The hall was suffocating. Hundreds of us sat shoulder to shoulder on the cold cement floor, the smell of sweat and fear clinging to the air like poison. Every creak, every cough, every breath felt like it might trigger the storm waiting to explode.
But my eyes kept straying to that faint, flickering glow. The phone.
The student—whoever it was—was playing with fire. One wrong movement, one glance from the wrong pair of masked eyes, and they'd be dragged out in front of all of us. My chest tightened as I thought of it.
The terrorists were restless now. Two of them paced like caged panthers near the windows, peering out between the broken blinds. Another leaned against the doorway, his gun tapping rhythmically against his thigh, an impatient drumbeat of doom.
And the leader—always the leader—sat near the bomb, whispering to it like it was alive, his fingers brushing its wires as if reassuring a child.
Suddenly—
A shout.
"HEY! What's that?"
Every head jerked up. One of the guards near the back had spotted something. His rifle swung forward, barrel pointing like an accusing finger.
The hall turned into stone.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I prayed silently: Please, not the phone. Please, God, not the phone.
The guard stormed into the rows, yanking bags from trembling hands, scattering books, pencils, and notebooks across the floor. His boots crunched on pens and rulers. A girl cried out when he shoved her, but he ignored it, eyes scanning, hunting.
Then—he froze.
The faint glow.
The phone.
A gasp rippled through the students as the guard ripped it from the bag of a thin boy crouched low in the back row. The boy's face went pale, his lips trembling like he couldn't even form words.
The guard lifted the phone high. The blue screen still glowed.
"He's been sending messages!"
The leader's head snapped around. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the air:
"Bring him here."
The boy was dragged forward, stumbling, barely able to walk. Tears streaked his face. The phone was thrust into the leader's gloved hand.
He studied the screen. His masked face tilted slightly as he read the words.
"They've been telling the police everything."
He turned to the boy.
"You thought you were clever?"
The boy collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
"P-please… I just wanted to help. I didn't want to—"
The leader pressed the gun against his forehead. The hall erupted into screams. Teachers begged, students cried, voices overlapped in chaotic terror.
"QUIET!" the leader roared, firing a single shot upward into the ceiling. Dust rained down. Silence crashed back over us like a wave.
He crouched down, his voice calm but cruel.
"You risked all of them. One message could have brought death to this entire hall. Do you understand?"
The boy shook violently, nodding, whispering "I'm sorry" over and over like a prayer.
For a heartbeat, it seemed like the leader might pull the trigger. My blood turned to ice. I couldn't breathe.
Then, slowly, the gun lowered.
"Not yet," he muttered. "You will not die quickly. Your fear will serve us better alive."
The boy collapsed forward, sobbing into the floor. The phone was smashed under the leader's boot, screen shattering into shards.
But the damage was done.
The police outside knew.
And the terrorists knew they knew.
The tension in the hall snapped tighter, a wire stretched to breaking point. The masked men shouted at each other in harsh whispers, their voices filled with urgency. I couldn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear: the game had changed.
The leader grabbed the mic again, his voice thunderous through the PA system.
"You think you can trick us? You think your little devices will save you? Hear me now—if anyone else dares, if I see even the flicker of a screen, I will choose a child at random and end them in front of you all!"
The threat hung heavy in the air. No one moved. No one blinked.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The mic, still crackling, carried a faint voice back through the system.
"Stay strong. We are coming."
It wasn't the leader's voice.
It wasn't the terrorists.
It was the police. They had hacked the line.
For a split second, the hall filled with something new. Hope.
And that hope was like gasoline on fire.
The leader slammed the mic to the floor, smashing it into silence, his rage boiling over. He spun around, kicking one of the speakers until sparks flew. His mask tilted toward us, and I swear I felt his gaze pierce straight through me.
"We end this tonight," he hissed.
He motioned to his men. They began dragging desks, chairs, furniture, building a barricade at the doors. Guns were loaded, magazines slammed into place with metallic clicks that sounded like death itself.
Deep inside me, I knew that the endgame was going to come.