I didn't scream when I saw the flower.
I didn't let my hands shake, or my breath stutter, or my knees buckle the way they wanted to.
I just crouched down, picked up the photo of my sister taped to the black rose, and walked calmly back into my dorm room like this wasn't the most terrifying moment of my life.
She smiled too much. You don't.
Whoever left that note… they were watching me closely enough to know I didn't smile.
Which meant they were close. Close enough to see my face. Close enough to know when I wasn't alone. When I let my guard down.
I peeled the photo off the stem, trying not to look at Lila's face.
She was laughing in the picture. Eyes squinting. Wind in her hair. It was at the quad — the same cracked bench I passed every morning on my way to class.
The message wasn't about her smile.
It was about the fact that this photo couldn't have come from me.
It had to come from someone who was there with her. Someone who took it.
Someone who kept it.
By lunch, I'd convinced myself I wasn't going to tell anyone.
But when I saw Killian across the quad, sitting under the sycamore tree like he didn't have enemies, I changed my mind.
He had one leg stretched out, the other propped up, fingers tapping against the cover of his book — something leatherbound and worn, probably way too philosophical for a college sophomore.
I walked up before I could hesitate.
He didn't look surprised to see me. He never did.
"Black roses," I said, dropping the photo on the open page of his book.
He glanced at it.
Sighed.
"You're still alive. That's a plus."
"That's all you have to say?"
He slowly closed the book and slipped the photo between the pages.
"I told you. You're digging too deep."
"And you're not digging deep enough."
His eyes met mine. Calm. Cold. Careful.
"You don't want to know what I've seen."
"Try me."
Killian leaned back, arms crossed, like he was deciding how much I could handle.
"There's something about this school," he said. "Something rotten beneath all the gloss and money and fake legacies. People disappear. Not just students. Staff. Professors. Anyone who asks too many questions."
My throat tightened. "And Lila?"
"She asked too many."
I sat beside him, careful not to touch, but close enough that our knees almost brushed.
"I think someone's following me," I said. "Watching me. They got into my dorm."
He turned sharply. "Are you serious?"
"I found a note under my pillow. And this morning, the rose. The picture."
He dragged a hand through his hair. "This is getting worse."
"So help me," I said. "Help me find out what she was really looking into."
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Fine. But if we're doing this, we do it my way."
I blinked. "Your way?"
"No more sneaking into archives alone. No more wandering around at night like a horror movie extra."
"Wow," I muttered. "You really know how to flatter a girl."
He smirked — just slightly — and for a second, I saw something underneath the cold exterior.
Something almost… human.
"I'm serious," he said. "You're not invisible here, Zara. You're the girl with a dead sister. That makes you dangerous."
"Or a target."
"Exactly."
We met that night in the back corner of the library — where the Wi-Fi was spotty and no one ever shelved books properly.
He brought two coffees. I brought Lila's journal.
"This is what I have," I said, flipping it open between us. "Some pages are torn. Others just say cryptic crap like, 'Trust is earned, not assumed.' I don't know what she meant."
He scanned the pages. "She was scared."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pointed to a line scribbled in the margins:
"R.A. knows. Pretends not to. Keeps the hall keys."
"Your RA," Killian said slowly. "What's her name?"
"Camille."
He didn't react.
"Something wrong?"
"I've heard the name before," he muttered. "She's been an RA for three years. That's… unusual."
"How?"
"They rotate. No one wants to stay that long. Unless they're watching something."
Or someone, I thought.
We left the library just before midnight.
The halls were quiet. Cold. Lights flickering like something out of a B-grade horror movie.
Killian walked me back to my dorm.
He didn't talk much, but he didn't have to. His presence was louder than words.
At my door, I paused.
"You ever think we're in over our heads?"
He looked at me.
And then — softly — "Every day."
A silence settled.
Not awkward.
Just… weighted.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.
He didn't reply.
Just nodded once and walked away, shadows swallowing him whole.
But I didn't sleep.
Because sometime around 2 a.m., I woke to the sound of my door unlocking.
Click.
Slow.
Intentional.
I sat up in bed, heart slamming against my ribs.
The chain lock held. The door didn't open all the way.
But it opened enough.
A shadow moved in the hallway.
Then a voice — too soft to be male, too calm to be drunk — whispered through the crack:
"You shouldn't be asking questions, Zara."
I didn't scream.
I didn't breathe.
And then the door clicked shut.
And the footsteps disappeared.
[Creator's Note – 🖤💀 chill… or don't]
CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT DOOR!? 😭😭
Someone's breaking into Zara's room AGAIN and this time they're speaking to her??? Nope. Not okay.
Meanwhile, Killian's giving broody protector energy and I'm here for it 😮💨
But who tf is Camille really? And what does she know about the hall keys?
And that RA comment in the journal?? 👀 Yeah, it's getting real.
Drop your thoughts and conspiracy theories, besties.
Because this mystery is getting messy.
See you in Chapter 5 — and yes, it's gonna get darker. 😏
xoxo
–Smith_10