The weight of the shattered radio in my hands felt heavier than iron. My fingers trembled around its broken frame, the edges biting into my skin. The leader's gun stayed pressed against my back, so close that I could smell the faint tang of oil and gunpowder. Every time I breathed, the cold barrel moved with me, reminding me that one wrong inhale could be my last.
The inspector's voice buzzed faintly through the cracked speaker.
"Son? Can you still hear me? We're not abandoning you. Hold on."
I opened my mouth to answer, but the leader snatched the radio back, hissing like a snake. His eyes darted across the hall—hundreds of terrified students staring back at him, their faces pale masks of dread.
"Enough," he barked. "You will not speak to him unless I command it."
He tossed the radio to another masked man, who shoved it into his vest. Then, turning back to the crowd, he said:
"You think the police care about you? No. You are pawns. If they loved you, they would have bargained already."
The words slithered into our ears, planting seeds of doubt. Around me, some students began crying louder. A teacher tried to hush them, but her own voice shook like brittle glass.
Then came the sound—sharp, piercing.
BEEP.
The bomb blinked again. Its tiny light pulsed like a second heartbeat in the room. Red as blood.
Suddenly, from the far corner of the hall, there was movement. A girl in the front row slumped sideways, her body limp. Panic rippled through the students near her. Someone whispered her name, but she didn't respond. She had fainted; her face had become white as chalk.
One of the terrorists stalked toward her, rifle raised. He prodded her shoulder with the barrel, forcing her back upright. She groaned weakly. The man laughed, a dry, humourless sound.
"Pathetic," he muttered, before returning to his post.
But his laughter only sharpened the terror in the air.
Minutes passed like hours. The silence was broken only by the shuffle of boots, the whimpers of children, and the hum of fear vibrating through the hall.
Then—
A sudden crackle on the PA system.
sssshhhttt "This is the police. We repeat: we do not wish for harm. Let us send food and water for the students."
The leader's head snapped toward the stage, eyes blazing. He stormed forward, seized the mic again, and shouted into it:
"Your offers mean nothing! You will not step closer. If you dare, the first blood spilt will be that of your future and precious yongesters !"
His voice thundered through the speakers, rattling every window in the school.
But as he roared, I noticed something strange.
Behind him, near the stack of old equipment by the stage, a faint glow blinked. Not from the bomb. Not from their gear. Something smaller, blue, almost hidden.
My heart skipped.
It was a phone.
Someone in the hall had managed to send a signal.
I scanned the rows, my eyes darting quickly so I wouldn't draw attention. There—in the back row, half-hidden behind two boys—sat a figure hunched low. Their hand was inside their bag, fingers moving cautiously, tapping.
Someone was secretly communicating with the outside.
Hope and fear clashed violently in my chest. If the terrorists found out, it wouldn't just be that student—they'd punish us all.
The leader paced back to the bomb, crouching beside it like a priest tending to an altar. His gloved hands brushed the wires as if caressing them.
"Do you know why we are here?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. "Do you children understand?"
No one answered. Not even a breath stirred.
His mask tilted, the hollow eye sockets staring at us.
"We are here because your world is built on lies. Your leaders steal from us, drown us, burn our homes. Today, you will feel what we have felt."
His voice rose, echoing like thunder:
"You will become our message. Your screams will carry further than words ever could."
The truth hit like ice. They weren't here for money. Not even negotiation. They wanted chaos. They wanted us to be the proof of their wrath.
A boy in the second row couldn't take it anymore. His chest heaved as he stood up, voice breaking with desperation:
"You don't have to do this! Please—just let us go!"
The room froze.
One of the terrorists lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The boy's head hit the plaster with a sickening thud. Cries erupted from the crowd.
The man raised his rifle, but the leader barked:
"STOP."
The rifle lowered, though the boy collapsed to the ground, clutching his head. The leader stepped closer, crouching to meet his terrified eyes.
"You are brave," he whispered, though his voice dripped with venom. "But bravery is wasted here."
He turned to the rest of us, spreading his arms.
"Do you see? This is what happens when you speak out of turn. Silence will save you. Defiance will bury you."
I sat frozen, my mind racing. The faint blue glow near the back blinked again—quick, purposeful. Whoever it was, they were risking their life to reach the police.
But how long until the terrorists noticed?
And worse… what if the police outside acted too soon?
Because in this hall, with bombs and guns surrounding us, even the smallest mistake would mean the end.
And as the seconds stretched on, one thing became horrifyingly clear:
The silence was cracking.
And when it broke… chaos would flood in.