Rule #4: If it feels too quiet, something's about to explode.
The moment I stepped into Room 3B, I knew I was late—and that everyone knew it too.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward me. Mr. Callahan paused mid-sentence, marker still against the whiteboard. He wore glasses too small for his face and a permanent scowl.
"You must be Monroe," he said, like it was a disease.
"Yes, sir."
He pointed to the only empty seat. Third row. Middle. Like a spotlight was waiting for me.
I slid into it, trying not to trip on my own anxiety. The guy next to me—tall, bookish, smelled like cologne and coffee—gave a polite nod. Everyone else ignored me. Or stared. Or whispered behind notebooks.
I was used to that. Kinda.
Not even five minutes into the lesson, a folded piece of paper landed on my desk.
No one was looking.
At least… they pretended not to be.
I hesitated before opening it.
"You shouldn't have come here."
That was it. Six words. No name. No handwriting I recognized.
I crumpled it and shoved it in my pocket, throat dry.
Mr. Callahan kept talking about literature and metaphors and fate. But all I could hear was my own heartbeat in my ears.
The bell rang.
Students bolted like they were escaping prison. I took my time. Slower steps. Calm breaths. The note still burned in my pocket.
"Rough first day?"
Killian. Leaning against the doorframe like always. Like he had nothing better to do than haunt my life.
"I'm starting to think this school hates me."
His eyes flicked down. "What did it say?"
"What?"
He stepped closer. Close enough to lower his voice. "The note. In class. I saw it."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lie better, Monroe."
My jaw clenched. "Fine. It said I shouldn't have come here."
He paused. "Smart note."
I narrowed my eyes. "That's helpful."
He slipped something into my hand. A pen.
"What is this, a bribe?"
"It's a recorder." He smiled, wickedly amused. "Top half twists. Just in case the next note is worse."
I stared at it. "You carry recorders in your pocket?"
He shrugged. "You'd be surprised what I carry."
I was about to toss it back, when his voice dropped.
"I'm not your enemy, Ava. But someone else clearly wants you gone."
I didn't respond. Couldn't. Because my throat had locked up, and my brain was screaming why is he helping me?
But I held onto the pen.
Just in case.
And as I watched Killian walk away, casually, like he hadn't just dropped another layer of mystery in my lap…
I realized something terrifying:
He might be the only person here who believes me.
And he might be the most dangerous one of all.