The knock came in three quick taps. Then silence. I knew it was Tyler before I even opened the door — no one else knocked like they were trying not to startle the furniture. But when I pulled it open, he wasn’t alone. Mai stood just behind him. Hood up. Hair damp from the drizzle outside. Eyes blank. Not tired — blank. Like someone had replaced her thoughts with elevator music.

  “Hey,” Tyler said. Flat. No smirk. No joke. Which was... weird.

  He stepped in without waiting, brushing past me like the hallway was on fire. Mai followed slower, more careful. She didn’t make eye contact. Her arms were crossed too tightly, fingers curled around the edges of her sleeves like she was holding herself together thread by thread.

  I shut the door. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Tyler turned to me. His jaw was clenched, knuckles white around the strap of his backpack. “She’s acting weird,” he said. “Weirder than usual.”

  I glanced at Mai. She gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just... distant. Like she was watching this all from somewhere far away.

  “I’m fine,” she said softly.

  “She’s not fine,” Tyler shot back. “She was with Darkwood again.”

  I blinked, surprised. “You saw them?”

  “Corner bookstore,” he said. “Didn’t talk. Didn’t touch. Just... stood there. Looking at each other. Like a vampire mating ritual.”

  Mai flinched. Tyler caught it instantly.

  “And when I asked her what they talked about, she said she couldn’t remember.”

  “Because I can’t,” she snapped, voice sharp now. Defensive. “I don’t know why that’s so hard for you to believe.”

  “It’s not,” he said, grinding the words out. “It’s terrifying.”

  He pointed at her — no anger, just fear disguised as frustration. “She had bruises, Leo. On her wrists. On her back. I saw them yesterday. Today? Gone. Like they were never there.”

  I looked at Mai. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t say anything at all. Just stared at the carpet as if it had answers I couldn’t see.

  There was a kind of quiet that only shows up when something unnatural walks in. The air felt too still. The light bent too sharp. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for someone to notice the glitch.

  I cleared my throat. “Mai. Can I see?”

  She blinked and slowly pulled up her sleeve.

  Nothing. Smooth skin. Not even a scar.

  Tyler’s eyes went wide. “That’s not normal,” he said.

  Mai dropped her sleeve with a sigh. “I told you. I’m fine.” She said it like a line she’d memorized.

  Tyler lowered his voice. “We need to talk. Alone.”

  “I’m not five,” Mai snapped. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “No,” Tyler said quietly. “You need an exorcist.”

  I held up a hand. “Enough.”

  The apartment was empty except for us. Rain tapped the window behind me, steady and soft — like fingers trying to get in. The tension settled in my chest.

  “We’ll talk,” I said. “All of us. But not like this.”

  Mai sat down on the couch, wrapping her arms around her legs like armor. Tyler paced near the window, a storm searching for lightning.

  I didn’t know what this was yet. But I knew one thing. Something was changing. It had already started with her.

  The door slammed like a gunshot. Sharp. Final.

  Tyler stood frozen on the threshold, his jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. His fists twitched — tense, loaded things — like he couldn’t decide whether to punch the wall or his own reflection.

  “She’s lying,” he said, voice frayed like it had been dragged over broken glass.

  I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, spine aching from the silence that came before a storm. “No kidding.”

  “She had bruises,” he muttered, as if saying it again would bring them back. “I saw them. I know what I saw.”

  “Yeah,” I said, watching the rain paint slow veins on the windowpane. “And now they’re gone. Like they were never there.”

  Tyler’s eyes went bloodshot, pupils tight with something just shy of fear. “What the hell did he do to her?”

  I didn’t answer. Not then. Not for a while. Because I didn’t know. And worse — I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  We followed her. Not proud of it. But when someone you care about starts moving like a stranger, you stop worrying about boundaries.

  She didn’t walk like the Mai I knew. No more shrinking into her hoodie, chin tucked tight against her collar. Now she moved like she owned the night — head high, shoulders back, every step a quiet threat.

  Under a flickering streetlight, her smile looked carved. And she was smiling. At strangers. At shadows. At herself.

  And then there he was — Darkwood — standing on the corner like a phantom waiting for midnight. They didn’t touch. Didn’t talk. But something passed between them. A look. A tension.

  Like wolves catching each other’s scent across a clearing. Predators, both. And we were the meat in the middle.

  “You still think this is just a teacher being weird?” Tyler spat, kicking the curb hard enough to bruise bone.

  “If he even has a car,” I muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I turned to him, shadows under my eyes deep enough to drown in. “Nothing I want to explain without holy water and a loaded Glock.”

  Tyler snorted. “Fair.”

  The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The hum of the fridge sounded like a warning. The ticking of the clock felt like a countdown.

  I sat cross-legged on the floor, Dad’s journal open in front of me like a confession. The pages smelled of mildew and old blood. Every scribble looked like it had been written in a hurry — like he was running out of time.

  Sketches of wolves. Bloodlines twisted like vines. Symbols I couldn’t translate, but one... one matched the pendant Mai wore. Another looked like it had been seared into skin.

  In the margin, his handwriting wavered like it had been written mid-panic: “Valko’s first gift is healing. The second... obedience.”

  I didn’t sleep. But I dreamed.

  I dreamed of whispers that wrapped around you like chains. Of Mai standing in the rain, eyes hollow, smile stretched too wide. Of teeth that didn’t belong in her mouth.

  You ever walk into a room and just know something’s wrong? That was Bellview this morning. Overhead lights flickered. Students moved like ghosts. There was an edge in the air, a static that made my neck prickle.

  I slipped into the halls, heart thumping under my chest like a warning siren. Someone should be awake to notice this — someone with authority. But everyone at Bellview knew better than to look too closely.

  Even Mr. Darkwood’s classroom seemed quieter than usual, hanging just on the edge of still. I forced myself to breathe.

  Bellview’s rooftop was supposed to be locked. But the lock was always broken. Just like the students.

  The metal door creaked open behind me — not loud, but enough to echo in the stairwell. I didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. The air shifted around me: lighter, colder, charged like the moments before a blackout.

  He didn’t walk onto that roof. He arrived. Nathaniel Darkwood. Like the rooftop itself had invited him up and made space for his shadow.

  “I should’ve known I’d find you here,” he said, voice smooth and low, made for jazz clubs and midnight confessions. “Always a fan of dramatic heights, aren’t you?”

  Rooftops are quiet, I said instead of looking at him. Good for thinking.

  “And plotting,” he added, stepping closer. His shoes made no sound. It was like the concrete welcomed him too. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

  Finally, I turned. Darkwood leaned on the railing opposite me, posture relaxed, as if we were just two coworkers taking a cigarette break — if one of us wasn’t a walking red flag in a designer tie.

  “You’ve been watching me,” he said, his voice dipped in velvet. “I can feel it. The weight of your questions. You should be careful, Leo.”

  “That a threat?”

  A crooked smile pulled at his mouth. “Would I threaten Vance Ahmed’s son?” he asked, hand to his chest like the notion offended him. “No. I’m just saying — some answers aren’t meant to be carried. They’re meant to be avoided.”

  His charm didn’t sparkle — it coiled. Smooth, subtle, like silk wrapping around your throat before you noticed it was tight.

  I folded my arms. “Tell me something,” I said. “When exactly did you stop pretending to be normal?”

  Darkwood tilted his head. A breeze picked up, ruffling his collar. If the world had a soundtrack right then, it would’ve been violins on the verge of snapping.

  “Define normal,” he said. “Bellview High? Pop quizzes, plastic smiles, and kids quietly dying inside? That’s normal?”

  “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that speech.”

  “I’ve lived it.” He stepped closer, still not touching me. The air between us felt heavy, like gravity itself leaned in. “These kids,” he said, eyes locked on mine, “they’re unraveling. One by one. Jessie. Mai. Chila. You know it. You’ve seen it.”

  I did. I had.

  Darkwood let it linger a moment. “I gave them something else. Something stronger than pain. Stronger than memory.”

  He didn’t gloat. He shared — like he was letting me in on some higher math that made suffering optional.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I said finally. “Whatever bargain you’re offering them — it’s not healing.”

  “No,” he agreed softly. Sadness flickered in his eyes. “It’s clarity.”

  He moved to the edge, looking down. Not with fear. Just... considering the city sprawled out like a jigsaw.

  “I don’t offer salvation,” he said, voice low. “I offer a clean break.”

  Then he turned back toward me, and for a second, the late sun hit his eyes just right. Not glowing. Not shining. Just empty. Deep and still and terrifyingly awake.

  “You think I’m the villain,” he said quietly. “But you don’t understand what I’m protecting them from.”

  “From what?” I said.

  He paused, gazing beyond me. “From becoming their parents,” he said.

  His words hung between us. For a second, the puzzle clicked. It almost made sense.

  “I’m not your project,” I said, voice sharper than I meant it.

  “I know.”

  “I’m not joining you.”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t insult you by asking.”

  He stepped past me, heading back for the door. Even his walk was smooth — like a man who didn’t try to control the room, who was the room.

  “When the line comes, Leo,” he said at the frame, “I hope you’re not too busy chasing ghosts to see which side you’re already standing on.”

  Then he vanished into the stairwell, footsteps lost to silence.

  I stayed on the roof. Breathing air that suddenly felt colder. Trying to remember what I believed before he started talking. And wondering if he’d left me a choice.

  The band room always smelled like brass polish, dust, and the fading ghost of adolescent heartbreak. Sound lingered here, even after the music stopped.

  I found Mai sitting alone, back to the wall, violin case beside her, hands folded too neatly in her lap. She wasn’t crying. Mai never cried. Not in public. Not where someone might use it against her.

  “Figured you’d be here,” I said, voice low, approaching like you would a stray animal that didn’t trust hands anymore.

  She looked up and gave me a faint smile. “Of course you did. You’re good at watching people.”

  I sat across from her on the scuffed linoleum. The late sun had dipped just enough to cast long shadows through the blinds, striping the floor like prison bars.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” I said.

  Mai tilted her head. “Darkwood?”

  “Yeah.” I watched her for a sign she’d run, but she just rested one arm on her knees. “What did he say to you?”

  Her eyes lit up a little — not with surprise, just a warm glimmer, like she’d just heard a lullaby. “He’s kind,” she said dreamily, and I already felt the ache building behind my temples. “He listens. When he speaks, it’s like... he sees the parts of you no one else notices. Not the broken ones. The ones trying not to break.”

  There’s a thing people do when they’ve been through hell. They rewrite kindness into religion. They worship the ones who don’t flinch at their scars.

  “Mai,” I said gently, “how well do you really know him?”

  Her voice went quiet. “Better than you think. He didn’t look away when I told him about my brother. Not when I said I thought dying might be better than going home.”

  I swallowed. “And what did he say?”

  She smiled — small, almost sad. “He said I didn’t have to go back. That some of us are born into cages, but that doesn’t mean we have to die in them.”

  It was the kind of line you want to believe. The kind that slips past the guard dogs in your brain and sets up camp in your chest.

  “Do you think he’s... hiding something?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Everyone’s hiding something. But not everyone lies the same way. Mr. Darkwood... doesn’t lie to me.”

  No hesitation. No irony. Just belief.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch. The cicadas outside had started their evening dirge, buzzing like static over a dead signal.

  Then I asked the real question. “Do you think he knew my dad?”

  She looked at me like I’d just said the sky had teeth. “He doesn’t talk about the past,” she said softly. “Only about futures. The kind we deserve.”

  Futures. Not freedom. Not healing. Not even hope. Just futures — like he was offering contracts instead of comfort.

  Mai leaned forward, her fingers brushing mine. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, Leo.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, lying with the practiced grace of someone who’s made fear into furniture.

  She smiled again, that fragile smile people wear right before they walk into traffic thinking the light’s still green. “You just don’t understand him yet.”

  I looked at her for a long time. At the shadows under her eyes. At the quiet bruises I couldn’t see but somehow could feel. And I thought: What if he really is helping her? What if that’s what makes him dangerous?

  Rain whispered against the windows — thin, needling taps like something trying to get in.

  Tyler sat on my floor, legs stretched out, chewing on the end of a plastic coffee stirrer like it was a cigarette and he was three existential crises deep. The USB drive glowed faintly in the port of my laptop. Files loaded one at a time. Slow. Like the system knew what we were seeing wasn’t meant to be seen.

  “Okay,” Tyler said, voice hushed like the room might bite him for speaking too loud. “That’s... not normal teacher behavior.”

  “No,” I said, eyes fixed on the screen.

  Darkwood again — alone in Room 3B. Standing motionless by the chalkboard. A statue of bone and intent. For a moment he tilted his head — not toward the camera, but toward something off-screen. Something we couldn’t see.

  Then black. For exactly one frame. Then back again.

  Tyler sat forward. “What was that?”

  “Skip,” I muttered, scrubbing the footage back. The same one-frame blackout. No audio spike. No timecode corruption. Just a single, perfect absence.

  He leaned closer. “Dude, what if he’s like... some kind of psychic blackout artist? Like, boom, light goes out, and he’s inside your brain —”

  Tyler showed up at my door like a hangover I wasn’t ready for — unshaven, twitchy, smelling of espresso and bad decisions.

  “I’m going to talk to her,” he declared immediately, eyes fierce.

  “You did,” I reminded him. “She iced you like week-old leftovers.”

  “This time I won’t ask,” he said stubbornly. “I’ll push.”

  I studied him. He looked tired. Fraying at the edges. But still burning. “You push, too,” I said softly. “You can’t barge into this.”

  He gave me a look. “I know. But I’m not five. Something’s off with Mai. And something’s off with that guy. I’m not just gonna sit here.”

  I didn’t argue. Not really. He was right. Words only got us so far.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “You planning to come with?”

  I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

  The plan was reckless. Risky. Possibly criminal.

  But it was mine. And worse — it was working.

  People think being a control freak means barking orders and micromanaging coffee breaks. It doesn’t. It means if one cog in your machine breaks, you tear the whole thing apart with your bare hands, rebuild it out of spite, and add tripwires just in case.

  Tonight, that cog was Tyler Riggs. My favorite loose cannon. God help us all.

  Two monitors. One cracked. One overheating.

  Bellview’s floor plan taped to the wall like we were hunting a serial killer.

  Security feeds? Lifted straight off the district’s IP network. The entire system held together with duct tape, blind optimism, and prayers.

  I’d looped the hall cams on a twenty-second delay. Enough to give Tyler room to move.

  He stood near the fire escape, hoodie up, a fake pizza box in hand, a Bluetooth mic clipped to his collar. Inside the box: a flashlight, a USB drive, and a bag of Hot Cheetos. Because of course.

  “This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t look like a pizza guy.”

  “You look like someone who’s crashed three scooters and still thinks he can beat traffic laws,” I quipped in his earpiece.

  “Flattering,” he deadpanned through the mic. “Is that why you always invite me to these fun felony nights?”

  “No,” I said. “I invite you because you’re the only person unhinged enough to make this seem normal.”

  He popped a piece of gum, adjusted his cap — which read ‘Zal’s Pizza. Real Cheese, Real Regret’ — and approached the side door.

  He knocked once, then twice. It opened.

  A janitor blinked at him. Mid-fifties. Mustache that had seen war. “Who the hell ordered pizza?” he grunted.

  Tyler smiled wide. “Hey there, Chief Mop. Got one large meat lover’s, extra garlic, and no one at reception to sign.”

  “We didn’t order anything.”

  “Oh, damn. You know what? That tracks. This was for the debate club. Or maybe the chess team. Or possibly the fencing team? Someone in here’s definitely ordering carbs at emotionally inappropriate hours.”

  The janitor squinted. Tyler leaned in conspiratorially. “Look, I just need someone to take this so I can make my next delivery. It’s getting cold. I’m getting yelled at. And someone in your hallways is playing Free Bird on loop because I just passed the music room and nearly had a breakdown.”

  A younger janitor peeked out behind him, holding a broom like it was a spear. “You’re not on the list,” he said.

  Tyler held up his phone, scrolling aimlessly. “We have a list? Damn. Thought this was America.”

  The younger one scowled. “I’m calling the front office.”

  “Go ahead,” Tyler said, “but say you’re gonna need a lot more garlic knots if I gotta sit on hold that long.”

  The older janitor shook his head. Tyler gave him a final grin. “Kid,” Mustache said slowly, “you on something?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler replied. “A deadline.”

  The younger janitor reached for the box. Tyler pulled it back. “Hold on.” He spun around and popped the lid slightly again — checking the hidden camera. Another blink. Now they were all on video.

  He handed over the box with a flourish. “Bless you, gentlemen. Enjoy your artificially-sourced meat.”

  While Tyler distracted the guards with fast-food logic, I slid into the Bellview system. Remote login spoofed from an old teacher’s credentials. Bless Mrs. Koppelman and her refusal to change her password since 2013.

  Security footage sorted. Room 3B queued. And then I watched.

  Darkwood never left. Some nights, he sat at his desk. Motionless. No grading. No scrolling. No blinking. Just watching the door like he was waiting for God, or maybe just Jessie Lin.

  Other nights? He stood in front of the chalkboard. Still. Arms down. Nothing written. Like he’d forgotten how to move.

  And then — frame 032918_B3-05.

  A glitch. Not static. Not distortion. Just black. One frame. Absolute. No outlines. No desk. No board. No man. Just the absence of everything.

  “...and then the customer says, ‘That’s not my calzone!’ and I say, ‘Sir, that’s my hand.’” Tyler laughed way too loud. The janitors stared at him like he’d ordered emotional baggage with extra sauce.

  “Kid,” Mustache said. “You on something?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler replied. “A deadline. You guys want the pizza or what?”

  The younger janitor reached for the box again. Tyler pulled it back. “Wait. Let me just...” He spun around and popped the lid slightly again — checking the hidden camera. A camera blip. Now they were all on record.

  He handed over the box with a grin. “Enjoy your carbs, gents.”

  “We’re good,” I said. “Loop’s running. Pull out.”

  “Finally,” Tyler whispered. “Exit point B?”

  “Janitor’s closet behind the gym. Go quiet.”

  “I am quiet.”

  “You once tripped over your own sarcasm. Move.”

  Tyler ducked around the corner. One janitor shouted about unpaid garlic knots. Tyler answered by yanking the nearest fire alarm handle.

  Bells rang. Lights flashed. Chaos bloomed.

  Guards flailed. The sprinklers didn’t activate — Bellview’s budget cuts were real.

  Tyler bolted through the chaos.

  We slammed the door shut behind us and collapsed on the living room carpet, breathless. The apartment was spinning with adrenaline.

  My monitors still buzzed. Tyler was out of breath. “So,” he panted, “good news: the janitor likes pepperoni. Bad news: I may be banned from that pizza chain forever.”

  I couldn’t help a grin. “Small price to pay.” I plugged in the USB drive. We watched the clip together.

  Darkwood. Motionless. Then the glitch. Blackness. Nothing.

  It wasn’t enough to convict. But it was enough to doubt. In a world where everything’s faked, doubt is a breadcrumb. It’s how the trail begins.

  The footage sat on my desk like a loaded gun — grainy, raw, but real. Tyler chewed on the end of a pen.

  “This enough to take him down?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” I said. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

  We couldn’t go to Principal McCarthy again. Last time he threatened to call our parents — and considering mine were MIA and Tyler’s dad was in jail, that was just sad comedy.

  So we did what desperate kids with a conscience do. We sent it anonymously.

  Subject: BELLVIEW FACULTY CONCERN — URGENT

  Attached: video evidence, notes, timestamps, list of odd student behavior patterns

  From:

  To: Bellview PD Tips Line; CC: Local News Crime Desk

  I didn’t expect a raid. I didn’t expect sirens or headlines or handcuffs. But I expected something. A crack. A question. A pause.

  What we got... was silence. And then, three hours later —

  A voicemail from the Bellview Police Department. Officer Dulaney’s voice, clear on the recording:

  “Hi, this is Officer Dulaney, returning a tip left earlier today. Uh... yeah, we reviewed the footage, and while we appreciate the concern, we didn’t find anything illegal or suspicious enough to warrant further action. Looks like maybe a lighting issue? Or possibly edited. If there’s something more substantial, feel free to submit again. Thanks.”

  Tyler threw his hands up. “Lighting issue?! Seriously? The man disappears into thin air! The mug does! The chalkboard does!”

  “He watches the door for hours like a serial killer screensaver,” I muttered. “That timestamp glitch—”

  “—Looked like the void threw up.”

  The realization settled between us unspoken: They weren’t going to help. Not the cops. Not the principal. Not anyone with an ounce of power.|

  My phone buzzed. We both jumped. Unknown Number.

  “Hello?”

  Silence. Then a voice. Low. Measured. Worn — like she was stirring tea with a scalpel.

  “You’ve seen enough to start asking the right questions.”

  A chill skated up my spine. That voice — smoke and velvet and too-calm. Even Tyler was quiet now.

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “You can call me Ingrid. Ingrid Voss.”

  Everything stopped. The room. The rain. Even Tyler.

  Vance’s voice whispered inside my head, soaked in bourbon and regret: If you see something you don’t understand — find Ingrid. She’ll help you.

  “You knew my father,” I said, more accusation than question.

  “I worked with him. Once,” she answered. Her tone didn’t change. Like the word once meant something vast.

  “He had potential. Then he had you. That changed things.” No judgment. Just the calm delivery of someone who knew the punchline before the joke started.

  Tyler mouthed, who is it? I shook my head.

  “I saw what you sent to the police,” she said quietly. My stomach dropped. “That was encrypted.”

  “It was,” I admitted. “But it’s all we had.”

  “Not well,” she replied with dry amusement.

  I bristled. “You work for Valko?”

  “Please,” she chuckled softly. “I’m allergic to corporate fascism. I’m what you’d call... an independent contractor for reality.”

  Tyler raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re not going to tell me what Darkwood is, are you?” I asked.

  “No.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Because you already know. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

  “Then tell me what he wants.”

  A pause. Long enough to make me think the call dropped.

  “Balance. Correction. Hunger. Take your pick.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Some beings collect coins. Some collect secrets. He collects cracks. The ones people try to plaster over.”

  I stared at the footage. At the shadowed figure standing alone. Not moving. Not breathing. Just... watching.

  “That’s why he’s drawn to kids like Mai, Chila,” she said, almost softly. “That’s how it works, Leo. They never take the strong. They take the fractured. And Bellview is full of fractures.”

  My hand tightened around the phone. “You gonna help me stop him?”

  Another pause. Shorter. Sharper.

  “No.”

  Something in my chest dropped like a stone.

  “Then why the call?”

  “Because I’m not here to stop things. I’m here to observe. Maybe offer advice. Patch the bleeding if I feel generous.”

  “But you? You’re the variable.” Tyler said it out loud.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a variable in someone’s math problem,” I muttered, even as my gut churned.

  She chuckled. Warm. Alarmingly human. “You’re your father’s son, alright.”

  I lowered my voice. “He’s coming after people I care about.”

  “Ingrid’s voice was cold now. “Then you better decide if you’re willing to lose them to learn the truth.”

  The rain outside got heavier. Or maybe it was just the silence between us that suddenly sounded louder.

  “Ingrid... why now?” I asked.

  “Because it’s starting,” she said. A beat. “And when it starts, you don’t get time to warm up. You run. Or you burn.”

  A click. The line went dead.

  I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, as the quiet crept back in.

  She didn’t give me answers. Just gave me the shape of the hole the answers left behind.

  I looked at the rain-slick window. Then at Tyler, who was now holding the flash drive like it might bite him. Then at the footage. Darkwood. Still. Waiting.

  It was starting. And I was already late.

  You spend so long building walls, you forget why you built them. Then one night, someone walks beside you and you realize... maybe they weren’t walls. Maybe they were fences. And maybe the gate never really locked.

  Tyler was waiting beside a flickering streetlamp by a rundown gas station out on the edge of Bellview, where the town stopped pretending it was safe. Neon paint peeled from the sign. A single light burned behind the broken glass, like it was waiting.

  I found him staring at the door, pacing with the restless energy of half a conversation left unsaid.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  He looked over, shaking off his thoughts. “Yeah?”

  “I, uh... I was kind of a dick. For a long time.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re going to need to narrow that down. Like, hour? Week? Decade?”

  I snorted. Fair.

  “I mean... back in middle school, high school. I pushed you away. Acted like we weren’t friends anymore just because —” I shook my head. “Just because everything in my life was turning into static and I didn’t know how to handle it.”

  He didn’t respond right away. Just kicked at a rock on the ground, watching it skitter.

  “You always joked through it. Made the weird feel normal,” I continued. “I didn’t realize how much I needed that. Not until it was gone.”

  A beat. The only sounds were our footsteps and a distant dog barking like it owed someone money.

  “I missed it,” I said. “Us. Even the chaos. Especially the chaos.”

  Tyler gave me a sidelong look. “You saying you missed the guy who once microwaved cheese sticks in your DVD player?”

  “That was oddly specific and deeply traumatic.”

  He laughed — really laughed — and for a second, we were sixteen again. Cutting class. Making dumb movies. Stealing cafeteria trays to sled down the hill behind the gym.

  Regret doesn’t hit like a car crash. It’s slower. Like ice forming on a window until you can’t see out anymore.

  “I’m not good at this,” I admitted. “The people stuff. Trusting. Owning when I screw up.”

  “No kidding,” he said, smiling this time. “You could’ve just said ‘sorry,’ you know.”

  “I did. Sort of.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. But this way I get to make you feel awkward for another three blocks.”

  I smirked. “You’ve grown more sadistic with age.”

  Tyler slid his hands into his hoodie pockets and came a little closer. “I always knew you’d come around. Just didn’t think it’d involve supernatural conspiracies and morally ambiguous guidance counselors.”

  “Honestly, neither did I.”

  We passed under the flickering gas station light.

  “This Ingrid chick... can we trust her?” he asked quietly.

  I thought about her voice. About the way she’d said run or burn.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I think she’s one of the only people who won’t lie to us.”

  He nodded slowly, then cracked a small grin. “Then let’s go find out.”

  We stepped off the curb, into whatever came next.

  And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t walking alone.