The air was sharp with the bite of autumn, a cold that seeped into the bones. Elliot lay sprawled on the cracked asphalt, his chest heaving, his jacket torn at the sleeve. The flickering streetlights cast jagged shadows over the skeletal trees lining the deserted roadside, their branches clawing at the sky like desperate hands. His eyes, wide with exhaustion and fear, locked onto Marcus, who loomed above him. Marcus's black leather jacket gleamed faintly in the dim light, his sneer cruel and unyielding as he tightened his grip on the knife. Behind him, three figures—Marcus's goons—stood in the haze, their silhouettes barely discernible but their presence heavy, like vultures waiting for the kill.
Elliot's mind raced back to how it all began, just a few weeks ago, when he'd stumbled upon a secret he was never meant to uncover.
Elliot had always been the quiet one, the kid who kept his head down at Lincoln High. He wasn't a star athlete like Marcus or a straight-A student like his best friend, Tara. But he had a knack for noticing things—small details others overlooked. It was this talent that led him to the old storage room behind the gym one rainy afternoon, looking for a place to hide from Marcus and his crew after they'd cornered him in the cafeteria, mocking him for his secondhand sneakers.
Inside the storage room, amidst dusty boxes and broken equipment, Elliot found a notebook. Its pages were filled with cryptic notes, dates, and names—some crossed out in red ink. At the top of the first page, in bold letters, was written: The Pact. The names included students, some of whom had disappeared over the past year, their absences chalked up to "family issues" or "transfers." But Elliot recognized one name that made his blood run cold: Deion Elliot. His older brother, who'd vanished two years ago after a Halloween party. The official story was that Deion had run away, but Elliot never believed it. And now, here was his name, linked to something called "The Pact," alongside Marcus's.
Elliot should've walked away. But he couldn't. He took the notebook, slipped it into his backpack, and spent the next few days decoding its contents with Tara's help. They discovered that Marcus and a group of seniors were part of a secret society at Lincoln High, one that had been around for decades. The Pact demanded loyalty—and sacrifices. Every year, a student was chosen to "disappear," a ritual to ensure the group's power and influence in the town. Deion had been one of their victims, targeted because he'd uncovered their secret and threatened to expose them.
"We have to go to the police," Tara had whispered, her voice trembling as they sat in Elliot's basement, the notebook spread out between them.
But Elliot shook his head. "They won't believe us. Marcus's dad is the sheriff. We need proof—something solid."
That proof came in the form of a grainy video Tara found on an old flash drive in the school's AV room. It showed Marcus and his crew dragging a hooded figure into the woods behind the school. The timestamp matched the night Deion disappeared. Elliot felt a surge of rage and grief, but also determination. He copied the video, sent it to a burner email, and made a plan to confront Marcus after school on the outskirts of town, where no one would hear them.
That confrontation led to this moment. Elliot had underestimated Marcus's ruthlessness. When he'd shown up at the roadside, waving the notebook and demanding answers, Marcus had laughed—a cold, hollow sound that sent chills down Elliot's spine. "You think you're a hero, huh?" Marcus had sneered, his goons closing in. "Your brother thought the same thing."
The fight had been brutal and one-sided. Elliot landed a few punches, but Marcus was stronger, faster. One of the goons tripped Elliot, sending him crashing to the ground, and now here he was, staring up at the glint of Marcus's knife.
"Any last words?" Marcus growled, his voice dripping with malice as he raised the blade.
Elliot's mind screamed for a way out, but his body was too broken to move. Then, from the shadows, a voice cut through the night.
"Marcus, stop!"
It was Tara. She emerged from the darkness, her phone held high, the screen glowing with a live stream. "The whole town's watching," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "I sent the video to every news outlet in the county. If you touch him, everyone will know what you did to Deion—and the others."
Marcus froze, his sneer faltering. The goons shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between Tara and Marcus. For a moment, the only sound was the rustle of leaves skittering across the asphalt.
"You're bluffing," Marcus spat, but there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.
"Try me," Tara shot back. "The Pact is over, Marcus. You're done."
Elliot saw his chance. With a surge of adrenaline, he kicked at Marcus's legs, sending him stumbling backward. Tara grabbed Elliot's arm, pulling him to his feet, and they ran, the flickering streetlights blurring into streaks of light as they disappeared into the night.
Marcus didn't chase them. He couldn't—not with Tara's livestream exposing his every move. By morning, the town of Lincoln was in an uproar. The video of Deion's abduction went viral, and the notebook Elliot had found became the centerpiece of a police investigation—one that Marcus's father couldn't bury this time. The Pact unraveled, its members arrested one by one, and Marcus was sent to juvie, his reign of terror finally over.
Elliot and Tara became local heroes, though Elliot didn't feel like one. He visited Deion's grave a week later, placing a single white flower on the headstone. "I got them, Deion," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I got them for you."
As he walked away, the autumn wind carried the sound of rustling leaves, and for the first time in two years, Elliot felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The shadows of the past would always linger, but he'd found a way to step into the light.