The second we pulled up, I knew something was wrong.
Hallowe was already outside the station waiting for us—arms crossed, face tight, jaw working like he'd been chewing the same sentence for hours and still hadn't found a way to say it.
Zaire parked, and I barely waited for the car to stop before getting out.
My hands were cold.
Andy stood beside me. Zaire brushed against my arm, steady and quiet.
Hallowe looked at me first. "We found Chad."
The words hit like a slow bullet.
But he didn't stop.
"They found him near Clay's Creek. Not far from the boathouse. We don't know how long he was there. Judging from the condition... it's been days. Maybe longer."
"What condition?" I whispered.
Hallowe's lips thinned. "That's not the main deal."
He led us inside.
Everything after that happened in pieces. Mr. Calloway was already there. He looked ten years older than the last time I saw him. Standing off to the side were Chad's parents—Mr. Turner like a stone statue, Mrs. Turner clutching a balled-up tissue in both fists, her mascara bleeding down her face.
We were brought into the AV room.
There was already a laptop open. A USB drive plugged in.
No one said anything.
No one had to.
Hallowe hit play.
And hell opened.
The screen flickered to life.
There was Chad. Or at least, what was left of him.
He was strapped to a metal chair in a room that looked like something from a snuff film. A single flickering bulb overhead. Rust-stained tile walls. Chains hanging from the ceiling like snakes, unmoving.
But it wasn't the room that made me nauseous.
It was him.
Chad's body was broken. Naked. Covered in cuts—not random, but surgical. Skin flayed back on his arms and legs, exposing muscle that pulsed and twitched. There were deep brands burned into his chest, like someone had pressed steel shapes into his flesh.
And across his stomach—crudely carved with something sharp—was the word:
BLOCKED.
His hair had been shaved off. One eye was swollen shut. His lips were cracked, blood caked on the corners of his mouth. He was alive—but barely. His body jerked now and then like electricity still lived inside him.
I felt myself shaking.
The screen jumped—glitchy.
And then came the voice.
Mechanical. Filtered. Low.
"DO YOU WANT TO CONFESS YOUR SINS?"
Chad whimpered.
His voice was like sandpaper soaked in blood.
"I—I don't know—please—"
"CONFESS. OR YOU'LL BURN."
"I'M SORRY!"
The scream tore out of him, high and panicked.
"I'm sorry! I—I hurt her. Mia Jenkins. I—I pinned her down. Me, Trey, Andrew, and Kyle. I didn't stop it—I didn't stop them—I laughed! We R*ped her"
I covered my mouth.
My vision blurred.
Zaire pulled me in before I could fall and I buried my face in his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his shirt. His arm curled around me, tight. Protective.
Onscreen, Chad kept talking.
"I sold pills to freshmen—I knew they didn't know what they were taking. It was fentanyl sometimes—I didn't care. I let a kid OD and didn't call 911. I stole from my mom. I—" He was choking now. "I paid someone to beat up that transfer kid because he beat me at track. I—"
His head dropped.
But the voice came again.
"THEN ACCEPT YOUR JUDGMENT."
The camera panned slightly.
A shadow stepped into frame.
Just one person.
Dressed in black. Hood up. Face hidden. Gloves on. No markings. No hesitation.
In their hand—a massive iron pot. Steam rising from it in ghostly white curls.
Chad screamed when he saw it.
"No—NO PLEASE—!"
They didn't pause.
They walked straight to him, and with one slow, deliberate movement, tilted the pot.
Boiling wax poured over his torso in a wave of white.
The moment it touched skin, Chad's body arched like it was trying to snap itself in half.
The scream that came out of him wasn't human. It was raw, full-body agony. It clawed through the room like something alive. It pierced through my ears, straight into my spine. I heard Mrs. Turner scream from the hallway, but I couldn't look. I couldn't do anything.
The wax coated him completely—chest to thighs—hardening in seconds as his skin blistered, cracked, cooked beneath it. His muscles seized. His head thrashed once. Twice.
Then went still.
The screen went black.
END OF FILE.
I couldn't breathe.
I was still wrapped in Zaire's arms, but it didn't feel like enough.
It didn't feel like anything was enough.
Andy sat frozen, staring at the blank screen, hands trembling in her lap.
No one spoke.
Not for a long time.
When I finally pulled back, my cheeks were soaked. My hands were shaking. I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
Chad Turner was dead.
Confessed. Punished. Branded.
And someone—some real person—did this.
One person.
This wasn't just revenge.
This was a message.
And I was starting to think the word Blocked wasn't just coincidence
I was still clinging to Zaire like my life depended on it.
My face pressed into his chest. My body trembling so hard I thought my bones might shake apart. I couldn't get Chad's scream out of my head. It was still echoing in the room like it had carved itself into the walls.
Zaire's arms were locked around me. His breath came out sharp against my hair, and I could feel the fury building in him—tight, hot, ready to explode.
And then it did.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped, turning to Hallowe.
Everyone looked up.
"Why would you show that to her? To Mia? You think she needed to see that? After everything? What kind of sick, twisted—"
"Zaire," I whispered.
He ignored me.
"Was that supposed to break her? Humiliate her? Are you trying to fuck with her head or just get off on her pain, huh?"
Mr. Calloway turned, visibly tense. Hallowe didn't flinch.
Zaire took a step forward, eyes burning. "You don't care about finding Sebastian. You never have. This—this was a stunt. A game."
Hallowe opened his mouth—but said nothing.
That silence was worse than anything.
Zaire pulled me in closer and turned for the door.
"We're done here."
He didn't wait for anyone else to move. He guided me out of the AV room, his hand firm on my back. Andy followed, pale and shaking but quiet.
No one stopped us.
No one said a word.
The moment we stepped out into the daylight, it felt wrong. Like the sun had no business shining after what we just watched.
I leaned into Zaire, my legs weak, my hands still trembling.
Andy was the one who finally broke the silence.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled.
But the words were a sledgehammer.
"That was him," she said.
We both looked at her.
She didn't blink. "The guy in the video. The one in the hoodie. I swear to God—I know that walk. The way he moves. That's the same guy from my motivation class. The one who sold me the phone."
I froze.
Zaire looked between us. "You sure?"
Andy nodded, deadly serious now. "I thought I barely noticed him, but after seeing that... it clicked. The way he tilted his head. His shoulders. I sat two seats behind him for six weeks. That's him."
A cold dread started crawling up my spine.
"He planned this," I said.
Zaire clenched his jaw. "You think he's doing all this just because of the phone?"
Andy shook her head. "No. It's bigger. This isn't revenge. This is structured. Like he's checking off names on a goddamn list."
Blocked.
One by one.
I looked down at my phone, hands still trembling.