When you poke a monster, it bites back.
I knew that.
I just didn't think it would bite someone else.
By noon, the whole school was talking about Lena.
Or rather, what had been done to her.
A photo. In the girls' bathroom. Her head shoved into a sink full of water. Mascara streaking down her face. The words "SNITCH" scrawled across the mirror in red lipstick.
It was uploaded to the Blogger's site at exactly 11:34 a.m., captioned simply:
"Loyalty costs. So does proximity."
I stared at it for a full minute before it registered.
They'd gone after her.
Because of me.
I found her outside the nurse's office, soaking wet and furious.
"You okay?" I asked.
She looked up. Her lip was split.
"Define 'okay.'"
"I'm so sorry…"
"Don't. Don't do the pity thing," she snapped. "I signed up to be friends with you. I knew there'd be collateral."
That stung.
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one does," she said. "You think you're the first person who ever tried to fight back?"
I froze. "Wait… someone else did?"
She hesitated. Then: "Last year. A girl named Isla Moreau. Smart. Quiet. Paranoid as hell. She got obsessed with finding the Blogger. Kept journals. Recorded conversations. Mapped out patterns."
"What happened to her?"
"She jumped from the roof of West Hall in February."
Silence fell like snow.
I couldn't breathe. "Are you saying…?"
"I'm saying, don't end up like her."
That night, I broke into the library.
Not dramatic. Just used a paperclip and a little desperation.
The goal: find Isla's old files. Yearbooks. Newspaper clippings. Anything.
I found her photo in a dusty yearbook. Page 127.
Long black hair. Pale eyes. A half-smile that looked forced.
Then something fell out of the book.
A note.
Folded into a square. Yellowed with age.
I opened it slowly.
"THEY AREN'T ONE PERSON."
"THEY COLLECT SECRETS. AND TRAITORS."
"FOLLOW THE ASHES."
My heart pounded.
It wasn't just a warning. It was a map.
The kind only someone desperate would leave behind.
Back in my room, I pulled out my own journal. Scribbled everything.
Every note. Every message. Every photo.
At the bottom, I wrote:
"Ashes = bonfire party?"
"What burns there?"
"Ezra = part of it?"
I paused on his name.
I wanted to trust him. Wanted to believe the strange looks and careful warnings were signs of someone trying to help.
But I also knew he wasn't telling me everything.
And now someone had been hurt because of me.
Another message arrived at 2:00 a.m.
But this time… it wasn't digital.
It was under my pillow.
I'd checked before bed. Triple-checked. It hadn't been there.
But now, on thin black paper, in silver ink, I read:
"The girl in the mirror isn't you anymore."
"Choose: expose yourself, or lose someone else."
-B
***
I stared at my reflection until sunrise.
Wondering how much of me they could strip away before I forgot who I was.