The janitor's closet reeked of bleach and mold. Mhari slammed her back against the brick wall. Her lungs burned. Every breath hurt.
Outside, heels clicked closer. Sarah's voice sliced through the door.
"Mhari? Come out, loser. We're not done fixing your ugly face."
Mhari's shoulder screamed where they'd rammed her into the lockers. Pain throbbed hot. A fresh bruise swelled under her sleeve. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Don't cry. Cry and they own you forever.
Her hand, trembling and clammy, brushed against something hard on the dusty shelf behind her.
It was a box.
Wrapped in tattered, blood-red velvet, the music box felt unnaturally heavy. It didn't belong in a school closet. It looked like it belonged in a grave.
Clang
A heavy kick hit the door. The frame groaned.
"I know you're in there, you pathetic ghost," Sarah hissed. "Open the door, or I'll tell everyone what your father did."
Mhari's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The silence of the closet felt like it was suffocating her. No one is coming. No one ever comes.
Her fingers found the silver key on the side of the box. It was freezing, the cold biting into her skin.
Turn it, a voice whispered. Not a real voice—more like a thought that wasn't hers.
She froze. What's that...?
Another kick. The door buckled inward.
Turn it, Little Bird.
Mhari gripped the key. One turn. Two. Three.
The mechanism didn't play a song. It played a scream—a slow, dragging, metallic wail that shouldn't have been possible.
Suddenly, the temperature dropped. Mhari could see her own breath in the dark. The shadows in the corner didn't just flicker; they grew teeth. They spilled across the floor like spilled ink, pooling around her worn-out sneakers
"Who…" Her voice cracked. "Who's there?"
A hand emerged from the darkness.
It was pale, elegant, and impossibly long. Elegant fingers curled around the box edge like they owned it. Slowly, a man's silhouette rose from the ink on the floor.
He didn't look human. He looked like a god that had been starved for centuries. His eyes were two voids of midnight, fixed entirely on her trembling form.
"Loki," he murmured. His voice was a rich, cold vibration that felt like a caress against her throat. "And you, Mhari… you're one crack away from shattering."
Outside, the door handle rattled violently.
Loki leaned down, his face inches from hers. He smelled like winter and old parchment. He didn't look at the door; he only looked at her.
"I can make them stop,"he whispered, a small, cruel tilt to his lips. "I can make them all go away. But I don't work for free."
Mhari's pulse roared in her ears. She stared at his hand—so close to her face, so dangerous.
Then she heard Sarah's laugh again.
Sharp. Cruel.
"Come on, freak! Your dad probably killed himself because of you!"
Something snapped inside Mhari.
She met Loki's black eyes. Her voice came out low.
"Do it." Mhari hissed, her eyes burning with a sudden, dark fire.
Loki's smile widened, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp
"Make them suffer."
His smile grew. He turned toward the door, his shadow stretching until it swallowed the entire room.
"As you wish, My Lady. Who shall we kill first?"