saccharinely bound

by LillyN

Summary:

Ormond is a graveyard of dreams—a town frozen in time. You spent most of your life hiding behind polite smiles and good grades.

A lifestyle so repeated and uninspiring, you feel like dying everyday for as long as you’re still here, in this tiny town they all call home sweet home.

Until the night you’re dragged into a realm of endless Fog, hunted by things you once thought impossible.

Worse still, you find yourself bound to a boy who changes with the Fog, and haunted by a man behind your nightmares.

No words can capture the depth of their obsessions. Their love is as twisted and lethal as the knife pressed to your chest, beautiful in its promise, fatal in its devotion.

Notes:

hi, this is my first work ever in ao3, also my first work ever in a different language ^^.

due to the lack of Frank Morrison and Danny fic, I was so motivated I had to write one to indulge myself; thus, some of this might not be lore accurate, but it’s only for the sake of building up romance and story progression.

this was supposed to be a dark fic so the tags will change overtime, and ghostie won’t make an appearance until later on huehue.

Chapter 1: living dead

You never admit it out loud to anyone, but you hated it here.

In this small, stifling town that its residents call home sweet home, nothing has ever been that sweet.

Because the summer here is sweltering as it is humid, ready to blot life out of anything the sun seems to touch. But compared to winter, it’s still benevolent enough not to slaughter.

Winter in Ormond is an entirely different beast.

Here, the cold sinks in deep, gnawing down to the bone with merciless teeth and numbing the senses until you can’t feel anything at all. Even the snow here falls differently—heavy, and relentless, like it’s trying to bury every dirty little secret this town has beneath its unyielding white blanket.

In contrast to the busier cities, things here move as slowly as they possibly can. The traffic, sparse and sluggish, crawls lazily through the streets. The people drift aimlessly from day to day, caught in routines they never bother to question. Life itself seems trapped in slow-motion, each day stretching endlessly into the next without ever changing its shape or shade.

It’s constantly that way. Monotonous and mundane, like a somber tune being played repeatedly on a gramophone at an antique shop. You find it absurd how people cherish this place and never want it to change.

They cling desperately to routines, to sameness, as if any disruption might shatter their fragile illusion of happiness. It's as if the sluggish rhythm of Ormond has seeped into their veins, making them afraid of anything new, anything unknown.

Stuck in this endless loop—existing without ever truly living, satisfied with just drifting quietly through their days. It’s terribly dreadful for any aspiring young person.

The saddest thing is, you can see yourself becoming one of them. A mindless sheep among countless others. Bleating day to day, succumbing to the dreary rhythm with this town as their shepherd.

If anyone asks you if this town’s worth it. You won’t need to tell them twice. Because this is the kind of place where dreams freeze before they can even manifest.

It's the kind of town you see on YouTube channels, suggested to you during your boring meals when you’re desperate for any form of amusement—forgotten towns, dying towns, towns left behind.

While the braver youth escape, fleeing towards cities that promise freedom and something more. Those who stay either give themselves up to numbness with alcohol and drugs, or surrender quietly, starting families whose children will inevitably repeat the cycle, trapped in a loop they never asked to inherit.

And yet people here smile, wave to neighbors, and talk about the weather like it’s all just fine. It’s a bleak masquerade, one you’ve long since grown tired of pretending to believe.

"Say, what's your plan when you graduate?" Ava speaks, picking dirt off her nails in boredom. It's crazy how she actually paid attention to Mr. Wesley's vocational guidance session.

Her words reached you. Your eyes averted from the blankets of snow outside to the front page of your textbook for the next class.

Graduation. A word meaning to end one person's academic journey, ordinary or not. It's kinda scary, come to think of it. How you only have one more year left before you can choose whether you want to ditch this place and leave everything behind or melt into it and become part of the land’s fertile soil.

You swallow quietly, fingertips tracing invisible circles on the textbook cover. Ava’s waiting for your answer, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity you wish she didn’t have. She always expects you to have things figured out, like you're supposed to know exactly how your future is going to unfold.

But the truth is, you don’t know.

How could you? All you’ve ever known is Ormond—its frozen winters and sweltering summers, the heavy slowness of its days, the quiet suffocation of its nights. To leave would mean walking into uncertainty, and to stay would mean willingly allowing yourself to be buried alive.

"I don’t know yet," you finally reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe anywhere but here."

Ava raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and you force yourself to smile, as if it’s just a joke, as if the thought of staying in Ormond forever isn’t something that terrifies you.

Ava has been your only real friend throughout high school. Though you’ve only known her for two years—and this being the third—you find her presence far more tolerable than anyone else’s.

Maybe it’s because she’s somehow decent, someone with enough common sense not to pressure you into smoking or drugs just to seem cool, like the majority of kids here.

Or perhaps it’s simply because she's relatable enough to understand your desperation for wanting to get the hell out of this place.

There are many places you want to turn your back on and never come back. Ava’s grasp when she’s drunk, that one quiet kid at the back of the class when he gives you flirtatious looks, and this school.

Westmount High is one of the few high schools scattered across this small, sleepy town. It's the kind of school that mirrors Ormond itself: small, dull, and utterly predictable. The student body is mostly made up of kids who have already given up, spending more time behind the gym smoking or passing around pills in the hallways than actually studying.

It's not hard to notice how the teachers never fail to move so sluggishly through lessons. Their eyes would glaze with indifference, counting down the hours until the final bell—after all, they're not paid enough to care about the future of teenagers who don't even care themselves.

And in a place as tiny as Ormond, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, gossip, drama, and rumors spread quicker than wildfire, whispered from locker to locker, classroom to classroom, becoming the lifeblood of a school that feels more like a prison than anything else.

You’ll never forget the look on Jolie’s face when someone started the rumor that she’d slept with Mr. Wesley for grades.

The gossip had surged through the hallways, vicious and unstoppable, like an avalanche tearing down everything in its path. You remember the way her expression shattered as whispers and side-glances followed her everywhere she went. Jolie transferred schools less than a month later, probably leaving the town for good due to the harassment she’s been getting.

Nevertheless, the damage lingered long after she'd left, a stark reminder of how ruthless Westmount could truly be.

No one will ever know the truth. Jolie had always been at the top of your class. Never second place, never even close. It was easy to see why people bought into the lie so quickly.

Or maybe it was easier for everyone to believe that she’d cheated her way up rather than accept the uncomfortable fact that someone might genuinely be better than the rest of them.

Another reason why you loathe this place. Whether it’s valid or not, you don’t deserve such toxicity in a study environment. You can say otherwise for the others, though, considering their level of ignorance.

It’s a prison here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s after Mr. Wesley’s vocational guidance speech, and now you're in Biology class, your pen gently tapping against your notebook as you pay attention to Mrs. Bailey’s lesson.

Unlike most teachers here, Mrs. Bailey still tries. Even if her voice carries a note of tired resignation, and the shadows beneath her eyes suggest she stopped expecting appreciation years ago.

The rest of the class slouches in varying states of boredom and indifference, some whispering softly, others resting their heads on folded arms, eyes drifting toward the clock.

“So,” Mrs. Bailey says, turning slowly toward the board with a tired sigh. “Can anyone tell me the primary function of mitochondria?”

Her question meets silence. A few students exchange lazy glances, uninterested in breaking their lethargy.

Then Noah’s hand shoots up eagerly. Nerdy and earnest, Noah’s one of the few who still genuinely cares about schoolwork, though it doesn’t help him earn any popularity points.

“Yes, Noah?” Mrs. Bailey acknowledges him with a small nod.

“They’re the powerhouse of the cell,” he answers promptly, pushing his glasses back up his nose as though he’s just delivered a groundbreaking revelation.

A ripple of suppressed laughter travels through the classroom. Stupid people, you think.

Mrs. Bailey doesn’t react, simply nodding once and turning back to the board as the class settles back into its apathetic quiet.

Ava still looks as disinterested as ever, chin propped against her palm, eyes half-lidded as she doodles absently in the margins of her notebook. You can’t blame her when your peers have all but perfected the art of not giving a damn. It’s hard to stay focused when you're surrounded by people who’ve already decided that effort is uncool.

It’s all they ever do, honestly. Drag each other down. When a sheep tries to get out of the circle, the herd always pulls it back in.

And you won’t be one.

You’re proud of your town and its history, the old mills, the rusting railway lines, and the faded murals of miners and war heroes. You know this land like the back of your hand, and maybe that’s the problem.

Pride doesn’t mean you have to chain yourself to it.

It’s cruel, you think, to force yourself to stay just for the sake of familiarity.

You need something else. Something real. A change.

Because if this is all there is—this endless gray, this tedious rot—then you might as well lie down, let the soil take you, and become part of the plants growing out of this frozen place.

The lesson drags on, minutes passing by with the speed of thawing ice.

Just when you think you’re free to pack up and leave, Mrs. Bailey closes her textbook with a clap and says, “Before you all go, we’ll be starting a group project, which is going to be due next week.”

A collective groan ripples through the room.

“Photosynthesis and plant cell structures,” she adds, scribbling it onto the board. “I’ve already assigned the pairs.”

As she starts listing names on the whiteboard, matching students who barely acknowledge each other on normal days. Their groans and complaints are music to your ears.

You’re paired with Ava, no surprise there. And you already feel the buzz of relief that it’s someone you can tolerate. Although Ava’s academics aren’t that notable, she’s still willing to work for it for the sake of her strict parents.

But then, as the list dwindles, one name still hasn’t been called.

Frank Morrison.

Mrs. Bailey glances at the seating chart, then at the class. “Frank’s unpaired. Does anyone want to group with him?”

Silence.

Your classmates suddenly find their shoes, their nails, the backs of their hands incredibly interesting.

Frank slouched at the back of the room, arms crossed behind his head, chewing on a minty Extra stick with a look that could peel paint. His jacket is rumpled, collar high, and he’s got that permanent don’t-give-a-shit-and-I-never-will air that’s more carefully constructed than the school’s auditorium benches.

Ah, Frankie.

He transferred here just last year, straight out of Quebec. Nobody knows the full story, only gossip and whispers here and there, as always.

They said he bounced from one foster home to another, never staying long with any family because of his abrasive personality and constant conflicts. From the teachers’ perspectives, he was impossible to handle, too.

He’s the kind of student who drinks and smokes simply for the thrill, making little effort to conceal his habits. Whenever there’s an altercation in the corridors or a commotion behind the gym, Frank is almost always at the center of it—or, at the very least, the cause behind it.

Trouble follows him with a persistence that seems both intentional and inevitable; whether by design or indifference, he never distances himself from chaos.

You lose count of the times Frank shows up to class late, fresh bruises blooming along his cheekbones and jaw. Whether they’re souvenirs from brawls with the local hooligans or the result of Mr. Clive’s wrath—his sleaze of a foster father, you can never be certain.

All you know is that you want nothing to do with him.

Your life may be dull, quiet, and almost invisible, but that doesn’t mean you’re desperate enough to make it more colorful by getting involved with someone like him.

Mrs. Bailey’s lips then pressed into a thin line. “Anyone?”

Silence again.

Frank looks wholly unbothered, like he expected this. His eyes flick lazily toward the window. You can tell he’s already checked out.

Then Mrs. Bailey’s tired blue eyes settle on you, pinning you in place.

God dammit.

She doesn’t even bother to ask. She simply erases your name next to Ava’s and writes it next to Frank’s on her seating chart, as if the decision has already been made and there’s nothing more to discuss.

You regret having quite a connection with her, regret always seeking her help with biology after class. You love her and all, but this is beyond torment.

You hate how the class shifts with quiet relief, grateful to have been spared. And more importantly, you hate the weight of unwanted attention pressing against your shoulders.

Ava gives you a sympathetic look, mouthing a silent, “Sorry,” across the aisle. It’s not like she’s annoyed by the decision because Mrs. Bailey paired her with Noah after having hit the last nail in your coffin.

Lucky Ava, that means less work for her because Noah’s a hopeless romantic.

You manage a weak smile in return, but your thoughts are already racing. You steal a glance at Frank, expecting annoyance or smugness, but find only a faint, unreadable frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He catches your gaze, holds it for just a second longer than necessary, then looks away as if nothing in this room, including you, could possibly matter less.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slow progression is what you hate most.

The glacial pace of the construction workers tearing up the same stretch of road for weeks, the sluggish crawl of the internet when you need it most, the suffocating slowness of Ormond’s winter as it gnaws away at everything, even the slow, relentless way a person can die here, frozen from the inside out.

But above all, you despise the lack of motivation and hope that hangs over this place.

No matter how fiercely you try to be positive, to fish for more, to imagine a life with movement and meaning, it always circles back to nothing. Every dream, every bright thought, is drawn back down to zero, ready to haunt the fast-paced life you wish you had.

Just like your father. How he vanished for years, only for his name to flicker across the lazy local news on a cold, unremarkable winter morning. The story was brief, the broadcast tinny and indifferent, but the impact was bone-deep.

You remember watching it from an electronics shop. The empty hollow in you was just as grave as the wintry winds.

You love him. Or maybe you love the idea of him—the way he left everything behind, chasing something no one else cared about, even if it turned out to be a dead end. Even if, in the end, he wound up just another sad story the snow would bury in a whisper.

You abhor how long it took for you to move on. To pretend like nothing ever happened. That he didn’t get gutted into an unrecognizable pile of organs by some psychopath.

And in moments like this, it’s even grimmer to try to ignore the pernicious memories.

The library is nearly empty, the hour too late for anyone but the most desperate to be here. You stare down at your notes, neatly color-coded, every page full of careful research and diagrams, and feel your hands shaking with frustration.

For the past few days, you’ve done almost everything yourself.

Frank was supposed to help. Instead, he vanished, showing up late if at all, always with an excuse, which eventually reduced to none.

You’ve expected it, of course. Why would an idiot like him care for grades when teachers were going to donate them to him for the sake of him graduating.

Still, your chest is tight with anger the more you think about it. If there weren’t a “Please Respect Quiet Hours” sign taped to the front desk, you might scream.

Patience is a virtue. Maybe your diligence will be fruitful at the end.

Instead of tilting, you grit your teeth and force yourself to focus on your outline, rewriting a section for the third time, making sure it’s perfect. It has to be. This grade counts for your finals, and you can’t afford to let someone else’s laziness drag you down.

Doing well is your only way of getting out of here.

You wished Ava had been your partner instead. She might be one lazy bum, but she would never treat you this way.

Somewhere deep down, you hope that fucker will make it, just so you can at least tell him what he needs to do. You glance at your phone. Another message sent, still unread.

You try not to imagine Frank, somewhere out there, doing anything but his share. You try not to picture his indifferent smirk, the way he shrugs off responsibility like it’s nothing.

The resentment, nevertheless, simmers beneath your skin, hot and unrelenting.

If this weren’t a two-person presentation but just another paper, you wouldn’t be so up in arms about it.

It isn’t until you hear footsteps approaching, breaking the dull silence of the empty library, that you mumble, “Sorry, Mrs. Lorraine, but I just need fifteen more minutes on this—”

You rummage through your scattered notes and textbooks, only to find yourself face-to-face with someone decidedly unexpected.

“Damn, you know the hag’s name?” Frank drawls, sounding both amused and faintly incredulous.

Seeing him now does nothing to improve your mood, despite the fact that he finally showed up.

His bag is slung carelessly over his shoulder, the same worn hoodie pulled over his head. For a moment, you expect him to leave as soon as he sees you buried in the work he was supposed to help with, completely ignoring his existence.

To your surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he drops his bag to the floor and takes the seat across from you.

Then there’s this sharp, unmistakable scent of sweat and cologne following him, clinging to the air between you.

It’s kinda disgusting and off-putting how it hits your lungs instantly. You figured he just went back from his basketball session, ditching work like usual, it seems like.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “I know everyone’s name, Frank. It’s called having basic social skills. But I suppose you’ve always been so far up your ass to care about things like that.”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a crooked grin on his lips. “Damn! Chill out, will you?”

“Chill? Where have you been the whole time I’ve been doing your work?” you hiss, struggling to keep your voice low, anger bleeding into every syllable.

It’s a furious whisper—just contained enough not to echo off the library walls and anger Mrs. Lorraine.

“Geez, thanks. I’m here now, ain’t I?” he sneers, leaning back as if this is all a joke to him.

“Whatever,” you mutter, pressing your fingers to your temple, willing your headache away. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Let’s get it over with so you don’t have to deal with him any longer—or, better yet, so you don’t have to keep noticing the nasty bruise mottling his jaw.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your father had taught you that curiosity’s no good.

Yet, "What's up with the bruise?" you mutter mid-session, letting it get the better of you.

The same curiosity that has painted nearly half of your room in black and white. With folders, printouts, grainy photos, and newsletters tacked to your wall. A forlorn obsession.

For a moment, Frank goes still. His pen hovers over the page, and the room is suddenly too quiet. You recognize that look—a flicker of caution, the quick calculation behind his eyes.

It’s the instinctive reaction people have when they’re trying to hide something and lie about it.

He shrugs, casual as ever, but you can hear the strain behind his words. “Got into a fight. No biggie.”

You don’t buy it.

"Mr. Clive went a little too far this time, didn't he?"

There's a tiny flicker of surprise in Frank’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. You expect him to deflect, to make up some half-hearted excuse, but he doesn’t.

“Yeah, I guess. Fuckass got pissed because I forgot to let his dog in the house,” he mutters, his tone flat and almost careless, but you catch the way his jaw tightens.

You’ve known Mr. Clive for as long as you can remember.

He and your father went back years—two faces in the endless rotation of small-town men who aged too fast and cared too little. Clive is the epitome of the absent drunkard, a man who’s fostered so many kids you’ve lost count, bleeding the government for welfare checks and giving nothing back but indifference and empty bottles.

You doubt Frank will be his last ward. There will always be another kid, another casualty of Ormond’s apathy.

"He punched you?” you gasped, feigning to ask, attention fixed on your laptop, “Was the dog okay, though?"

The question is harmless enough, an easy mask to slip on. Yet, it’s almost comical how quickly he boils over.

"Are you shitting me? He fucking punched me so hard I fell over!" Frank snaps, the tension in him finally surfacing.

“Hurts like a bitch...” Then he murmurs, rubbing his aching jaw.

Truthfully, you couldn’t care less about Mr. Clive’s dog. If both he and the mutt got locked outside during a blizzard, you’re pretty sure Clive would be the first to go. There’s a dark, bitter amusement in the thought. A kind of justice Ormond rarely serves.

Mr. Clive is ignorant. They all are.

You wonder if anyone at school cares, or if they’re all just too busy buttering up the excellent kids. The ones who make the honor roll, win competitions, bring the school a sliver of prestige, and, more importantly, funding.

Maybe there isn’t enough energy left to care about the rest.

But your mother didn’t raise you to be like that. She taught you how to be caring, how to show sympathy. Quite the teaching, you think, when she used to gently rub ointment over your skin, soothing the very spot she’d scalded with boiling water meant for your meal just hours before. Her anger flared as suddenly as it faded.

"Here," you say, fishing your water bottle from the damp side pocket of your backpack. "Hold this to your jaw for a bit. Might help."

Frank stares at the sweaty thermos in your hand for a moment, like it’s the strangest thing anyone’s ever offered him. Then, with a small, almost grudging nod, he takes it anyway.

"Thanks," he mutters, pressing it to his bruised skin.

You know he’s too stubborn to bother with the infirmary. Not that it matters—the nurse there probably wouldn’t care, either.

In this town, you learn to look after yourself, or you don’t last long.

Just because everyone asks their neighbours how they’re doing doesn’t mean they care. Here, it’s rarely about genuine concern—it’s about collecting stories, feeding the constant hunger for melodrama. People crave something new to talk about, anything to break the monotony.

In a town this small, every misfortune becomes a kind of currency, something worth trading in whispers and side glances, a distraction from the emptiness of their own lives.

“Yeah, no problem,” you say, your focus already drifting back to your laptop as you try to touch up the presentation before Mrs. Lorraine comes over to remind you, again, that the library is closing soon.

Your fingers move quickly, making last-minute edits and adjustments, forcing yourself to concentrate on the work instead of the awkward silence now settling between you and Frank.

Meanwhile, Frank can’t get over how the hell anyone drinks ice water when it’s minus something degrees outside. He glances at your thermos, then at you, an unconvinced look flickering across his face.

Maybe you really are as strange as everyone says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But what do they say about you, really?

Her brother just got a job, you heard? A real decent one—makes good money now.

Really? Guess they finally got over their mom’s death, huh?

I feel bad for her dad. Got murdered by some psycho killer. No wonder she’s always so tense and weird.

She’s hot, though. I’d ask her out if she weren’t so disinterested all the time.

Yeah, as if mourning and dissociating yourself to heal is a crime.

Loving this town’s quiet nature and tangled history is one thing. Hating its people, hating their small-minded curiosity, their relentless appetite for gossip, is another entirely.

For, in the end, the only real change anyone here ever feeds on is drama.

Whenever something newly terrifying happens, an accident, a scandal, a whispered threat. And one soccer mom gets wind of it first, you can bet the rest of the town will know about it within days. They spread like wildfire: through morning coffees, at checkout lines, between car windows idling in the school lot.

You're thankful your brother doesn't go crazy like your mom.

Speaking of, it’s been nearly half an hour, and you start to wonder what’s taking your brother so long to come pick you up. He’s usually punctual, and if something comes up, he always lets you know in advance.

You dig your phone out of your bag, scrolling through notifications until you spot his message:

Hey, ask Ava’s mom for a ride home today. I have to attend this meeting.

You resist the urge to facepalm so hard you leave a permanent imprint.

The timestamp is from thirty minutes ago. And Ava’s already gone home. The moment you told her you’d be staying late at the library, she didn’t hesitate to make her escape. Now you’re stranded, and there’s no way you’re walking home in this miserable, bone-biting weather.

Just great. Fuck.

There’s no way you’re going to wait two hours for your brother to finish his meeting, then another thirty minutes for him to get here. Not when Mr. Rupert, who teaches physics, is notorious among students for being a sick, leering old man, is still lurking around.

The thought of being left alone with him, even for a few minutes, is enough to make your skin crawl.

Without a second thought, you head for the main doors, bracing yourself against the cruel winter wind as you start the trek toward the bus stop—a solid fifteen minutes away on foot.

Gosh, you hate winter.

Each gust feels sharper than the last, needling through your puffy, but thin jacket, stinging your exposed skin. You silently curse your choice of clothes, wishing you’d layered up instead of trusting the weak morning sun.

The more you dwell on it, the worse the cold bites in, crawling beneath fabric and flesh, turning every step into a small test of endurance. Your breath fogs in the air, each exhale a small, visible complaint, but you keep moving, determined not to look back.

As the cold gnaws at your fingers, you start to regret your decision. Ormond’s winter is known for being merciless.

Maybe you should’ve stayed at school, trusted your pepper spray to protect you from that freak of a teacher, rather than brave Ormond’s winter alone. The numbness creeps in, making your hands stiff, your face ache. You’re just about to curse yourself for being stubborn when the sound of tires crunching over ice makes you pause.

A battered old truck slows to a stop beside you. You recognize it instantly—Mr. Clive’s truck, with its faded paint and rattling muffler. The window rolls down, and Mr. Clive leans over, his hands gripping the worn leather of the steering wheel.

“Ey, (Name), you need a ride home?” His voice is gruff, laced with that forced friendliness you’ve always hated.

You hesitate, instinctively glancing at the backseat. Frank is there, slouched against the window, his eyes half-lidded but watching you with quiet interest. He says nothing, but the invitation is clear.

You’re not sure why, but Frank’s presence in the backseat brings a faint, unexpected sense of reassurance. A buffer against the discomfort you’d normally feel around Mr. Clive.

So you force a bright smile, letting your voice drip with a sweetness that could rot teeth. “You’re a life-saver, Mr. Clive!”

Like a free bird, you chirp, sliding into the backseat before you can overthink it, slipping in beside Frank.

He grimaces when your thigh brushes against his, shifting slightly away, but not enough to hide his surprise. After years of living with the stench of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, the clean, floral scent of detergent clinging to your jacket is almost too much. It makes him want to throw up.

"How have you been Mr. Clive? And how's Maple? Does she still bark a lot at night?" You speak, pretentiously.

“Ah, you know how it is,” Mr. Clive grunts, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. “Maple’s as noisy as ever, damn mutt never shuts up when the moon’s out. Keeps me up half the night. But she’s a good girl, just gets lonely, I guess. Not much else to do in this town but bark at the shadows.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Could say the same about half the folks around here, if you ask me.”

“How’s James doing? Haven’t seen him out of the house much since the incident,” Mr. Clive remarks, his tone casual but probing.

You wish, for a fleeting moment, that he’d drive off a cliff and finally be done with it. But not before you and Frank have the chance to get out first.

Still, you force a cheerful reply, every word dipped in practiced politeness. “Fine as he’ll ever be, mister. He’s a businessman now. Just got a huge promotion and a raise, so he’s busier than ever.”

The only way to deal with people you can’t stand is to treat them nicely and good. Even if every word tastes like poison, even if it’s fake as hell.

Mr. Clive grunts, seeming only half-interested as he focuses back on the road. Meanwhile, Frank stares out the window, watching snowflakes collect on the glass, brow furrowed in thought.

He can’t quite believe how different your attitude is outside of school compared to how you act in class. It pisses him off a little, if he’s honest—not that he’d ever say so.

You’re always the good girl in school: attentive, quiet, always getting things done, never slacking off. You treat teachers with respect and genuinely mean it, unlike half the kids who suck up just for grades.

But you don’t talk to anyone, not really, except that one odd girl, Ava. And Frank remembers, he’s certain, how you snapped at a classmate for stepping on your shoes. The same shoes he’s never seen you wear before or since, except at homecoming last year.

There’s something about the contrast that grates on him. Maybe it’s because he can’t tell which version of you is real.

It’s only seconds later when Mr. Clive speaks up again, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the heater.

“Say, since you’re in the same class as Frankie—”

Frank usually doesn’t give a damn about anything his foster father says, but this time, you notice the way his posture shifts ever so slightly. His fingers curl, jaw tightening just a little. He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel him waiting.

“Has he been studying well?” Mr. Clive asks, glancing at you in the rearview mirror for the second time. The question was laced with casual indifference, like he already expects the answer to be disappointing.

How bold of him to care. So pretentious, so fake. It almost makes you laugh.

You know he’s probably just looking for a reason to be angry, to be frustrated, fishing for confirmation that Frank’s as much of a problem here as he is at home. It’s easier for him to believe no one at school likes Frank, that his reputation is already ruined, than to consider that maybe the problem runs deeper.

“Yep! He did well. He even stayed at the library to help me out with my presentation,” you reply, your tone bright and unwavering.

You nudge Frank’s shoe with your own, a silent cue that pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Y-yeah,” Frank echoes, stumbling a bit over the words. It’s the first time he sounds unsure all evening.

Coming from a girl like you, your words are more than enough to ease Mr. Clive’s temper. He smiles, satisfied, as the truck rumbles through snow that’s falling heavier by the minute.

You pretend not to notice Frank’s confused glare burning into the side of your face, the question in his eyes unspoken but impossible to miss. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the frosted window, watching the swirling white blur and letting the hum of the engine fill the silence between you.

Just as soon as the truck stops in front of your house, you step out, moving quickly, waving a polite goodbye to Mr. Clive without giving him the chance for small talk.

Nothing ever beats the coziness of a clean home: the subtle scent of laundry soap, the low crackle of the fireplace warming every corner, wrapping you in safety the way Ormond’s winter never could. You triple lock the main door behind you, shedding your jacket and boots in the entryway.

“Dinner’s in the fridge!”

James’s voice calls down from upstairs, clipped and distracted. From the edge in his tone, you guess his boss is in one of those moods, stretching meetings into the evening just to prove a point.

You open the fridge and find a glass container of chicken and wild rice casserole—a comfort food James likes to make on cold nights. You set it in the microwave, the hum and soft glow filling the kitchen as you let the warmth chase the cold from your bones.

For a life to be repetitive and dull, you're happy that you're luckier than most people.

Chapter 2: partners

Summary:

You wanted a quiet evening. Instead, you got Frank Morrison.

Dreams after a nice shower, dreams after a warm meal, dreams that come after a full eight hours of sleep. They’re supposed to be harmless, silly, maybe even pleasant. 

The kind you forget as soon as you open your eyes.

Yet, all you see is him. The same faceless man, always waiting at the edge of your dreams. A persistent shadow, clinging to the back of your mind, feasting on your will.

Sometimes he’s wearing a crisp white office shirt and black jeans, sleeves rolled up with a pair of glasses as if he’s been working late. But then the moment you blink, suddenly he’s dressed in black from head to toe. 

You fear the way his silhouette is as sharp as a hunting knife against the dark, his presence somehow more real than anything in waking life.

Because no matter how the scene changes, he remains constant. Forever in your peaceful but restless dreams.

It could be at school, with your attention fixed on the lesson, he’s the shape lingering just beyond the classroom window. There was no face, only a shadow bearing the form of a man pressed against the glass. But when you forced yourself to look again, the figure never seemed to be there to begin with, leaving behind nothing but a faint chill against your spine.

Or in the coffee shop, where you’re surrounded by the comfort of warm lamplight and the scent of roasted beans, he appeared in the farthest corner of the place, featureless as the void itself. You never saw him enter. He simply existed as his gaze, a silent pressure you feel but cannot meet.

Or on the walk to school, as you passed by the aged newspaper stand. It’s eerie to catch a glimpse of him in the glossy reflection of the shopfront in the half-light near the stall. He was always reading, or pretending to. You figure that just as you pass, for his gaze never failed to linger.

Even in your own room, your haven, where safety should be absolute, his presence crept in within the dark like a parasite waiting to strike.

The subtle shift of weight beneath your bed. The glimpse of his outline coiled behind the closet door. The ambiance of his limbs on your body. No matter how tightly you closed your eyes, the knowledge of his presence lingered regardless.

You never believed in ghosts, yet somehow, he feels like the only ghost you’ve ever known. One that haunts you from the inside out, who lives in the quietest corners of your mind. Lurking. Watching. Waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

The presentation didn’t go half as badly as you’d anticipated, considering your partner was Frank. 

Thanks to that one begrudgingly productive evening in the library, you managed to pull it off with surprising competence. Frank, surprisingly, for his part, had been reluctantly obedient enough to follow your instructions, though with just minimal effort to avoid sabotaging your grade.

It wasn’t remarkable, but it was solid, which was more than enough to earn a nod of approval from sweet Mrs. Bailey.

Ava, on the other hand, barely scraped by. 

Noah, her project partner, had come down with a fever the night before and left her to shoulder almost all of the work alone. She managed, but the frustration was clear in the way she glared at her hastily assembled notes, muttering complaints under her breath as the final bell signaled the end of class.

As you close your notebook and begin to gather your things, you offer her a sympathetic smile. “At least it’s over.”

Ava rolls her eyes, her voice dry as a desert. “Yeah, wait until she comes up with crazier group shits and pair us with a bunch of slackers.”

You laugh quietly, grateful for the brief camaraderie, one of the few bright spots in days that always felt too stuffy.

Mrs. Bailey knew exactly what she was doing. Her habit of pairing the diligent students with those who barely cared was as predictable as it was frustrating. Still, you suppose it was her own twisted way of trying to save the slackers from failing altogether, no matter how much it grated on everyone else.

And that everyone else includes you.

Frank’s already gone by the time you look up. Typical of him.

He always seemed to vanish before the bell had even finished its shrill protest, slipping out the door while Mrs. Bailey was still stacking her papers, barely lifting her butt from the chair.

You don’t need to guess where he’s gone. Most likely, he’s already tucked away in one of the bathroom stalls, making the most of the break with a cigarette, as far removed from school as he can possibly be without actually leaving the building.

“You’re one to talk,” you say to Ava as you gather your things and head for your locker.

She scoffs, trailing after you. “Hey! Since when have I ever failed you?”

You shoot her a pointed look. “Says the girl who ditched me for half a project last semester to chase a dick.”

“That was one time. Let it go already!” Ava’s cheeks flare with embarrassment, but she recovers quickly, waving you off with a mock glare. “Also, for your information, the dick was worth it.”

You gag dramatically, but the grin cracking your face ruins the act, and the tension breaks into laughter as you melt into the tide of students.

“Anyways, come crash at mine after school,” Ava says suddenly, eyes lit. “I found some slashers that aren’t total garbage .”

“Tempting, but James is making tourtière and poutine tonight,” you admit, feeling a pang of anticipation at the thought of your brother’s cooking. 

Ava’s a huge fan of horror movies, especially the slasher kind. According to her, there are a bunch of things that can be so thrilling about them. The suspense, the chase, the not knowing who’ll make it out alive. She claims the adrenaline rush is the best part, though you suspect she just enjoys seeing other people make worse decisions than she ever could.

Yeah, not to mention the crazy killers. The one so hidden behind the masks. 

You remember Ava going on and on about them before, analyzing every detail like it was some film class. In fact, she once asked, half-serious, why they always wear masks in the first place. You’d laughed at her, especially when she admitted that in some twisted way, the anonymity kind of turned her on. 

She sounded ridiculous, but you let her have it; everyone has their quirks, you suppose.

Ava groans in mock envy, tossing out a playful curse. "You lucky bitch. I’d trade my soul for homemade poutine."

"Maybe ask your mom to make tourtière again like she did that one Christmas night. I’d give everything up to be at your place if that was on the menu."

"Fuck! But she never makes the complicated stuff twice. She claims the effort kills the magic." She lets out an exaggerated sigh.

You shrug, lips curving in a small, teasing smile. "Oh well. Jokes aside, I can’t come tonight so maybe next time, though. James wants us to have a proper family dinner for once, and if I bail, he’ll never let me live it down."

Ava rolls her eyes, bumping your arm. "Oh, okay, that sounds more like a better excuse now."

For a brief moment, surrounded by laughter, shouts, and the familiar chaos of passing period, everything feels almost normal. Just you and Ava, side by side, trading jokes like any other pair of friends.

Then a hand lands on your shoulder, cutting through your comfort with a jolt of irritation.

"Hey, sweetcheeks," Mason drawls, his tone casual but oily, enough to make your skin crawl as he leans in, preventing you from finishing at your locker.

You don’t bother hiding your disdain. "What do you want, Mason?"

Of all the people in school who could interrupt your break, short of a teacher catching you in the halls, it just has to be Mason Keller. 

If Ormond had a local species of pest, he’d be the mascot: infamous for chasing after anything in a skirt, collecting stories like trophies to swap with his friends in the locker room. He’s less a heartthrob than a cautionary tale, the kind of guy who thinks every girl is just another name for his scorecard and every hallway is his personal hunting ground. 

The worst part is, he acts like it’s a gift to be chosen.

“You free this Saturday?” His grin dares you to say yes.

His smugness is enough to make you want to slam your locker shut and disappear.

“Sorry, walking STD,” Ava doesn’t even bother to look up, inspecting her manicure like Mason’s presence is barely worth noticing. “She’s with me.”

If you’re not mistaken, there’s history between them. Nothing but a short-lived, regrettable blip during your freshman year. Back before Mason became who he is now, and before Ava stopped pampering him and started calling him every creative insult in her arsenal.

He acts as if Ava doesn’t exist, like she’s just background noise, before turning all his attention back to you.

“You’re free, right? Wanna see this movie with me at the drive-in?” His voice oozes with forced confidence, but there’s something hungry in the way he looks at you, as if he’s already undressing you in his mind.

“No thanks.” You shake his hand off with sharp disgust, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

But Mason doesn’t take no for an answer. He leans in closer, breath warm and stale, grin crooked with entitlement. “C’mon. Don’t be such a nerdy loser, hiding in your room all day. I’ll even pay for the tickets and popcorn.”

Ava’s head snaps up so fast it’s a wonder her neck doesn’t crack. “Bitch, since when did you start paying for stuff?!” she fires back, voice sharp enough to draw a few glances down the hall.

“Nope,” you say flatly, slamming your locker shut with a metallic bang that makes him flinch, if only for a second. “Not interested.”

At this point, something fumes inside him. You see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his smirk collapses into a snarl just barely masked. Mason Keller—Ormond’s golden boy, if you believed his own hype—looks as if the word no has physically burned across his skin.
You can tell he isn’t used to it. If anything, he’s been on your ass the entire week.

In this suffocating town, where he believes looks outweigh worth, Mason coasts through life on the lazy charm of his grin and the false promise of broad shoulders. Every girl who feeds his ego only helps dig the hole deeper, until he thinks himself untouchable. The rules bend around him, and he bends the people with them.

And now you—this “stupid girl,” in his mind nothing more than another notch he should’ve been able to steal—dare to turn him down. In the middle of the hallway. With witnesses, too.

His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing with something ugly, like a dog about to bare its teeth. The crowd around you moves on in waves, but he’s rooted there, seething, his fury thick enough to choke on.

For a moment, you think Mason might push again, to see how far your refusal can bend. His fingers twitch like they want to close around your arm, but Ava shifts her stance before he can gather the nerve. She folds her arms across her chest, lifts her chin, and meets his glare with a blade-sharp stare. It drains the heat from him, pride collapsing the way a spark dies in snow.

He’s just a dog, you think. All bark and no bite. The smug satisfaction of it curls inside your chest like a newfound hobby.

“Fuck—watch where you’re going, asshole!” Mason suddenly snaps, a little bit too loud for your fragile ears.

His voice cracks against the walls, and every head nearby turns at once. Students pause mid-step, eyes flicking between him and you, hungry for entertainment. The hallway buzzes with whispers, thick as flies circling something freshly wounded.

The boy who clips Mason’s shoulder doesn’t even stop walking, nor does he look back. The hood of his grey hoodie is drawn low as his hands sink into the pockets of his varsity jacket; he carries himself with an indifference that’s all too familiar. Each step is heavy and unhurried, as though he walks through a world that can never touch him.

You recognize him immediately.

Mason’s shoulders tense, but his courage falters as quickly as it sparks. His mouth opens like he means to spit another insult, yet nothing comes. Frank never gives him the dignity of acknowledgment, and that stings worse than a fist. Being invisible to someone like Frank isn’t safety, it’s humiliation.

The crowd peels away as Frank passes, students shrinking back against lockers, their chatter stuttering before starting up again in low murmurs.

Mason still lingers, jaw stiff as stone, his cheeks burning a crimson red. When his eyes return to you, there’s nothing charming left. Only something mean and resentful.

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the day blurs past in pieces. Bells, shifting bodies, the muffled scrape of boots on wet linoleum. Hours slip away as quickly as the storm outside burns itself out, snow fading into slush along the edges of the street. By the time the last class ends, you’re ready to escape, already picturing the drive home through the brittle air.

But Mrs. Bailey’s voice stops you.

 “(Name), can you come with me to the dean’s office for a little bit?”

She stands near her desk, arms straining under the weight of binders and textbooks stacked against her chest. Her tone is calm, even kind, but her eyes hold something steadier, something that tells you this isn’t a casual favor.

For a moment, your stomach dips. Trouble—that’s your first thought. Maybe Mason has gone running his mouth like he always does.

The classroom around you empties in a rush of chatter and shuffling coats. Desks scrape, lockers slam in the distance, and soon it’s only you and Mrs. Bailey in the lingering quiet. She doesn’t explain much but simply nods toward the door, urging you to follow her lead.

The hallway is hushed, the kind of silence that makes every sound more eerie than it should be. You trail behind as Mrs. Bailey’s heels click steadily against the tiles, each strike echoing off the lockers like a metronome guiding your nerves. Your eyes fix on the back of her coat, trying not to let the unease creep too far into your chest.

You remember the last time you were summoned to the dean’s office. A year ago, the “shoes incident.” One careless moment, a burst of temper you hadn’t bothered to control, and suddenly the entire matter was dragged into paperwork and stern lectures. It was a persistent ink on your shirt, one James hadn’t been very pleased with. He’d sat stiffly beside you in the cramped office chair, jaw locked tight, voice clipped as he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

The office door looms ahead, plain wood with its frosted glass window, the kind of door designed to make students feel smaller the closer they get.

“Come inside,” Mrs. Bailey says, pushing the door open with her shoulder.

The air in the dean’s office carries that familiar stale mix of old paper, burnt coffee, and floor polish. Behind the wide oak desk sits Mr. Beverly, principal of Westmount, polished as ever. His tie sits perfectly knotted, blazer pressed within an inch of its life, shoes gleaming like mirrors beneath the desk.

He has the kind of shine that screams authority, as though dressing sharp could disguise the weariness that lines his eyes.

He’s spinning slowly in his chair when you enter, turning half a circle before stopping to face you. His expression is measured, calm in that way principals practice after years of dealing with restless teenagers. He greets you with a nod, a good evening so low it tickles your head, and you give him the politeness expected, dipping your head as you slide into the stiff chair across from him.

The leather is cold against your back. The room seems too quiet now, save for the soft shuffle of Mrs. Bailey setting her binders down on a side table, the weight of them hitting wood like a small punctuation mark.

Then Mr. Beverly folds his hands on the desk, the faint gleam of his wedding band catching the light as he leans forward. His tranquil eyes study you for a moment too long, and for that brief pause, your chest stays tight, waiting for the reprimand you think is coming.

But when he finally speaks, his tone is almost gentle.

 “You’re not in trouble,” he begins, and though it should be a relief, the words only make you sit straighter, bracing for whatever comes next. “Mrs. Bailey and I want to ask something of you.”

Your eyes flick to her, where she stands at the side of the room, arms lightly crossed, her expression more worn than strict. She gives you a small nod, the kind that says listen before you answer.

Mr. Beverly clears his throat. “It’s about Frank Morrison.”

The name alone pulls the air a little tighter. You shift in your chair, unsure whether to scowl or keep your face blank.

“As you’re probably aware,” Beverly continues, “his attendance is irregular, his coursework inconsistent. Teachers have expressed concern that, at this rate, he won’t graduate.” His voice doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens as if to pin the weight of that problem onto you.

“We believe he needs someone substantial to help him. Someone reliable. And Mrs. Bailey tells me you’ve shown diligence in her class.”

His words sink to the bottom of your mind.

You glance again at Mrs. Bailey, searching for some kind of explanation, but her expression remains composed, almost apologetic.

“We’re asking,” Beverly says, his tone careful, “if you would be willing to assist him. Tutor, guide, whatever you’d like to call it. Make sure he stays on track enough to reach graduation.”

The silence afterward presses in close, heavy as the snow that smothers the town outside.

You want to speak up, to let the words fly out unfiltered. But you don’t think you can do it.

Tutoring? Babysitting? Whatever they want to call it, it isn’t your responsibility. You’ve never guided anyone through their work before, and the thought of dragging someone like Frank through assignments feels less like teaching and more like tying yourself to an anchor, a burden.

Since when do they care this much? This school has always looked the other way. Students smoke behind the gym, pass pills in the hallways, drift through classes half-conscious, and the teachers barely blink. Nobody ever steps in when someone performs poorly. They let kids sink because it’s easier than saving them.

And now suddenly they care? Now they want to intervene?

It isn’t about Frank. You know it isn’t. He’s just another problematic kid, another stain they’d prefer to scrub out. If they had their way, they’d let him fail discreetly, let him vanish like the others who drop out and disappear out of Ormond’s pool of despair.

No—this is about the school. About the glossy reputation they cling to, the numbers they parade for funding, the false image of success they want to plaster over all the cracks. Frank Morrison is a liability, and you’re being handed the mop.

Before you can find the words, Mrs. Bailey speaks.

“I know it sounds unfair,” she says, her voice softer than Mr. Beverly’s but no less firm.

She has set her binders down, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and the look she gives you is the kind a teacher saves for students they expect more from. “And you’re right. It isn’t your job. But you’re capable in a way Frank isn’t. You’ve proven yourself, time and time again. That’s why I suggested you.”

Her tone carries no accusation, yet the weight of it still presses on your shoulders. She’s expecting from you.

“Look,” she continues, like she’s already decided for you. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind. But the truth is, you’re one of the few students here who still has a shot at something better after Ormond. You’ve kept your grades high and your record clean. That matters when it comes time to apply for universities.”

Her eyes are back on you before you know it, her expression gentler now. “If you help Frank, it won’t just be for him. It’ll show us, show the board, that you’re capable of responsibility, of leadership. Things admissions officers love to see. We can make sure that goes in your file and your graduation paper reflects it.”

You stare at her, unsure if it’s admiration or betrayal you feel.

“Think of it less as tutoring,” she searches your expression, “and more as…keeping him from slipping away, yeah? I know Frank acts like he doesn’t care, but underneath all of that, he wants to pass. He just doesn’t know how.”

She’s being considerate, but the expectation behind it isn’t.

That feeling. That heavy, gnawing sense when someone you respect places their faith in you. It’s frustrating. It eats at you like a parasite working through clean flesh, leaving nothing untouched. You hate it, hate that part of you still wants to live up to it.

“Okay,” yet, you say at last.

At least your chance of getting out of this place will look more appealing on paper.

The word leaves your mouth and seems to settle the room. Mrs. Bailey’s shoulders ease, a faint exhale slipping past her lips like she’s been holding it the entire time. Relief softens her face, though it isn’t surprise—you can tell she counted on you saying yes from the very beginning.

“Good,” she says simply, nodding once, already gathering her binders again. “I knew you’d understand.”

Across the desk, Mr. Beverly leans back in his chair, hands folding neatly over his stomach. His approval is quieter, but no less heavy. A slight smile creases his lips, professional but satisfied.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he tells you. At which you can only smile back, awkwardly.

Mrs. Bailey gives you one last look, softer this time, almost proud. “I’ll make sure you’re credited for this in your graduation file,” she promises.

You feel like exploding.

 

 

 

 

You step out of the dean’s office with the taste of their words still bitter on your tongue. The door clicks shut behind you, and the air of the hallway feels colder than ever.

Frank is there.

He leans against the lockers a few paces away, hood up, hands stuffed into his jacket, a half-chewed stick of gum rolling between his pearly white teeth, sometimes stuck between his pointy ones. His eyes flick lazily toward you, and the smirk that pulls at his mouth tells you he’s been waiting.

“So,” he drawls, almost amused, “they send you in to beg for me?”

The words sting, not because they’re rude, but because of how carelessly he throws them. Like your time, your effort, all of it is a joke before it’s even started.

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t let you get far.

“Figures,” he mutters, pushing off the lockers with a lazy shove of his shoulder. “Guess they’re desperate enough to hand me over to the teacher’s pet. Should I say thanks, or would that ruin your little reputation?”

His words carry the usual bite. And from your point of view, it isn’t hard to guess why. They must have sat him down for the same talk they gave you, only his version wouldn’t have been soft promises and neat lines about college applications.

Judging from the bitterness in his tone, you know he isn’t pleased.

You can’t shake the thought that maybe they dragged Mr. Clive into it—used the old man’s name like a knife pressed to Frank’s throat to coax him. It’s absurd how everyone in town knows what kind of man his foster father is. And the fact that the school wouldn’t care what happens behind closed doors as long as it gets Frank to toe the line scares you a bit.

“You’re a bit ruder today, aren’t you?” Still, you say, your voice resounding through the thick silence. “Did some asshole steal your blunt or something?”

Frank’s mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. He tilts his head, chewing his gum slowly, like he’s deciding whether to laugh or snap back.

“Funny,” he mutters, eyes flicking over you from beneath his hood.

“You’ve got jokes now.” A pause. His tongue rolls the gum to the corner of his mouth, and then he adds, quieter, “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve already got that act down, don’t you? Sweet little student in front of Clive, making me look good so he doesn’t come swinging.”

You quirk a brow, not missing the way his tone wavers at the edges. “So? I saved you a good beating, didn’t I?”

“As if I needed it!” he snaps, the words more intense than he means them to be.

For a second, he looks like he wants to keep the anger boiling, to push until you shut it up.

“I don’t give a shit if he beats the hell outta me. Just…stop sounding like how you did in the car. It fucking pissed me off.”

The last words slip out faster, muttered almost under his breath, as if he regrets them the moment they leave. Not angry now. More like embarrassed. His shoulders stiffen, like he wishes he could shove the whole conversation back down his throat and cover it up with a cough or something.

“Huh? What did I sound like?” You tilt your head, studying him.

Frank’s eyes cut toward you from under the hood. He clicks his tongue, chewing the gum harder this time, grinding the question down between his teeth.

Sweet. Disgustingly sweet. Like freshly made honey in a cup of hot jasmine tea on a day as cold as death could be. The kind that calms him the moment the steam hits, and keeps him awake when it touches the inside of his throat.

“Like you gave a damn,” he mutters, finally.

“Yeah? So? What if I did?” you shoot back without hesitation, not realizing the weight behind what you’ve just said. And the truth is, you actually do feel bad for him, whether you want to admit it or not.

At that, Frank blinks, caught off guard for half a second. Then he lets out a humorless laugh, short and dry as the Sahara desert, shaking his head as if you’ve told the dumbest joke in the world.

“Then you’re dumber than I thought.” His voice drips with sarcasm, the smirk curling back over his lips like a shield. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, what do you want from me?”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

This time, he’s closer. So close the air between you thins, and you can smell the heavy, stale scent of nicotine clinging to his hoodie, seeping out of the red fabric. The smell jolts something loose inside you.

It’s all too familiar. It carries you back to those nights you thought you’d buried—when your father would stay up late in his office, smoke curling under the door, papers stacked high under the dim desk lamp. He never noticed how long you lingered in the hall, peeking in with tired eyes until he finally caught sight of you. His “babygirl,” he’d murmur with a smile that smelled just like this.

For a moment, you stop breathing.

“Most of the time people are this fucking nice to me is when they need a favor. So what do you need? A partner in crime? A bodyguard? Some edge to make you look better?”

You hate it. The weight of his stare pinning you down, the way his eyes hold yours without hesitation.

They’re a little too sharp, a little too knowing. And God, it’s unfair how thick his charcoal lashes are, how perfectly straight his nose is, like his whole face has been built to make people look twice when they pass by.

“So?” he stares you down, suspicion curling through his every word. “What do you want from me?”

“Math exam’s coming up. Meet me after break tomorrow in the library.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of hesitation. Your words are clipped, cold, tossed over your shoulder like he’s nothing more than another line on your to-do list. Then you turn on your heel and walk away, not bothering to check if he’s glaring after you. Though you can feel the heat of it burning between your shoulder blades.

To your surprise, he does show up.

Chapter 3: crimson

The Roseville Gazette’s newsroom had all the dignity of a broom closet with delusions of opulence. 

The floorboards bowed beneath the weight of decades of careless footsteps as the ceiling fans lurched in slow, arthritic circles, sometimes refusing to spin at all. The windows let in more noise than light, the warped blinds trembling in the faintest breeze, clattering like teeth in a chill.

The smell was permanent, as if the walls themselves had absorbed every bitter pot of coffee that had burned down to tar in the corner machine. It mixed with the tang of printer ink and the faint soap-metal musk rising from the laundromat below, a cocktail of scents so specific that stepping into the office was like walking into a memory you didn’t want to keep. 

Desks slouched against each other in uneven rows, their shiny varnish chipped and their drawers jammed so tough they could barely be moved. On every one, also lay a scattering of crumpled notes and cheap pens leaking their last. Not to mention the stale donuts that were turning to chalk under their grease-stained napkins.

Here, phones rang with the brittle urgency of old rotary lines picked up by tired hands and voices, rehearsing questions for stories that might never see print. The Gazette’s presses still ran, but what they spat out was as limp as the papers themselves—half-recycled police blotter, human interest so dry it crumbled in the mouth.

From the outside, the Gazette was little more than an afterthought. 

A thin bundle of gray paper dropped on porches and diner counters, skimmed halfheartedly by residents between weather reports and grocery coupons before being folded under an arm or tossed aside. Its headlines never traveled further than the county.

No one important read it, nor did they ever care. Probably too busy buttering up their stupidly cramped lives to even know how to live them right.

But Danny cared.

From the moment Roseville opened its arms to him, the town seemed determined to keep him close, as though he belonged to it as much as the cracked sidewalks and the peeling paint on Main Street. 

People loved Jed Olsen. They loved the polite nods, the easy grin, the way he always had a pen ready to catch their words as though every dull anecdote mattered. At the Gazette, the presses adored him too, humming proudly when his stories rolled hot off the line.

In their eyes, he wasn’t just another byline—he was the one who had pulled their little paper out of obscurity, threading Roseville’s name into conversations across the state with each nimble, clever piece he published.

To them, Jed was a savior . A gift. Proof that their sleepy town had a voice worth listening to.

They never knew it. 

But in the daylight, Jed wore the smile for them—the eager stringer, quick with a laugh, camera always slung at his hip with notebook pages ready to be filled. He mirrored their groans about late nights and impossible deadlines, joined in their banter about editors who never looked up from their coffee mugs, and played the part of the hungry rookie desperate for a byline. Harmless, good, safe. That was who he was. 

But when nighttime came, Danny Johnson thrummed beneath the disguise, witty and deadly by every means as he thrived. Danny didn’t simply see the newsroom filled with colleagues chasing deadlines and living off caffeine. If anything, the Gazette was a stage, and he stood at its center beneath a spotlight only he could feel. 

The reporters hunched over their desks, their sweat soaking through thin shirts and fingers blotched with ink and newsprint, would never realize the veracity behind it all. They were not comrades, nor were they equals. To a man like him, they were just mere props, clumsy background actors on the cutting board. 

For all that it was, Roseville might have been small, but Danny knew small towns bled richer. 

Cities liked to call themselves dramatic, but their noise always smothered the true spectacle. Here in Roseville, every secret seemed to sit just beneath the skin. An ugly affair carried out in swamped grocery aisles. A donut cop slipping a couple of bills into his pocket. A deacon’s son found drunk behind the wheel on a Sunday night. 

These little fractures festered faster in places where everyone thought themselves hidden, safe. A perfect pot of rotting meat with maggots festering into blood-sucking flies. 

And Danny knew how to pluck at that rot until it split wide.

Every single day. These laughable people had no clue what lingered in their midst, nor the shadow that brushed so close against their lives. They thought they knew him—Jed Olsen, the friendly reporter, the man with a smile always quick to surface. 

Yet beneath that beam crouched something they could never imagine, a monster so perfectly camouflaged it could sit at their desks, share their jokes, write their stories, and then slit their throats without missing a beat. He was the phantom that could laugh at their side in daylight and stalk them in darkness, both neighbor and executioner, always playing the harmless fool nobody suspected.

Because when the night swallowed Roseville and the Gazette sank into silence, Jed Olsen ceased to exist. He was nothing more than a hollow costume draped over something hungrier, scarier, infinitely crueler. Always ready to gut each of them up like fish in the sea, all bloody and gory.

Beneath it all prowled Danny Johnson. Who was restless, merciless, a ghost with teeth as sharp as blades, at beck and call for a kill or more. 

The ink that stained his sleeves might as well have been blood, for Danny wore both with the same satisfaction. He was not the man they thought they welcomed. He was the butcher waiting in the wings, patient, eager, already rehearsing the next scene of their quiet little tragedy.

It was good. No…better than good. It was exhilarating. The rush of it filled Danny’s veins like fire, hotter than any drug could ever dream of being. 

Because to take a town as small and dull as Roseville and bend it into chaos with nothing more than a smile, there was a thrill that no headline could capture. 

He had them dancing without ever realizing. The drunks fought harder, the cheaters grew sloppier. A single nudge from him, and the fragile civility of Roseville cracked apart.

And Danny savored every second. This wasn’t just mischief. It was artistry.

The clamor of the office swelled around him. Phones ringing, voices trading barbed jokes blended in the shrill cry of the printer gnawing on its paper feed. And there Danny was, sitting in the middle of it all, ever the picture of calm he always was.

Jed Olsen leaned back in his chair, ball-point pen dangling between his fingers. His grin easy and boyish as he nodded along to whatever nonsense the others threw across the room.

“Hey, Olsen,” called Reggie from two desks over, sweat bleeding through his cheap button-down. “Boss wants that crash piece by noon. Think you can handle it, rookie?”

Jed tipped him a lazy salute, that grin never faltering. “Almost done. I just got the quotes cleaned up, nice and neat.”

Reggie smirked, appeased, and turned back to his work, never noticing the sharpness of the gaze that followed him. In Danny’s eyes, Reggie wasn’t a man at all. He was a story in waiting, a tragic lead already halfway written. The jitter in his knee screamed gambling debts. The oil sheen across his forehead told of a marriage that was one fight away from breaking apart. A man fraying at the edges.

Another reporter strolled past Jed’s desk and flicked a half-empty pack of cigarettes onto his notepad. “Smoke break in five. You in, Olsen?”

Jed caught it easily, flipping the carton once in his palm with a chuckle. “Maybe. If the rookie’s allowed to keep up.”

That earned a ripple of laughter, a chorus of camaraderie that washed over him like applause. They liked this version of him. These weary fools.

Jed drifted back to his cubicle with a cup of scorched coffee in hand, the steam curling bitterly against his face. He sat down with a casual slump, fingers tapping idly at the keys as the half-formed crash piece blinked on the screen before him. 

To them, it was his assignment, his responsibility, the thing worth sweating over until noon. To him, it was filler. A placeholder. The sort of bland narrative that filled pages and bought him time.

Danny didn’t give a shit about this story, not really. The wreck on Route 6 was a scrap of nothing, a routine accident spun into paragraphs only because the Gazette had space to fill and deadlines to meet. He worked on it because there was nothing better in front of him. Not yet.

When it came time to dress the piece with its final polish, quotes tightened, sentences smoothed, Danny hovered at his desk, finger tapping the last key before the printer would rattle to life. 

The newsroom buzzed around him, the usual drone of voices rising into hurried tones, little bursts of excitement cutting through the clamor. Murmurs drifted across the room, colleagues leaning over cubicles, voices pitched low but urgent.

They were talking about yesterday’s murder. He could hear it in the way their words bent and stumbled, half-thrilled, half-afraid. Snippets carried on the stagnant air: knife wounds…no suspects…brutal…like something out of a horror movie. Their whispers clung to the room like cobwebs, sticky with curiosity and fear.

Jed Olsen lifted his head at just the right moment. There was a sinister smirk curling at the edge of his lips, as though he was peculiarly amused by their chatter. But inside, Danny burned with riveting gratification. 

He knew exactly what had happened. Exactly how it had happened. Every slice, every stab, every desperate gasp—he had been there. He was there.

He knew her before the cops ever touched a notepad, before they even chalked her outline against the dirt. He knew her name, her face, the rhythm of her breath when it turned restless and terrified. They would spend hours chasing scraps of evidence, fumbling for a motive, only to end up at a dead end. But Danny already had everything. Because he was the reason she was cold in the first place.

She had been in her early thirties, a woman worn down to a nub by the grind of a life she never really mastered. That kind of fragility called to him, like a crack in porcelain begging for a hammer. Her cries had been a symphony, high-pitched, trembling, cracking at the edges. Each note seemed to echo against the dark like glass splintering, a performance for an audience of one. 

The kill itself had been almost artless in its simplicity. She thought herself a fighter, clinging to that pathetic idea of the final girl , the lone survivor who defies the monster and limps into the sunrise. 

He had seen it in her eyes, that stupid glimmer of defiance, like a spark about to burn into flame. But sparks are fragile when facing a storm.

She died like all the others before her. A swift blade at the throat, sharp enough to steal her voice in a single wet gasp, followed by the repeated punctuation of his knife driving into her back. Each thrust wrote its own sentence, a final draft carved into flesh rather than paper. By the end, she was nothing more than silence, sprawled in the dark where no sunrise would ever touch her.

And now, she would be his article. 

Danny tucked the thought away, burying the satisfaction deep beneath Jed Olsen’s mask. There would be time to savor it later. For now, he slid the crash report from his desk, stacked the pages neat and respectable, and carried them down the cramped hallway toward the chief’s office.

At the door, he rapped his knuckles once against the wood. Silence stretched a moment too long, then the shuffle began. The muffled scrape of drawers slamming shut. The frantic hiss of papers being shoved aside. Then cloth rustling, buttons fumbling into place. A chair leg scraping as if someone had just jumped from the desk itself.

Then came the voice, strained but familiar, wrapped hastily in authority.

“Come in.”

When Danny pushed the door open, the hinges groaned like they, too, were in on the secret. Inside, he was greeted not by the chief editor at his desk, but by a woman scrambling to smooth her skirt back into place.

It was Marlene, the secretary. Everyone in the office knew her name, though they rarely said it with respect. 

She was in her late twenties, clever-eyed but worn down by long days of answering phones, filing paperwork, and fielding the chief’s endless demands. Now her hair hung loose and tangled from its usual tidy bun, strands sticking to the sweat along her temple. The red of her lipstick had smeared at one corner of her mouth, blurred into something that looked less like makeup and more like evidence.

She blinked at him, startled, as if caught in a crime. Her hand flew up to tuck stray curls behind her ear, her gaze sliding quickly toward the chief’s desk.

Behind her, the chief editor, Mr. Richard, was still trying to compose himself. His shirt hung untucked, his belt was clasped one loop too loose, and a stack of papers he’d hastily shoved together teetered dangerously on the desk edge. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, and his cheeks glowed with the embarrassed heat of a man caught halfway.

For a heartbeat, silence pressed down on the office like a suffocating blanket, broken only by the tick of the wall clock and the breaths of the two figures who had clearly been entangled seconds before. The stale air is heavy with sweat and perfume.

Disgusting, Danny thought, his grin never wavering. 

To see a man like Richard—husband, father, the picture of small-town respectability, turn his back on the picture-perfect family he paraded around. It was pathetic and laughable, the kind of detail that Danny savored.

He didn’t let it show as he stepped smoothly into the office, holding the report in one hand and offering Marlene a disarming smile with the other. The same smile she had been eyeing for months now, the same smile she had tried to pull from him in every lingering glance. Marlene had been flirting since the day he walked into the Gazette, as obvious as an open book.

For a second, Danny imagined the room painted red. Richard’s pompous face frozen in shock, Marlene’s coy glances silenced in one last scream. Two bodies sprawled across the very desk they had just defiled—what a headline it would make. A double kill, a brutal spectacle, the kind of story Roseville would never forget.

But that would have to wait.

“Chief.”

Jed’s voice was warm, respectful even. He turned his eyes to Richard, who in turn flicked a glance toward Marlene. The silent command was obvious. She caught it instantly, cheeks flushed, hair still untidy as she smoothed her skirt and ducked out without a word. The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving the room completely hushed.

Danny held the silence a moment longer, savoring the discomfort etched across the man’s face. Then he stepped forward, laying the neat stack of paper on the desk with a steady hand. His smile never faltered, pen still twirling loosely between his fingers.

“I finished the piece, just like you asked,” he said lightly, tone easy, professional. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

Inside, Danny’s feasting on the tension. Every bead of sweat on Richard’s brow, every forced breath he dragged in. It all played out like music. Here sat the great family man, the respectable editor, reduced to fidgeting in his chair like a schoolboy caught doing something dirty.

Richard cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair, trying too hard to look like a man in control. “Good. Lemme see it.”

Jed slid the paper across the desk with ease. At which Richard skimmed the first few lines, nodding in places that didn’t matter before pretending to read more carefully than he was.

Danny’s gaze, however, wasn’t on the article. 

His eyes had strayed to the polished wooden desk where a single frame sat perfectly centered. A photograph of Richard, his wife, and their little girl, all three posed in front of the town’s old courthouse. The wife’s smile was wide, practiced, her beauty effortless. The child clung to her father’s arm, grinning with the innocence of a five-year-old.

Next to the frame lay a folded scrap of paper, the child’s handwriting scrawled clumsily across it in uneven lines. 

Danny tilted his head just enough to catch it, his eyes narrowing at the mess of letters. Most of it was impossible to decipher, but at the bottom, one thing stood out clearly enough: a name written in uneven block letters.

(Name)

 

 

 

 

 

Spring arrived on Roseville’s doorstep like a guest wearing too-bright colors, smiling too widely while asking too much. 

As the weather warmed up, rain fell with a rhythm, too. Often in long steady sheets that washed the grime from sidewalks, loosened the dirt from gutters, and left the town glistening in the gray light of morning. Just as the season changed, the grass drank deep and rose in brilliant green, while the flowers pressed their faces through fertile soil, relishing in remnants of leftovers. 

Together, they painted the air with that sharp, earthy perfume of renewal—clean, rich, suggestive of beginnings. But beneath it all, it was only a cloak, a false rebirth.

Because as the storms deepened, they revealed more than they renewed. 

Whatever refreshing mizzle had turned into acidic downpour, languidly peeling away the skin of the town until the bads beneath gaped open. Sewage swelled out of manholes, gurgling into the streets. Engines sputtered and died in driveways, choked by damp. Old roofs leaked until their ceilings sagged, rainwater dripping into pans hastily set on the floor.

Danny’s secrets suffered the same fate.

His article about the woman had soared to the top of the Gazette’s front page, splashed in bold print that set the whole town buzzing. A grisly tale written in tidy columns, every detail sharpened just enough to hook the reader’s imagination but never reveal too much. 

The townsfolk lapped it up so well, terrified yet hungry for more. And when the next body surfaced, and the one after that, the Gazette had its voice again. 

Ghostface had become more than just a topic in Roseville. He was a nightmare in the flesh, a legend draped in blood and guts.

And behind every article, Jed Olsen’s name gleamed like a rising star.

Danny relished it. Each kill fed his hunger, his ego . He admitted it to himself in rare, private moments—his bloodlust was spiraling. But what was wrong with a little indulgence? What was wrong with spicing up this suffocating little town, dragging its charms out by the hair and making everyone see what Roseville really was?

He was doing them a favour. But not everyone appreciated his work.

There’s always this one fucker that would ruin the fun for everybody else.

From his cubicle, Danny’s eyes drifted toward Richard. The said editor stood in front of the room, gesturing at a series of mocked-up layouts pinned to the board, voice booming with false authority.

To everyone else, he was the boss in control, commanding the attention of his staff. To Danny, he was merely a filthy, dirty little fraud. 

Danny’s teeth gritted against each other as his gaze darkened, predatorily, lingering on the fresh scar that slashed across Richard’s bruised cheek, which was hidden away by a slightly bloody gash.

That dumbass thought he could pass it off as an accident, some clumsy domestic mishap, but Danny knew better. Because he had been the one to see it happen. Nothing much but a little peek from the shadows outside the man’s window as his “perfect” marriage cracked open like a rotten eggshell. 

The argument had been ugly. Danny recalled the way Richard's wife's voice cut through the night, every word a blade no man could survive. And Richard’s replies had been slurred and desperate, with fury spilling into violence. Then the shouting grew into crashing furniture, vase shattering, something breaking that couldn’t be fixed. 

He had heard it all, seen it all. 

The shriek of rage, the crash of fragile glass, the dull, sickening thud as the vase connected with skull and skin. And then silence, as dead as the woman herself. Her body slumped instantly, folding in on itself, bruised limbs limp as a marionette with its strings cut. 

For a moment, she was just a heap on the floor, already corpse-like before the life even drained out of her. 

And now, Richard had the audacity to stroll back into the Gazette after a few days away, face clean-shaven, suit freshly pressed. That hideous gash across his cheek was the only sign of what had really gone on in his house. 

Worse still, he opened his mouth to yap about Ghostface, puffing up his chest like some seasoned detective, spinning half-cooked theories as though he had pieced together the mind of the killer. 

But the fact that he could make the whole room lean closer with notebooks ready in their hands as he piqued their interest, was quite menacing.

Suddenly, reporters who hadn’t been giving a shit about anything but a raise, somehow, now whispered about Ghostface. Ever so eager to chase scraps to write their own half-baked takes on the murders. Funny how everyone wanted a piece of him now.

But Richard…Richard grated on Danny in a way no one else did. 

The man carried himself like he had authority over the subject, like he knew better than anyone else. And every single time Jed Olsen laid another article on his desk, Richard’s eyes would narrow. The way his bony fingers drummed on the paper as his voice dipped into that accusatory tone. Question after question, needling, prying, dissecting.

Until it started to feel like it was more an interrogation than an exchange between a journalist and his editor.

For a moment, Danny’s grin faltered only on the inside, buried beneath Jed Olsen’s easy mask. A flicker of doubt slithered through him, sharp as the hunting knife under his bed and cold as the leather he wore at night, as he studied Richard’s eyes. 

The way they lingered a beat too long on his face, the way his questions always pressed harder than the last. It was as if the man were digging for something more than typos or weak sentences.

For a moment, Danny dared to think— this man knows something about me.

“Who exactly are you, Jed?”

 

 

 

 

 

He had to die. He had to die. He had to die.

The words pound like war drums in his skull, each beat bloodier. 

He imagines it in flashes. How the editor’s throat split open under the knife while hot arterial spray painted the walls of the Gazette. How satisfying it would be to gouge those eyes out and crush them under his boots, only to grind them into the floor until they burst open like syrupy candies. He dreams about the sound, wet and sticky, echoing louder than the chatter of typewriters and ringing phones. The scene wouldn’t end. Not before he gets to carve Richard’s smug expression away, slice by slice, until nothing remains but teeth and tongue in his hand. 

Oh, how glorious it would be. To feel the life rip out of him in spasms, to watch Richard claw desperately at his own insides as Danny guts him like an animal. An artistic gory mess for whoever finds him the next day, Danny would make of him.

Because he would kill him a thousand hundreds of times over and over. Reduce him to nothing but a piece of faded memory. Just like how he did with his wife.

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment was drowned completely in shadow, the kind that seemed to thicken when the world went a little bit too quiet. 

Outside, Roseville had simmered under Florida’s heavy summer night. The air was swollen with humidity, cicadas droning like a thousand clocks ticking down. Inside the cramped bathroom, the single lightbulb buzzed faintly, its weak glow barely pushing back the darkness that pressed against the corners of the room.

With the heat seeping into everything. The walls, the pipes, his skin. He felt his mind slipping away.

Danny stood before the mirror, bare-chested, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat that caught the light in sharp highlights. His breath fogged faintly against the glass, though the air was too hot for condensation; it was as if the mirror itself exhaled with him, alive and waiting.

Jed Olsen’s reflection stared back first: boyish grin softened into a neutral line, hair still combed like the harmless rookie everyone adored. 

But Danny could see it peeling away, like skin slipping off muscles. His lips twitched. And his eyes, hollowed by the shadows, no longer looked like Jed’s at all—they gleamed with the animalistic hunger of Danny, the Ghostface.

His pulse hammered hot in his temples, each throb soaked in rage. He had never been so fumed, not even in the heat of a kill. 

To think that this pompous, pathetic editor would dare to poke his nose where it didn’t belong, to question him, to pry at his words as though he could dig down and expose what lived beneath. The audacity made Danny’s breath become as frayed as ever, shoulders tensing, rising and falling with the effort of holding himself steady and all.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” he hissed under his breath, the words cracking out like broken glass. His knuckles whitened against the edge of the sink, muscles tight as coiled wire. “Fuck!—“

“I’m gonna gut you, Richard. I’m gonna carve that smug fucking look off your hideous face if that’s the last thing I do.” Pure venom, pure anger. The words scraped out of him were knives grinding against metal. 

“You think you’re clever, don’t you? Always asking your fucking questions, watching me doing my job like you know something—” He pressed his hand to the mirror, fingers splayed, as if pinning his reflection in place.

“But you don’t. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. And tonight…” Danny’s lips curled into a grin too wide to be human. “…tonight, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to.”

The bathroom felt smaller with each passing second, and the walls closing in like the frame of a horror movie, suffocating, inescapable. There was a drop of sweat sliding from his temple, tracing the line of his jaw before falling soundlessly into the sink. Soon, it wouldn’t be the only thing that poured.

He didn’t even blink the entire time. Because tonight could be his last night in Roseville, should he ever let his anger get the best of him.

 

 

 

 

 

Much to your surprise, he shows up.

Frank Morrison pushes through the heavy library doors like they’ve personally offended him, causing the hinges to groan at his shove. His hood is pulled low now, exposing a few strands of messy hair spilling out. And his jaw’s still locked in that perpetual scowl that says he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Frank slings his backpack onto one shoulder—the strap half-broken and hanging by threads—and saunters toward your table with all the grace of someone trudging to detention.

Considering how pissed he was yesterday, you don’t expect him to come at all. Getting chewed out by teachers is nothing new for Frank; he wears it like a badge of honor. 

But the fact that they saddle him with a “babysitter” clearly sucks. Babysitting wasn’t exactly the word Mrs. Bailey used, but it’s what she meant: stick him with someone more reliable than the rest to keep him from slipping off or whatever.

And that someone happens to be the unfortunate you.

A decent student. An ordinary one at that. You’re not a teacher’s pet, but you’re sure as hell not a Morrison. Pairing you with him feels like a cosmic joke, or worse, a deliberate humiliation, just another way the faculty reminds him he doesn’t fit.

Now he’s here anyway, dragging out the chair across from you, making the legs scrape loudly against the floor. Then he tosses his bag onto the table with a dull thud before dropping into the seat, slouching so bad it looks like the chair might swallow him. 

His glare sweeps over your neat notes, then flicks up at you, daring you to say something first.

“Hello.” So you did.

“Stop wasting my time and get started already,” he muttered, words flat and impatient. He braces his jaw against his hand, elbow on the table, gaze sliding past you.

You frown, crouching to dig through your bag. “Jeez, at least say it back or something. Didn’t your parents teach you basic manners?”

That gets a snort out of him. “Manners? Yeah, sure. Right after they taught me how to shut the fuck up.”

You set your textbooks on the table with a thud. “Explains a lot, actually.”

“Yeah?” He finally turns his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Explains why I’m stuck here with you, huh?”

You ignore the jab, laying your books out one by one, neatly arranging pens and notes in front of you. If he thinks sarcasm will throw you off, he’s wrong.

“If I’m not wrong, you could’ve ditched me for a smoke, or whatever illegal stuff you’re always up to,” you say evenly. “Not that I’m complaining, though. So feel free to walk out anytime if you think flipping burgers for the rest of your life’s cool.”

Frank lets out a laugh, but it’s more of a bark. “Hah, you practicing for guidance counselor or something?”

“Yeah,” you say, pointer finger resting against your chin. “Would you mind if I use you as an example for why kids should study hard?”

“Tch. Whatever, smartass.” He huffs, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands in mock surrender. The hood slips further from his head, the bruise along his jaw catching the library’s weak fluorescent glow. He tilts his chair back dangerously, like he’s daring gravity to take him out.

You ignore the act, pulling the review sheet closer and laying out your pens in a neat row. “Alright. Let’s start from the top.”

He groans immediately, dropping forward and smacking his forehead against his folded arms. “God, kill me now.”

“Tempting,” you mutter, sliding the paper toward him, “but you’ve got a test to pass first.”

That earns you a side-eye glare, sharp and begrudging. Still, he grabs the pencil and twirls it between his fingers.

You guide him through the first set of problems, as slow and as methodical as you can be, showing him every step like a proper tutor anyone would dream of having. Frank listens with his chin in his hand, grumbling under his breath. When it comes time for him to try, though, he scrawls something halfway across the margin that doesn’t even resemble the right answer.

“Seriously?” you say, leaning over. “Where did this number even come from?”

“Hell if I know. The math gods whispered it to me,” he says, smirking.

“That’s not how this works.” You point at the problem again, tapping your nail against the paper. “You have to actually follow the formula. Look—this part connects to this.”

He scoffs, tapping the eraser against the desk. “You and your damn formulas. Feels like a scam.”

“It only feels like a scam because you don’t get it yet.”

“Or,” Frank says, grinning now, “maybe I get it just fine and I’m only testing you. ”

You roll your eyes, grabbing his pencil right out of his hand. “ Yeah, right . Testing me, huh? You can’t even multiply negatives without crying.”

“Bullshit,” he shoots back, straightening in his seat. “Try me.”

So you do, jotting a problem down in the margin and sliding the paper toward him. He stares at it, lips moving soundlessly as he works through it. His brow furrows, then furrows deeper. Finally, with exaggerated drama, he slams the pencil down.

“Yeah, no. Screw this.”

You can’t help it—the laugh slips out before you can bite it back. His scowl only deepens at the sound.

He’s heard you laugh before, plenty of times. From the back of the classroom, when Ava cracked one of her jokes, muffled between your hand and a notebook, or drifting across the cafeteria when you sat with her. But hearing it now, this close, clear and warm in the quiet of the library…it’s different. It cuts through the hum of the bright fluorescent lights and settles under his skin in a way even he finds confusing.

Weird. That’s what it is. Weird.

Because Frank Morrison doesn’t care about stuff like that. He tells himself he doesn’t. But your laugh hangs there in the air, caught between the stacks of books, and for the first time all night, he doesn’t have a snide comeback ready.

“Not funny,” he mutters. He hates it when people laugh at him.

“It’s a little funny,” you counter, trying to keep your smile in check as you circle the mistake with your pen. “Here. Watch again.”

The motion, the way you lean over the paper, the soft patience in your voice. It all drags you back, unbidden, to nights long ago when you were the one staring blankly at numbers that refused to make sense. Younger, stupider, stubborn to the point of tears. And James—always James—sitting across the table with his sleeves rolled up, guiding you through the same problems over and over.

He had sacrificed so much back then, his meals gone cold, his nights stretched too thin, his own grades teetering because he refused to let you fall behind. You can still picture the way he’d rub his eyes raw from exhaustion, then flash you a tired grin and say, “One more time, you’ll get it, I promise.”

The memory tugs suddenly but heartingly, like someone pressing on a bruise and rubbing ointment on it at the same time. 

For a moment, the library was replaced with that cramped kitchen table and James’ steady voice urging you on. And just like back then, you push down the guilt that rises with it, bury it beneath the neat circles of your pen and the calm tone you use now.

“See?” you say, correcting him before shaking the thought off as best you can. “It’s not that bad if you actually follow the steps.”

The back-and-forth continues like that. Him messing up, you correcting, him swearing under his breath and pretending he doesn’t care. But little by little, his pencil hovers longer over the page. His answers get closer to right. And when he does land on one, he looks up quickly, waiting for your reaction like it’s worth something.

By the time the clock ticks past another hour, your review sheet is half-filled with messy scrawl and doodles in the margins. Frank leans back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead with a groan.

“This is torture,” he exhales, “Straight-up medieval torture.”

You smirk, quite relieved because he wasn’t as stupid and hopeless as you initially thought he would be, capping your pen. “Then congratulations, you survived the first round.”

Next, you slide a worksheet across the table, tapping the top with your pen. “Here. Now start with these basics. If you can’t solve for x, there’s no point moving forward.”

Frank tilts his head, lips pulling into a half-scowl, half-smirk. “Solve for x, huh? You ever think maybe x doesn’t wanna be found?”

You fix him with a flat glare at his attempt to crack a lame joke. “That’s not how math works.”

He mutters something about you being the fun police, but his pencil finally scrapes against the worksheet. The first attempt is chaos, with numbers scattered like graffiti and equations drifting into the margins, half the work smeared where his hand drags across the page. You expect him to give up after the first wrong answer, crack a joke, and vanish into the night. 

That would be typical Frank Morrison.

Instead, he stays hunched over the paper with his eraser tapping in a restless rhythm, eyes narrowing at the problem as though he can wear it down with enough staring. Every time you point out a mistake, he throws something back at you— “Maybe you explained it like garbage,” or “You won’t be using this shit in the future anyway.” The sarcasm rolls off his tongue easily, but his hand never stops moving. 

He erases, rewrites, and tries again.

It drives you crazy because he isn’t patient in any traditional sense, but he refuses to let the problem beat him. You scold him when he misses the same step for the third time, and he scoffs as if irritating you is part of the fun. Still, he pushes through, stubborn in a way that borders on determination.

"Fuck, I really need to take a break right now." Frank sinks into his chair the moment you finish the last problem, his palms pressed against his temples like the numbers themselves have been beating him over the head.

You twist the cap off your thermos and take a slow sip of water. "Good job, Frankie. Just a few more tests and Mrs. Bailey can finally get off my ass." You mean every test for the rest of the school year, but you let it sound like a minor detail.

Frank cracks one eye open at you. "Why would you want her to get off your ass? Aren’t you, like…her favorite? Teacher’s pet or something?" 

His tone is casual, but there’s an edge of genuine curiosity under it. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of anyone not wanting a teacher’s approval. As far as he’s concerned, half the school would kill to be on the good side of someone like Bailey, someone who could make their life easier.

“Are you kidding me?” You wipe the drip of water from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, too distracted to notice the way his gaze sticks there a moment longer than it should.

“Her son’s been trying to get me to go on a movie date with him,” you complain, voice thick with exasperation. “And he can’t take no for an answer, by the way.”

Frank straightens a little, brows pulling together. “Who?”

“Never mind, I don’t want to talk about it.” You shake your head quickly, shutting the door before you can spiral into more detail.

“Who?” he presses, stubborn now, his voice rising just enough to earn a glare from the librarian behind the desk. 

He lowers it again, eyes fixed on you. “Was it that guy from yesterday?” He tries to dig, flipping through the mental Rolodex of faces he usually doesn’t bother to keep. The name slips away from him, though, just another background scrub, not worth remembering until now.

You glance around quickly, head tilting left then right to make sure no one’s listening before snapping at him. “Drop it, Morrison.”

He clicks his tongue, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So it was that guy from yesterday,” he mutters, his tone dripping with smugness. It’s the kind of smug that’s more of a cover than anything else, but you don’t notice the way his pencil digs into the paper as he twirls it.

“Seriously? Do people actually find nerdy chicks attractive?” he adds with a half-hearted shrug. The words come out casual, almost nonchalant, but his stomach churns like he’s swallowed something sour.

“Hey, I’m not a nerd.” Your brows knit together as you lean toward him.

Frank doesn’t even blink as he ignores your protest. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, voice dropping into something more prudent. “What did you say to him then?”

The question blindsides you. For a second, you just stare at him, thrown off by the sudden shift. Why is this dumbass being curious now, of all times?

“Why would you want to know?” you say as suspicion laces in your tone. You fold your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Of course I said hell no! ”

He tries to hide it, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Relief?

However, he smothers it away as quickly as it appears. “Tch. Figures. ”  

“Doubt a guy like that could handle you anyway .”

The comment hits harder than you expect, sliding under your skin like a splinter that you can’t dig out. 

It lodges there, tiny but dangerously pointy, and every breath makes it hurts even worse. Your chest tightens as his words circle in your head, repeating themselves like a cruel little chorus you can’t mute. Figures. Doubt a guy like that could handle you anyway.

What does that even mean? Your pulse thuds in your ears, hot and erratic. Does he mean you’re too much? Too indifferent? Too nerdy? Too weird? Too stubborn? The thought bubbles up like acid— Even the scummiest of scums doesn’t see you that way? If Frank Morrison, a trashy thug, can’t imagine anyone actually wanting you, then what does that say about you?

It bedevils you before you can shove it aside. When insecurity creeps up through the cracks of your usual composure, your cheeks begin to burn until your face feels too hot to hide. Your throat tightens, but the words tumble out anyway, jagged and defensive.

“Wh-what do you fucking mean?” you snap, your voice high-pitched. Your hands fidget against the table, gripping your pen too tightly, and the heat crawling up your neck only makes you angrier at yourself.

Your dad’s old reassurance echoes in your skull, that tired mantra he used to give whenever you were uncertain: You’re a pretty girl, don’t ever forget it. You want to believe him, you really do, but right now Frank’s smirk makes that memory feel hollow.

You usually don’t care what other people think. But why does it matter that his words feel like a bucket of ice water? 

“I’m—” you stammer, eyes darting to the worksheet then back to him, as if the page could save you, “I’m the easiest girlfriend you’ll ever find!” The declaration bursts out of you with more force than you mean, loud enough that the librarian’s head jerks up from behind the counter with a withering glare.

The silence afterward stretches thin, every second heavier than the last. Frank doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fire back with the usual snark that would give you something to fight against. He just sits there, staring, unreadable. And somehow, that’s worse. The stillness gnaws at you, and your cheeks only burn hotter under his gaze.

His mouth twitches like he’s about to speak. Maybe to finally crack some cruel joke and shatter the tension. But before he can, the library doors bang open and shut.

Your head turns instinctively, and your stomach knots. 

The man who steps inside is massive, broad-shouldered with a bulk that makes the tables and shelves seem too small around him. He moves with a swagger that isn’t confidence so much as threat, a thuggish aura clinging to him like cigarette smoke. He looks out of place in the quiet library, like violence wearing human skin, and every instinct in you screams not to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t care about you anyway. His focus zeroes in on Frank.

“Hey, fucker,” the man growls, heavy boots thudding against the carpet. He comes up behind Frank and clamps a bruised hand down hard on his shoulder, the gesture less greeting and more ownership. He looms, posture radiating that Frank owes him something, and he’s here to collect.

Frank groans, rolling onto his side, spitting copper onto the library carpet. He pushes himself up slowly, hood falling back, hair in his eyes. When he looks up, he already knows who’s standing over him.

Tyler.

Frank remembers the first time he met him, leaning against the side of a rusted-out truck, a joint hanging from his lip and that easy, cruel grin plastered across his face. Back then, it had just been cigarettes, a little weed, nothing Frank hadn’t already seen or done. He’d hung around for the buzz, for the smoke curling out of cracked windows, for the sense of belonging. Brotherhood, even . But then the joints turned to pills, then powders, then needles. Illegal shits he doesn’t want himself involved with.

Frank had bailed when it went that far. He told them to shove it up their ass, told Tyler to find another idiot to push his poison with. From then on, he hadn’t looked back.

But Tyler hadn’t forgotten.

“You got balls showing your face around here, Morrison,” Tyler snarls, flexing the knuckles he just buried in Frank’s face. His voice drips with fury, low and dangerous. “Thought you could dip out and walk off with my stash, huh?”

Frank hauls himself upright, jaw aching, blood slick on his teeth. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyes narrowing into that familiar glare, all defiance. “I didn’t take your shit. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Tyler’s lip curls. “Funny, ‘cause word is you sold it all. Pocketed the fucking cash and bought yourself new kicks, new smokes, all on me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Frank spits on the floor, crimson against the librarian's floor. “I don’t need your garbage to get by.”

A ripple of unease cuts through the library crowd. Students shuffle backward from their chairs, clutching their books and bags as though they’re shields. Someone yanks their phone out, recording. The librarian at the desk has gone pale, voice cracking as she hisses into the phone for the police.

Tyler lunges. His fist drives toward Frank’s face again, but this time Frank’s ready. He ducks, shoulder slamming into Tyler’s gut, sending them both stumbling against a shelf. Books rain down, their spines slapping the floor, as Frank swings wild with his own fist. His knuckles connect with Tyler’s cheek, a dull thud that reverberates up his arm.

The brute snarls, shoving Frank back with a strength that nearly knocks the wind out of him. He grabs Frank by the collar and rams him against the table you’re sitting at. Your textbooks jump, your chair screeches backward, and suddenly you’re frozen in the middle of a brawl. The worksheet you’d worked through together is streaked with blood as it skitters to the floor.

“Think you can run your mouth to me, huh?” Tyler growls, fist cocked again.

Frank laughs, blood trailing from his lip, but eyes still burning. “Fuck you.”

Gasps rise from the onlookers, whispers sharp with panic. “Somebody stop them—” “Oh my god, they’re gonna kill each other—” But no one dares step in.

When Tyler swings again, Frank ducks low, slipping out from under the grip on his collar. Smaller or not, he’s faster, meaner, seasoned in scrappy fights the other guy never had to bleed through. His fist hammers Tyler’s ribs, once, twice, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Tyler doubles with a grunt, and Frank follows it up with a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back.

The crowd gasps again, some students shrieking outright as Frank presses the advantage. His fists fly in quick, practiced bursts, making Tyler stumble as he clutches at Frank’s hoodie, trying to drag him down, but Frank doesn’t relent. He fights like a cornered animal, like someone who’s had to win with nothing but survival instinct his whole damn life.

Tyler reels, his smug grin wiped clean, blood spilling from his split nose. The realization dawns ugly in his eyes: he can’t beat Frank.

So he cheats.

With a roar, Tyler’s hand darts into his pocket, grabbing the heavy steel paper cutter that’s been sitting there secretly. You don’t even have time to scream before he jerks it up and drives the blade into Frank’s side.

“Frank!” You call out.

Frank’s breath tears out of him in a sharp grunt, eyes going wide. He staggers, clutching at his ribs where the cutter sank in, blood blooming hot and fast through his shirt. The room explodes into chaos. The students are shrieking, chairs are toppling over each other, and the librarian is yelling into the phone that security needs to come now.

Tyler leans close, his breath labours like an animal, his voice venomous as he yanks the cutter free. “Stay the fuck out of my way, Morrison. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

The heavy beat of boots echoes in the hall. Security is storming the building. Tyler’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. He drops the bloody cutter, lets Frank slump against the table, and bolts for the door before they can catch him.

The blood shocks you.

Oh my god.

It’s everywhere, hot and vivid, seeping through Frank’s shirt, running over his hand, splattering onto the scattered papers and the tiles beneath his chair. 

You’ve never seen this much blood in your life, not this close when it’s soaking into the floor right at your feet. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to hold down the gag clawing its way up your throat, but your stomach lurches and your head spins, the library tilting around you as if the ground itself might give way.

You stumble a step back, dizzy, barely able to stand upright. The shouts around you blur, muffled and distant, swallowed by the roar of your pulse. Security boots hammer closer, someone’s screaming for an ambulance, but all you can hear is the sick, wet sound of Frank’s breathing, the drip of his blood hitting the floor in uneven rhythm.

And then, your mind betrays you.

It all comes rushing back in uneven flashes. The photos. Those awful, uneasy photos that spread across the internet years ago, the ones you couldn’t escape no matter how fast you scrolled. Bloody. Gory . A corpse splayed across filthy concrete, a man you knew too well with his insides on display for the world. The caption burned into your memory:

Ghostface strikes again—young man found butchered.

Your breath shudders violently, bile already rising in your throat. The line between then and now blurs until the sight of Frank clutching his side bleeds into the memory of that mangled body on your phone screen. The same helplessness. The same fear .

For a second that feels like forever, the school’s nurse finally pushes through the crowd and drops to the floor beside Frank. Her hands are already working, pressing hard against his side to slow the bleeding. Students hover uselessly at the edges, some crying, some frozen, others bolting for the doors as security storms in.

Frank lies there unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and uneven. His face has drained of all color as though he’s somewhere far away. Against the fluorescent lights above, he looks almost spectral, almost as pale as a ghost . 

Around him, the overturned tables and scattered books make it look less like a library and more like a crime scene, the floor painted with streaks of blood that seem to spread wider every second.

You rush to the bathroom and throw up the French toast James made for you this morning.

 

Notes:

let me know what you guys think ;)