The gym had never been this quiet.
No bounce of basketballs. No screeching sneakers or echoing chatter. Just rows of chairs lined in mournful precision beneath the harsh white light.
At the front stood a small easel bearing a framed photo of Jeremy Holt.
In it, he wasn't smiling.
Not out of rebellion or gloom—just the kind of subdued, tight-lipped expression boys sometimes gave when asked to "look nice" for the yearbook. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Now, he was.
Beneath the frame, a single candle flickered.
And behind it, the rest of the school sat in stifling silence.
No music played.
No slideshow. No cheerful montages of a life cut short.
Only Principal Whitmore's dry, rehearsed voice crackling over the mic:
"Today, we gather in remembrance. We mourn the loss of a bright young man whose presence, whether loud or quiet, touched our halls…"
Liam wasn't listening.
He sat two-thirds of the way back, flanked by Theo, Anika, and Ryan. He hadn't moved since he sat down. His fists were clenched on his knees, knuckles white.
"He doesn't even know who Jeremy was," Theo muttered, just loud enough for them to hear.
Anika shook her head. "It's for the parents. The press."
Ryan's voice was tight. "It should've been real. Not this scripted crap."
Liam said nothing.
He kept staring at the candle. At the stillness in the gym. At the sea of solemn faces—some grief-stricken, some guilty, some just scared.
His stomach twisted.
He remembered Jeremy laughing that day in the woods.
And the screams.
And the silence that followed.
Across the gym, Adam sat in the front row—head bowed, elbows on his thighs.
He hadn't moved since they sat down.
Jessica sat beside him, her arms crossed, expression like stone. Her eyeliner was smudged, but she hadn't cried. Not in public. Not where people could see the cracks.
Christen was on Adam's other side, small and quiet, wrapped in a thick gray sweater despite the heat.
None of them spoke.
But all three kept glancing sideways, subtly, like they could feel the imbalance.
The empty chair beside Adam had not gone unnoticed.
Oliver Winslow's seat. Still unclaimed.
Mr. Peterson stood near the back, arms crossed tightly, his face unreadable.
He wasn't watching the principal.
He was watching the students.
Liam, tense and grieving.
Theo and Anika, visibly anxious.
Adam—composed but haunted.
Jessica—too still.
And Christen… eyes darting toward the door again and again.
Something was wrong.
More wrong than what they already knew.
More than just one dead student.
More than just school politics or punishments or secrets.
It was in the air.
After the final line—"Let us never forget the value of kindness"—the mic clicked off. Students remained seated, unsure if they were supposed to applaud, speak, or just leave.
Eventually, they rose in slow waves, some filing past the photo of Jeremy with downcast eyes, others avoiding it altogether.
The gym drained like a tide retreating from shore.
And with it, something else left, too.
Out in the hallway, Liam leaned against a locker, breathing unevenly. He'd made it through the assembly without breaking down. But now?
Now the hall felt too bright. Too loud.
"Jeremy didn't deserve that," Anika said, her voice soft but resolute.
"He wasn't perfect," Ryan said, then paused. "But he didn't deserve to die."
Liam looked up. "You guys noticed it too, right?"
They turned to him.
"Oliver," he said. "He wasn't there."
Anika blinked. "I thought maybe he skipped. But…"
"He's been weird all week," Theo said.
"He got hit hard by what happened to Jeremy," Ryan muttered.
Liam's gaze darkened. "Or he got targeted."
They all went quiet.
On the far end of campus, Adam checked his phone again.
"Where are you?"
Still no reply.
His jaw clenched. He scrolled through his last texts to Oliver: memes, a video, a vague plan to meet after class. Nothing important.
He hadn't seen him since Tuesday.
Jessica noticed.
"Still nothing?"
Adam nodded once.
Her voice dropped. "You think…?"
"I don't know."
They stood there, the silence stretching too long.
Then Christen said quietly, "He looked sick the last time I saw him. Like he was afraid of something."
At the front office, Mrs. Phelps, the receptionist, was organizing the late slips when an assistant principal knocked.
"Oliver Winslow. Has he checked in?"
She frowned and scanned the logbook.
"No absence notice. No early sign-out. No emails from home either."
They both looked at each other.
By the time last period ended, whispers had already started to spread.
"He wasn't at the memorial."
"Did he get suspended?"
"Maybe he's sick."
"Maybe he ran away."
"No… maybe he's gone too."
That last whisper passed from mouth to mouth like poison.
And by four o'clock, it reached the police.
Another student. Unreachable. Unseen. Missing.
That evening, the school parking lot was empty save for one lone figure standing beside his car.
Mr. Peterson hadn't left yet.
He watched the wind rustle through the courtyard trees, the last of the sun bleeding over the horizon.
Two students missing.
One found.
One not.
He pulled out his phone and opened his notes app.
A list glared up at him:
TARGETED STUDENTS – ADAM'S INNER CIRCLE
– Jeremy Holt – confirmed deceased
– Oliver Winslow – missing
– Jessica Monroe – ?
– Christen Lee – ?
– Adam Woods – ?
He stared at it.
Then added a new line beneath:
Order?
A question mark followed.
Because it was starting to feel like a pattern.