Isla had never seen the music lab this quiet. Late at night, the walls swallowed sound, and the big windows reflected her like a ghost. She shut the door behind her and double-checked the lock.
Jasper was already there, hood down, hair falling into his eyes as he tapped at a laptop. His guitar lay open beside him like an extra limb. The light from the screen painted him in blue.
"You're late," he murmured without looking up.
"I had to dodge Kellan in the hall," Isla whispered. "He's still watching."
"He always watches." Jasper closed the laptop. "But we're not just going to take it this time."
She dropped her bag on the counter and slid onto the stool beside him. "What are you doing?"
"Building a file." He turned the laptop toward her. On the screen were dozens of screenshots: anonymous posts, time stamps, user IDs. "I've been collecting these since last year. Bets, comments, polls. Everything."
Her stomach turned at the names, the laughing emojis next to ugly predictions. "Why didn't you show anyone?"
"I did. Teachers said it was just kids being kids. Admin said unless someone was physically harmed, their hands were tied."
Isla scrolled through the list. "So we get proof of harm."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're already thinking like a trap-setter."
"I'm tired of being a pawn," she said.
For a moment he just stared at her, then smiled faintly. "Welcome to the team."
They bent over the screen together, plotting. Jasper explained how Kellan used a private group to coordinate bets; Isla suggested using her art account as bait, posting something to draw out the moderators. With every exchange, the knot of tension between them eased a little.
At one point her shoulder brushed his. He didn't move away.
"Why does Kellan hate you so much?" she asked softly.
Jasper leaned back, expression shuttered. "It's not just him. After my brother died, I went dark for a while. Missed classes, fights, bad headlines. People started treating me like a curse. Kellan figured out he could make money off it. The bets started small. Then they stuck."
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be." He plucked a chord on his guitar, low and rough. "Just help me end it."
She nodded. "We will."
For the next hour they worked. She drew sketches of a mural that doubled as a code to identify the bettors; he wrote a melody that would cue her posts. It was crazy, half-baked, but it felt like action instead of fear.
When she finally closed her sketchbook, the clock read past midnight. Her eyes were gritty but her chest felt light for the first time since arriving at Westbridge.
Jasper was packing up too. "I'll walk you back."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Outside the lab, the courtyard glistened from an earlier drizzle. Their footsteps echoed off the stones. For once no one lurked in the shadows.
Halfway to her dorm, Isla said, "You know this might blow up in our faces."
"I know." His hand brushed hers, just once, warm and tentative. "But at least we'll be the ones playing the game."
She glanced at him, heart tripping. "Together?"
"Together," he said.
They walked on in silence, a plan between them, a storm behind them, and something new—fragile but real—beginning to grow in the space where the whispers had been.