The scream rips through the Fine Arts building just past 11 p.m., shattering the quiet hum of night.
Down the hall, Mr. Givens, the night custodian, drops his mop. For a second, he thinks it's just a cat in the vents until he hears it again.
A girl's voice. Terrified.
He fumbles for his walkie-talkie. "Security! I think someone's hurt in the east wing! Art studio!"
The line crackles. "We're on it."
Givens grabs his flashlight and starts running. His shoes squeak across the tiles, lightly brushing himself from wall to wall. The hallway stretches long and empty, shadows shifting in the glass display cases.
When he reaches the studio door, he sees it, the faint glow from beneath the frame. The handle rattles under his grip. Locked.
"Hello? Is someone in there?"
No answer. Just silence… and then the faintest sound of movement.
He backs away, breath trembling. "Security! Hurry!"
Seconds later, two guards come sprinting down the hall. They ram the door open.
Inside, the scene looks like a nightmare splattered in color. Paint jars overturned, brushes scattered like glass daggers.
And there in the corner, Alisson West.
She's crouched on the floor, trembling, clutching her phone to her chest. Her hair's tangled, her cheek streaked with paint and tears.
One of the guards kneels beside her. "Miss, you're safe. You're safe now."
Her lips part, voice barely a whisper.
"He was here."
By the time Stiles Marvy gets the call, the building is surrounded by flashing lights. He rushes across the courtyard, heart hammering, pulling his jacket tight against the cold.
He spots Dean Maria speaking to the police outside, and pushes through the small crowd of onlookers. "Dean! What happened?"
Maria turns, her expression grim. "Miss West was attacked. She's shaken but alive."
Stiles freezes. "Attacked?.... By who?"
"We don't know. The security footage blacked out for about ninety seconds."
Stiles feels the world tilt for a moment. His chest tightens. "Where is she now?"
"Infirmary. She's with Professor Vega."
He doesn't wait for permission.
The brightness of the campus medical center feels cruel after the darkness of the art wing. Alisson sits on a couch, a blanket around her shoulders. A nurse dabs at a shallow cut on her arm.
She looks up when he enters, eyes red and distant.
"They said you were home," she murmurs.
"I was." He hesitates, his voice low. "I came as soon as I heard."
Her gaze drifts past him to the wall. "It's starting again, Stiles."
He sits beside her, careful not to touch her too suddenly. "What did you see?"
She swallows hard. "Not him. Not McCary. Someone taller. SHe said…" She trails off, shivering. "He said McCary wasn't't the only one."
The room falls quiet. Professor Vega stands near the doorway, arms crossed, her face pale.
"Security found nothing," she says. "No footprints. No sign of forced entry."
Stiles looks at Alisson. "What about the painting?"
"The Weight of Shadows," she whispers. "He... he marked it. He carved words into it."
Her voice trembles. "It's not over."
An hour later, dean Rourke, security officers, and two detectives stand before the scene.
The words are etched deep into the paint violently, the red pigment smeared like dried blood.
Maria's jaw tightens. "This wasn't random."
One of the officers nods. "We'll need the footage from the last twenty-four hours."
Stiles stands by the doorway, fists clenched. Every instinct tells him this isn't over, it's escalating.
Ashley turns on him suddenly.
"You were here before, weren't you?"
"Not tonight."
"But you have access."
Her voice is sharp, but beneath it, there's fear. "Who else would have known where she keeps her work?"
Stiles stares at her. "You think I'd do this?"
"I think you've been involved in everything since the start," she snaps. "The fires, the showcase, now this."
"Enough," Dean Maria interrupts. "This conversation stops here. Mr. Marvy has been cooperative from the beginning."
But the suspicion lingers in Ashley's eyes.
By morning, word has spread across campus.
Alisson West attacked again.
They say it's a copycat.
They say the police found footprints.
None of it confirmed. All of it loud.
Alisson sits outside the infirmary, sipping coffee, her sketchbook unopened. Stiles approaches slowly, unsure if he's welcome.
She doesn't look up. "They think it's you, don't they?"
He exhales. "Some of them."
"You shouldn't be near me anymore," she says quietly.
The words sting sharper than any accusation.
"Alisson...."
"Wherever I go, someone gets hurt. Kaitlyn, McCary, now this." She finally meets his eyes. "What if the next one's you?"
He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you alone again."
But she's already standing, folding her blanket over the bench. "You don't get to decide that."
She walks away, the morning light casting her shadow long across the pavement.
Later that afternoon, Dean Maria summons Stiles to view the footage.
The screen flickers at 2:10 a.m. Alisson painting. Alone.
2:13, the lights dim.
A figure appears. Hooded. Slow.
The angle is bad, but there's one detail clear enough to see: a faint red bracelet on the figure's wrist.
Maria pauses the tape. "Recognize it?"
Stiles leans in. His stomach drops.
It's a bracelet from LanVille's hockey team.
The next evening, the air on campus is thick with whispers. Carter Allen sits in the student lounge, scrolling through his phone, when Stiles walks in.
Their eyes meet.
"You were at practice last night?" Stiles asks.
"Yeah," Carter says slowly. "Why?"
"Someone broke into the art studio. The guy on camera was wearing a hockey band."
Carter's face hardens. "You think it was me?"
"I think someone's trying to make it look like it was you," Stiles replies carefully. "But I need to know if any of your teammates were missing."
Carter exhales, running a hand through his hair. "One guy left early. Said he had a migraine. Owen Pierce."
The name lands like a spark in Stiles's mind. He's heard it before, a second year student, quiet, reserved....
That night, as the campus winds down, a storm gathers outside. Rain falls heavily off the Fine Arts Building.
In the dim light of his dorm, Stiles replays the footage again. The red bracelet. The deliberate posture.
He grabs his jacket. He needs to warn Alisson.
But as he opens his door, something flutters to the ground a folded note, slid under the frame.
He unfolds it.
Written in dark red ink:
"You're looking in the wrong direction, writer boy."
Thunder cracks overhead. The hallway light flickers out.
And from down the corridor, a faint reflection catches his eye the shimmer of a red bracelet vanishing around the corner.