The intercom crackled just before second period.
"All staff and students, please be advised that the local authorities are currently assisting the school in the matter of a missing student, Jeremy Holt. If you have any information regarding his whereabouts or his movements after school yesterday, please report to the front office immediately."
The voice was calm, sterile—like it had been rehearsed a dozen times in a mirror. But it couldn't soften the blow.
The moment the message ended, a weight settled over West Hill High like a cold fog.
Every hallway fell quiet.
Every conversation paused.
And every classroom felt just a little darker.
It didn't take long for the rumors to ignite.
Some said Jeremy had run away.
Others whispered he'd been taken.
A few, more dramatically, blamed Liam or even Mr. Peterson—fueled by nothing but fear and the desperate need for a story to explain what no one understood.
But beneath all the wild theories, one truth pulsed louder than everything else:
He was gone.
And no one knew where.
At the far end of the school library, Theo, Anika, and Ryan sat around a single table, their books untouched.
"He wouldn't just disappear," Ryan muttered. "Not like this."
"Even if he wanted attention," Anika said quietly, "he would've made sure someone saw him go. He liked an audience."
Theo glanced around the room, voice barely above a whisper. "You think… someone did this to him?"
Silence.
No one said yes.
No one said no either.
Elsewhere on campus, the echo of something rotten stirred in the cracks of a once-powerful group.
Adam and Oliver leaned against the side of the science building, in the narrow space where cameras didn't reach and teachers rarely passed. Jessica had been absent for days. Christen hadn't spoken to any of them. Harper may as well have vanished.
Their kingdom was collapsing in slow motion.
Oliver was visibly frayed—his posture loose, his face pale and drawn. He hadn't shaved. His clothes were mismatched. He looked like a boy playing tough in a world that had stopped making sense.
"He's really missing," Oliver muttered, eyes darting toward the parking lot.
Adam said nothing.
Oliver glanced at him. "Don't you think we should… I don't know, tell someone what we know?"
Adam's gaze snapped to him—sharp and cold. "And what exactly do we know?"
"That someone's targeting us."
Adam didn't blink. "No one's targeting us. Jeremy probably took off. You know what his home life is like."
Oliver's jaw clenched. "You don't know that."
"I know we don't panic. That's what they want."
"Who's they, Adam?"
Adam didn't answer.
Oliver's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out without thinking—and froze.
No contact. No number.
Just a message.
And a photo.
It loaded slowly. Grainy at first, then painfully clear.
It was him.
Oliver. In the woods. Standing just a few feet away from Liam. His head tilted back in laughter. His arms crossed like he was enjoying a show.
It wasn't a candid shot.
It was targeted. Framed.
A deliberate capture.
The angle wasn't one of theirs. Not from Adam's phone. Not from any direction they'd stood.
Whoever took it had been hiding.
Watching.
He scrolled down.
"You laughed the loudest."
"You held the phone once, too. Remember?"
His fingers trembled.
Another message came in seconds later.
"Your mom loves bragging about you at the bank, doesn't she?"
"She might want to see this. Should I send it to her? Or your soccer coach?"
Oliver's throat tightened. He shoved the phone in his pocket like it burned him.
Adam turned toward him, noticing the shift in his face. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"You sure?"
Oliver nodded too quickly. "Just spam."
Adam didn't press.
But Oliver didn't speak again that day.
That evening, Mr. Peterson stood alone in Room 12-B, erasing the whiteboard slowly, methodically.
The quiet in the school building after hours felt heavier than usual.
He hadn't said much to anyone about the investigation. He hadn't speculated. He hadn't added to the rumors.
But that didn't mean he wasn't thinking about them.
There was something wrong here—something beyond what people were willing to admit.
He looked out the window at the fading daylight. Shadows stretched long across the campus lawn.
He didn't know about the messages. Not yet.
But a bad feeling had been brewing in his chest since the moment Jeremy's name came over the loudspeaker.
He trusted it.
Oliver didn't go to sixth period.
He claimed he had a headache. Told the front desk he felt sick. Walked out through the side gate without a glance back.
He wandered through town for hours, unable to go home.
The photo kept flashing behind his eyes.
That moment in the woods. The smirk. The laughter.
He'd tried to forget it. He'd convinced himself it wasn't that bad.
But now… someone was dragging it into the light.
And they were aiming for blood.
That night, Oliver sat in bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding.
He'd deleted the photo.
Blocked the number.
But it didn't matter.
At midnight, a new message lit his screen.
"Deleting me doesn't make me disappear."
"You didn't care if he came back. Why should anyone care about you?"
Oliver curled his knees to his chest and sat still for a long time.
He didn't cry.
He didn't scream.
He just waited for morning.