The hall had become a prison of breaths—hundreds of us inhaling shallowly, terrified to make a sound. Each second passed like a blade scraping across glass. My skin prickled with the weight of unseen eyes; the masked men patrolled like shadows, their boots echoing on the cold marble floor.
The leader stood tall at the front, gun hanging in one hand, radio crackling at his hip. His words still hung in the air, heavy as smoke:
"If they try to enter, this hall will be your grave."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Even the ceiling fans seemed afraid to creak.
Then—
The hall doors banged open.
Two of the terrorists stormed in, dragging three students by their arms. Their uniforms were wrinkled, with wet stains marking their shirts. One boy's face was streaked with tears, another's knees scraped raw from being shoved along the corridor. The third clutched his stomach, bent over as if he'd been struck.
The whispers began instantly.
"Restroom , yes… they were in the washroom…"
My jaw dropped. These were the kids who hadn't been herded in time. The unlucky ones.
The leader's eyes narrowed. He strode forward, movements sharp, controlled. He circled the trembling boys like a predator deciding which to devour first.
"You thought you could hide?" His voice was soft, too soft, making it even more terrifying.
No one answered. The smallest boy whimpered.
The leader's hand shot out, gripping his collar. He dragged him toward the stage where the old PA system stood, its mic dangling. He shoved the boy forward, pressing the muzzle of his gun into his back.
"Speak," the leader ordered.
The boy's voice cracked, trembling, but the sound carried through every speaker in the school.
"Th-this… this is not a drill. They have guns. We are not safe. P-please…"
The words dissolved into sobs, echoing into every empty classroom, every corridor, drilling into every cell of our bodies.
The mic was yanked away. The leader's voice replaced it, booming through the speakers, making the wheather more stroming:
"You are all ours now. The police outside cannot save you. If they try, every child in this hall will die."
The sound of his voice in the speakers was monstrous, omnipresent, as if the entire school itself had turned against us.
The boy collapsed to his knees. The terrorist raised his rifle—then paused. A cruel smile tugged at the edges of his eyes. Instead of firing, he laughed. A hollow, jagged sound that made my blood run cold.
"No," he said softly, almost mockingly. "Not yet. Fear is better than death."
He gestured, and one of his men stepped forward, unzipping a heavy black bag. The metallic clink of wires and steel filled the air. My heart stopped.
Inside was a bomb.
A block of metal and wires, blinking red steadily—each pulse like a countdown, a reminder of how fragile our lives had become.
Gasps and cries rippled through the hall. Teachers clutched children, students buried their faces in their arms. The leader knelt beside the device, caressing the wires like they were something holy.
"This," he declared, his voice rising, "is our message. If your rescuers enter, this school will vanish in flames. Let them decide how much your lives are worth."
The sound of muffled sobs filled the space. Somewhere behind me, a girl fainted, her friends shaking her desperately. But no one dared to move too much. The terrorists' rifles were on us.
Then—
A crackle. The leader's radio sputtered to life. A firm voice pushed through the static.
"This is Inspector Edward Lawrence. We know you are inside. We don't want anyone hurt. Tell us your demands."
Hope flared for a split second—bright, dangerous.
The leader snatched the radio, pressing the button with deliberate calm. His voice dropped low, and venomous.
"You will stay where you are. One step closer, and the blood of these children will soak your streets."
The inspector's reply was measured, but the strain was there:
"Listen. Release the students, and we will talk. No one has to die."
The leader's rage erupted. He hurled the radio to the ground, plastic shattering across the marble. His rifle swung in an arc—stopping at my row.
And then his finger pointed. At me.
"You."
Every head turned. My chest tightened. My legs locked, but somehow I forced myself to stand.
The terrorist shoved the broken radio into my trembling hands. Cold steel gun placed again—the same spot as before, the same icy burn.
"Tell them," he hissed into my ear, "that if they enter, you will be the first body they collect."
The radio hissed with static. Then the inspector's voice came through, sharp with urgency.
"Who am I speaking to? Son, are you alright? Stay calm."
My lips parted, but no sound came. Hundreds of eyes bore into me. The weight of their fear pressed down on my chest like a stone. My mother's face flashed in my mind.
Finally, words scraped out of my dry throat.
"They… they have guns. And bombs. If you come in… we're all dead."
The leader's masked face leaned close, his hot breath grazing my ear.
"Good boy," he whispered. "Now pray your heroes are smart enough to listen."
And as I stood there, frozen with a gun to my head, a horrifying realization struck me—
Every breath we took was borrowed. Every second was stolen.
And sooner or later, someone would pay the price.