The morning after the showcase feels unreal, as if LanVille College itself is holding its breath.
Yellow caution tape still wraps the art hall entrance, and the once celebratory air now smells of dust, smoke, and dread.
Alisson walks through campus with her hood up, her sketchbook pressed tight to her chest. Every whisper feels like it's about her.
"You okay?" Stiles asks softly, walking beside her.
"I'm fine," she lies.
"Your eyes are slightly swollen, you haven't slept."
"Have you?."
He doesn't argue. His shoulder still aches from the impact, but it's not the bruise that bothers him, it's the memory. The sound of the cables snapping. The initials on that black tape.
K.R.
Kaitlyn Reeves.
He hasn't told Alisson what he found. Not yet.
By afternoon, the college is filled with speculations. The showcase accident has turned into talks of the school, was it an act of sabotage, jealousy, or just bad luck?
In the cafeteria, whispers follow Alisson like shadows.
"Heard the rig snapped cause it was tampered with."
"I bet it was Carter."
"No, I heard Stiles did it to play hero."
She clenches her jaw, trying not to react.
Kaitlyn sits across from her.
"You should skip class for a few days," she murmurs.
"And look guilty?"
"Better guilty than broken."
Alisson frowns. "You're acting weird, Kaitlyn. Ever since last night."
"I almost lost you," Kaitlyn says quietly. "I'm just… shaken."
Before Alisson can reply, Carter walks in with two teammates, all in their hockey jackets. His eyes flick to her, but he doesn't say anything he just keeps walking.
Across the room, Stiles watches the whole thing from a distance.
Something in his gut feels wrong. Off.
And then he sees him.
A tall, thin guy in the far corner, half-hidden behind a pillar.
He's staring, not casually, not curiously but intently, eyes fixed on Alisson like she's the only person in the room.
Stiles frowns. He's seen that guy before in the art hall sometimes, during Alisson's classes. He can't remember the name, but he remembers the face: McCary James, a photography major. Quiet. Reclusive.
He notices Stiles looking. Their eyes meet just for a second before he stands abruptly, grabs his camera, and leaves.
That night, Stiles can't shake the feeling. The message he got "Some storms aren't meant to be survived." still haunts him.
He sits in his dorm, scrolling through social media, searching for anything about the showcase. Then he finds something.
A student photography page.
McCary James Photography.
The latest post uploaded just an hour before the incident shows a photo of Alisson standing beneath her art presentation, her face caught in soft light.
The caption reads:
"Beauty deserves chaos to stay real."
A chill runs down Stiles' spine.
He clicks deeper into the profile and finds dozens of photos of Alisson from different days, some candid, some clearly taken without her knowing. In the library, in the studio, walking across campus.
"What the hell…"
Just then, his phone buzzes. It's Alisson.
"Can you come over?"
Her dorm room is dimly lit when he arrives. Alisson sits on the floor, surrounded by broken sketches and half-torn canvases.
"They're saying I staged it," she says bitterly. "That I did it for attention."
"That's insane."
"Is it? Because part of me wonders if this school even wants me here anymore."
Stiles kneels beside her, lifting one of the ruined sketches.
"You belong here more than anyone, Alisson. You make this place mean something."
She looks up, eyes tired but soft.
"You always know what to say, don't you?"
"Not always."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because," he says quietly, "I can't seem to stop caring."
Their silence stretches, charged and delicate. A flicker of warmth returns, the same gravity that always pulls them together, even when everything else falls apart.
She leans closer. For a second, the world narrows, their lips met, his hands around her waist and hers were on his shoulders. her phone beeps off notifications countless times.
She holds up her phone, an anonymous message, sent to nearly half the art department. A blurry photo of the collapse scene with the words:
"She got what she deserved."
Alisson's hand flies to her mouth.
"Who would send that?"
Stiles stares at the image, cold fury in his chest.
"I think I know who."
The next day, Stiles shows Ethan the photography page.
"That's… disturbing," Ethan mutters. "You're saying this guy's been stalking her?"
"More than that. Look at the time laps, he was at the showcase hours before it started. He had access."
"You think he sabotaged it?"
"I don't think. I know."
They decide to confront him.
They find McCary behind the art building, setting up his camera. His headphones are in, his attention locked on a lens.
"McCary," Stiles calls out.
No response.
He steps closer.
"McCary James!"
Miles finally looks up startled, then annoyed.
"What do you want?"
"We need to talk about Alisson."
"You mean my Alisson?"
Stiles freezes.
"What did you just say?"
"She's my muse," McCary says, eyes glazed. "She doesn't understand it yet, but she will."
Ethan steps forward.
"You're the one who rigged that display, aren't you?"
"It wasn't supposed to hurt her!" McCary shouts suddenly, voice cracking. "It was supposed to make her see! She needed to feel the art, to break, so I could put her back together!"
Stiles grabs his collar.
"You could've killed her!"
"But I didn't," McCary fires back, a twisted smile forming. "You saved her. That makes you part of it, too."
The look in his eyes sends chills through both of them admiration twisted with obsession.
Campus security shows up minutes later, breaking them apart. McCary slips away before they can stop him, vanishing into the crowd.
By nightfall, Alisson receives another anonymous text.
"He's not done. He's watching."
She calls Stiles immediately, voice shaking.
"He knows where I live, Stiles. I think he's been here, my window was open when I got back."
Stiles rushes over. They check the dorm, nothing's stolen, but a single photo lies on her desk.
It's one of the photos from McCary's page, Alisson painting alone in the studio. On the back, in neat handwriting:
"Don't let him get between us."
The next morning, campus police finally trace the messages and images back to McCary James. They find cameras, rig schematics, and hundreds of photos pinned up on his dorm walls, every one of them of Alisson.
He's brought in for questioning.
"You don't understand," Miles says to the officers. "She inspired everything. The accident wasn't an accident, it was art."
"You could've killed her," one officer says.
"No," McCary murmurs. "I saved her. I made her unforgettable."
When Alisson and Stiles hear, neither speaks. There's no meaning only a strange, cold silence.
By evening, the administration expels McCary and issues a restraining order. But the unease doesn't fade. Because as the sun sets over LanVille's campus, Alisson receives one last message from an unknown number.
"You think it's over?"
"You just ended the first act."
Her phone slips from her hand.
The screen flickers once before going black.