Kaitlyn Reeves lies on the hospital bed, pale under the soft pulse of fluorescent light. The scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, mixing with the quiet beep of the heart monitor. Her arm is bandaged, her lower lip split but it's the haunted look in her eyes that unsettles Alisson the most.
Alisson sits beside her, motionless, sketchbook on her lap unopened. For the first time since McCary' attack, the silence feels heavier than the screams that had filled that previous night.
"He really meant to hurt me," Kaitlyn whispers finally, voice trembling.
Alisson's throat tightens. "You got in his way, Kait. He wanted me."
The words slip out before she can stop them. They hang there cold, cruelly true.
Kaitlyn's eyes dimmed. "I didn't even see it coming. He was just… standing there one second and then…"
She shivers.
From the doorway, Stiles leans quietly against the frame, watching the two girls. His shirt sleeve is still stained from when he helped stop the bleeding.
He's said nothing since then. He doesn't need to. The anger sits in his silence like static.
Finally, he steps closer. "Campus security's doubled patrols around the dorms. McCary is gone for good this time."
Alisson doesn't look up. "Gone doesn't mean forgotten."
Stiles glances at her, the way she avoids Kaitlyn's eyes, the stiffness in her posture. She hasn't slept since the attack. Neither has he.
"He's out of LanVille, Alisson. Expelled. The cops....."
"He found a way in once," she interrupts. "What makes you think he won't again?"
Her voice cracks. She stands abruptly, crossing her arms, facing the window where rain drops across the glass like paint.
Kaitlyn looks away, guilt twisting her expression. "It's my fault," she murmurs. "I kept talking to him after you told me not to. I thought he'd move on if I just....."
"Stop," Alisson cuts in. "Please."
The room goes quiet again except for the rain and the steady beep of the monitor.
After a moment, Stiles sighs and touches Alisson's shoulder gently. "Come on. Let her rest."
she nods.
Outside, the hospital hallway buzzes faintly with fluorescent hum. Alisson walks ahead, silent, her sketchbook pressed against her chest. Stiles follows, his expression unreadable.
"You blame her," he says finally.
"I don't," Alisson replies. "I just can't forgive her yet."
"That's still blame," he murmurs.
She stops walking, turning to face him. Her eyes are red and anout to drop tears but are steady. "You don't understand what it's like to feel hunted in your own life, Stiles."
"I do," he says softly. "Not by him. But by the thought of losing you."
She looks away quickly, but the emotion in his voice eases her to the spot.
"You can't keep carrying this alone," he continues. "It's eating you alive."
"Then what should I do?" she whispers. "Pretend it's over when it's not?"
He steps closer, close enough for her to see the reflection of her trembling hands in his eyes.
"No. But you can start by breathing again."
For a moment, neither moves. The air between them calmly comforts them as they hug each other for a while.
Then Alisson blinks, pulling away. "I need to focus on the showcase. If I let him take that from me, he wins."
Stiles nods, though worry flickers behind his eyes. "Then I'll help you make sure he doesn't."
Days pass. The incident with McCary and Kaitlyn becomes a campus rumor, half the students have already moved on, half still whisper. Alisson throws herself into preparation for the next exhibition, determined to channel the chaos into art.
She paints until dawn most nights, sometimes alone in the studio, sometimes with Stiles nearby, reading or sketching quietly. Their companionship grows quieter, deeper no words, just presence.
Still, shadows linger. Alisson starts noticing small things like her brushes being moved, a note slipped under her door with no signature, a faint tapping sound outside her window one night.
When she tells Stiles, he doesn't dismiss it. He checks every corner of her dorm, every message on her phone. Nothing.
"Maybe it's just nerves," she says, forcing a small smile.
"Maybe," he replies, but his jaw tightens.
On the evening before the exhibition, Alisson sits in the studio alone, finishing her centerpiece titled The Weight of Shadows.
It's a dark, moody painting: a girl standing beneath a red light, her reflection reaching for her from the darkness.
She's exhausted. Her eyes are sleepy. The clock reads 2:14 a.m.
She steps back to admire her work and freezes.
There's something on the canvas that wasn't there before.
At the bottom corner, smeared faintly into the paint, are words carved with a sharp object:
"It's not over."
Her breath catches. She spins toward the door.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Slow. Measured.
"Hello?" she calls out.
No answer.
Her pulse races. She grabs her phone, but before she can dial Stiles' number, the light flickers once, twice and goes out completely.
Darkness swallows the room.
She backs against the wall, heart pounding, every sound full of fear. A faint scraping sound drifts from somewhere behind the canvases.
Then a voice, low and unfamiliar, whispers through the dark:
"He was never the only one watching you."
The phone slips from her hand. The screen's faint glow hits the floor just long enough to catch a glimpse of something, a shadow moving.
Her scream echoes off the walls just as the studio door slams shut.