed to be deleted. A girl who "transferred schools." Except... she never did. No mysticism. No witchcraft. Just a machine polished enough to eat people and still look like gold.
Across campus, Amara sat on her bed again, flipping through an old yearbook. Her thumb stopped on a photo....smiling eyes, perfect hair, the caption of a girl who never came back. She whispered to herself:
"They built this school to protect something."
Her roommate's voice broke the quiet.
"Or to hide it."
---
Author's Note: Quick Tea Break ☕
Okay, okay. I know this chapter wasn't a full-blown explosion, but you needed a breather. This is the calm before the chaos, babes. The slow burn. The whisper before the storm.
We're peeling back layers now, and not every villain wears a mask. Some wear foundation and run NGOs. Some sign cheques with one hand and bury evidence with the other.
Also… how are we feeling about the parents stepping in? Is it giving elite scandal energy? 👀 And who's your guess for the 2009 girl? I'm not saying anything but one of y'all has already hit the bullseye in my DMs. You scare me. 😂
Anyway, hydrate, breathe, and brace yourself. The next chapter? Yeah. It's gonna hurt.
---
The cafeteria that evening was too quiet. No cliques and no gossip. Just that kind of silence where everyone's pretending not to look scared.
When the sunset hit the chapel roof, the intercom crackled alive.
"All students, return to your dormitories. No exceptions."
The tone wasn't angry. It was... cold.
Even the teachers jumped.
Adrian looked up from his seat, muttered under his breath:
"It's starting."
And this time, he was right.