Josh Mendez lived like he played — loud, fast, invincible.
Brackley Academy worshipped him. Star forward on the lacrosse team, legacy student, chiseled jaw and a father who wore the badge of Police Commissioner like a second skin. He walked the halls with effortless charm, high-fived underclassmen, called teachers by their first names.
He was untouchable.
He knew it.
So when someone left a USB in his locker labeled "Play Me," Josh assumed it was a prank.
He played it.
It started as a looped video — low resolution, no sound.
A locker.
Not just any locker. His.
The footage shook slightly, like it had been recorded from a hidden angle. Then the door burst open and a figure — masked, hooded, taller than him — slammed him backward. Josh blinked.
Then another Josh appeared on screen — whimpering, blood on his lip, eyes swollen. Crying. Begging.
He flinched.
Pause.
No one had ever filmed him like that before.
He ejected the drive and tossed it in the trash, laughing it off to his teammates. "Weird deepfake shit. Creepy fan or something."
But something in the back of his mind itched.
Because that hallway in the video?
It looked exactly like the South Building — where he'd slammed Lyra into the lockers last year and posted the video as a joke.
"Art getting framed," he'd captioned it.
He still thought it was clever.
Two days later, someone printed a screenshot from the USB video and taped it across campus — in the gym, the locker room, the snack bar.
Same image. Different caption this time:
"Still a joke?"
Josh ripped them all down.
But it was too late.
The image spread online through student group chats, hidden accounts, even the Brackley Confessions thread. Students began whispering. Some laughed. Others didn't.
And when Josh tried to protest, tried to say it was fake, no one listened.
The irony burned.
By Friday, it got worse.
That night, during the varsity lacrosse game — packed stands, scouts in attendance, alumni filming for scholarships — the jumbotron flickered.
Then glitched.
For three long, silent seconds, the image appeared.
A boy.
Crying.
Bloodied.
Locked in a metal box that looked far too familiar.
The game froze. Coaches yelled to kill the feed. Someone cut the power to the screen. The crowd murmured.
Josh stood frozen in the middle of the field, helmet off, breath shallow.
He looked down at his gloves.
Hands that once filmed her.
Now shook.
Later, he stormed into the principal's office, demanding an investigation. "This is harassment. Blackmail. Some freak is messing with me."
But there were no logs.
No access records.
No camera footage of who left the USB.
No witness to who taped the posters.
Just like Lyra.
No proof. No backup.
Just a victim no one wanted to believe.
He looked down at the polished wood desk, the file with his name on it.
He realized, for the first time, how fast silence can turn into isolation.
And how humiliation doesn't need bruises to feel like pain.
That night, he got an anonymous message.
Just one line:
"Do you remember how loud she screamed? Because now they're laughing at you."
Josh threw his phone across the room.
Outside, it started to rain.