The day after Aveline's lesson, the school buzzed like a disturbed hive.
Students clung to corners, speaking in urgent whispers, eyes darting to shadows as though they'd leap alive.
By lunch, it happened.
The courtyard rang with laughter and chatter, then—
A piercing scream.
Heads turned just in time to see a boy collapse near the fountain. His limbs jerked violently, as if strings pulled by an invisible hand. His mouth stretched wide, choking on words no one could understand.
"Shadows! Get them off! Don't let them—" His nails raked his own skin as if tearing something unseen away.
Teachers rushed, students scattered. The boy's scream cut into silence so sharp it rang in the ears.
Gabriel froze, heart pounding. His mind flashed back to the P.E. collapse. This was worse—more deliberate. More… targeted.
And standing at the edge of the crowd, hands folded neatly, was Miss Aveline.
She didn't move to help. Didn't shout for calm. She only watched, her expression unreadable—almost serene.
"Why isn't she doing anything?" a girl whispered, trembling.
"She's enjoying this," another muttered.
The boy's body stilled, finally, his chest heaving like he'd run miles. Paramedics were called. Police pushed students back.
Gabriel caught sight of Gemma. She hadn't moved. Just sat on the stone bench nearby, her hands tight around her notebook. Her face—blank, as always—but her knuckles white against the cover.
Rumors spread like wildfire before the ambulance even left.
"She cursed him."
"No, it's the substitute. She's a witch."
"Maybe they're working together."
By evening, parents filled the office phones with demands. Security doubled overnight. The local news began circling like vultures, though no official statement was given.
That night, Gabriel found himself pacing his room. He could still hear the boy's voice, shrieking about shadows.
And Aveline. Always there. Always watching.
He turned toward Gemma's room across the hall. Her door was closed, light seeping through the crack beneath. He almost knocked. Almost asked her what she was writing.
But his hand froze inches from the wood.
From inside, faintly, he thought he heard the scrape of a pen.
Over and over.
Writing.