Hale avoided Ivy all morning.
He couldn't stop seeing the sketch—the one where she bled across the art table like someone had cut her out of the world with a red pencil.
Every glance toward her was a countdown. A crack in the clockface.
He felt like he was watching her die in slow motion, frame by frame.
By lunch, the silence inside him broke.
He crossed the cafeteria too fast.
"Ivy."
She looked up, startled.
"Did you draw something weird yesterday?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of weird?"
He leaned in. "Something you don't remember. With blood. A symbol. A—mark."
She stood slowly. Her tray shook slightly in her hands.
"Are you okay?"
His voice dropped.
"You weren't supposed to be here."
Ivy froze.
Her lips parted. But no sound came out.
Something about her changed—not fear.
Stillness.
Like buffering.
"…What?" she finally whispered, her voice mechanical.
Hale blinked.
He hadn't meant to say it.
It just came out.
Like something else had pushed the words through him.
Ivy took a slow step back, eyes flickering—not with emotion, but with something like recognition. And then distress, like a program detecting corruption.
"You need help," she said, almost gently.
Then she turned and walked away. Not fast. Not scared.
Just… done. Like her script had ended.
Hale collapsed into the chair she left behind, heart hammering.
His fingers trembled as he opened his sketchpad.
Last page.
The same phrase again.
You weren't supposed to be here.
Written in his own handwriting.
But he hadn't touched that page.
Below the sentence, a symbol had appeared faintly at the corner.
A small loop. A crooked eye. A piece of the mark.
It was evolving.
Or remembering itself.