Call me tonight baby

by Aradia_Scarlet

Summary:

The Ravenwood campus is gripped by fear after the brutal murder of Melissa, a simple student who meant no harm. As the students try to cope with the tension, a nearby group begins to eye each other suspiciously, questioning who could be behind the crimes.

Notes:

This afternoon I was browsing Twitter when I stumbled upon this potential AU idea… And I instantly thought, "Uh, why not do it?"
Spoiler alert: I'm still impressed with myself for accomplishing so much, so why not write this down and keep it short and sweet to de-stress a little more?
So, shout-out to the SentryAgent community on Twitter, and without further ado. I hope you enjoy this first chapter!

Chapter 1: whispers among shadows

The university hallway was deserted, lit only by fluorescent lights that flickered every so often, as if they too were tired of staying awake. Melissa was carrying a folder of exams she had helped organize for Valentina. Her cell phone vibrated in her back pocket, and the echo was so loud in the silence that it almost made her jump.

“Hello?” she answered, quickening her pace.

A distorted, deep, metallic voice answered on the other end, impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.

“Walking alone so late, Mel? That's not very safe.”

The air froze in her lungs. She quickly feigned a nervous laugh.
“Who is this?”

“Just someone close by... Do you know what girls who walk alone at night have in common?” The voice paused for just a second. “They all end up running.”

Mel's heart raced. She clutched the folder to her chest and looked around. The hallway was empty, but the feeling that someone was watching her was as real as the shadow that crossed the end of it.

“Don't fuck with me...” she whispered, hanging up the phone.

She quickened her pace. And then she heard it: the echo of shoes hitting the floor behind her. She didn't wait twice to start running. The folder fell from her hands, the papers flying like white feathers in the darkness. She turned the corner and stumbled upon the emergency exit door. Locked. She cursed.

The phone rang again. She took it out with trembling hands. She answered, almost crying.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see how fast you can run.”

The metallic screech of the door opening froze her blood. Behind it, advancing calmly, the figure appeared: a tall figure in a black robe, white mask, and a hunting knife that glinted in the dim light.

The girl screamed and ran toward the stairs, stumbling down the steps. Her sneakers squeaked against the damp floor. She crossed the empty lobby, but the sound of boots behind her didn't stop; it seemed to enjoy the game.

She tried to open the main exit door, but it was useless. It was locked. She pounded on it, screamed, cried out for help, but the campus was dead at that hour. When she turned around, the white mask was already in front of her.

The knife flashed and the first stab pierced her abdomen, the air escaping from her lungs in a broken moan. She tried to stop him with her hands, but another thrust pierced her higher up, tearing out a stream of blood that splattered the marble walls. The figure grabbed her by the neck, tilting her back, and plunged the blade again and again with methodical brutality, the horrible sound of the blade piercing flesh not stopping until her knees gave way.

The papers the girl had dropped earlier had stuck to the floor with blood, forming crimson stains on the white. The killer stood still for a moment, watching the life drain from her eyes. Then, with an almost ritualistic calm, he wiped the knife against the black fabric of his robe.

Mel's phone rang again on the floor, vibrating in the red puddle. The screen lit up her pale face one last time before going dark.

 

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The Ravenwood University campus woke up to a different day. The news was already spreading through the hallways, and the entire university was talking about the same thing: Mel had been found dead at the entrance to the campus, the police were patrolling with yellow tape and questions that no one could answer. This time, no one was laughing out loud, the students were no longer talking too loudly; the hallways were filled with stifled whispers and furtive glances toward the police tape sealing off the main entrance. The metallic smell of blood still seemed to linger in the air, even though the cleaning crew had spent the entire night trying to remove it.

 

In the cafeteria, the buzz was strange: it wasn't the usual cheerful noise, but a murmur of fear disguised as morbid curiosity. The students' faces were tense, as if the next victim could be any one of them.

At a table near the window, five figures stood together, half-oblivious to the rest, but impossible to separate from the scene. They were the kind of group that attracted attention even when they didn't want to.

Yelena chewed slowly, uttering phrases laden with irony that caused more discomfort than relief. There was something about her boldness that could be mistaken for indifference... or calculated coldness.

Ava kept her headphones hanging around her neck, watching everyone with a silence that seemed too attentive. Her calmness was so measured that it was unsettling, as if she knew more than she was willing to say.

Bucky stood stiffly with his arms crossed, scanning the café like a paranoid guard. He could pass for protective, but that toughness could also be read as someone with too much on his conscience.

Bob barely touched his coffee, his fingers trembling as he held the cup. His nervousness gave him away: shifty eyes, ragged breathing. The kind of tension anyone could mistake for fear... or a poorly kept secret.

And John... was no exception. Contrary to what everyone would expect, he didn't look calm either. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tense, and every so often his gaze lingered on Bob, as if to check if he was okay. He was worried—about everyone, yes—but even more so about him.

The trays were served, but no one ate. The silence was broken when Yelena slammed her fork down on her plate.

“Well... is no one going to say it out loud?” She leaned forward, her hair falling over her face. “Mel was murdered. And not just any way.”

The comment caused several students at nearby tables to turn around, but Yelena didn't care.

Ava took her headphones off her neck, her tone low, almost a whisper:

“It wouldn't hurt to lower your voice a little.” She said it as if giving a warning, but with that strange undertone that could sound like complicity.

Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes before leaning slightly over the table.

“We don't need to state the obvious. What we need is to know who the hell is walking around here with a knife.”

Bob set his cup down on the table, coffee spilling a little over his fingers. His voice came out shaky:

“What if it was someone from here?” He swallowed, his gaze darting from one to another. “I mean... who gets onto campus without being seen?”

A heavy silence fell over the table. Everyone knew the question was valid, but no one wanted to answer it.

It was John who leaned toward Bob, offering him a napkin with an automatic, almost clumsy gesture.

“Hey, take it easy.” His voice sounded firmer than he felt. “No one's going to touch you, okay?”

The gesture would have seemed sweet, had it not been for Yelena's venomous chuckle.

“Sure, Sir Walker to the rescue.” She stabbed her fork into the cold egg on her plate. “But tell me, John... how can you be so sure?”

Everyone's eyes turned to him. Bob looked at him too, though in his case there was more gratitude than suspicion. John held their gaze, uncomfortable but not looking away.

“I'm not sure of anything,” he replied at last, his jaw tense. “I'm just saying that if anyone tries to hurt any of you... they'll have to get past me first.”

The tension seemed to fade little by little, though never completely. The silence was replaced by uncomfortable whispers and the clatter of cutlery against plates. Until Bob got up awkwardly, muttering that he needed a soda. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and walked away through the cafeteria line. The murmur of conversation quickly engulfed him, and as soon as his figure disappeared from the table, the silence became heavier than ever.

The group remained silent until Yelena spoke in that sharp tone that cuts like a knife:

“Walker... do you really think we don't notice?”

John looked up, but his expression faltered for a second before he focused on her.

Ava leaned forward, her cold, amused gaze piercing him like a scalpel:

“We all know. Your eyes search for him every time Bob is around.”

Bucky, who at first seemed distracted by his cell phone, put the device aside and spoke calmly, but without gentleness:
“It doesn't take a genius to see it. It's written all over your face.”

The glass in John's hand cracked as he squeezed it too hard. A trickle of water ran down his fingers.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” he growled through clenched teeth, his voice rough.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, not taking her eyes off him.
“Of course we do. The question is how long it will take him to find out.”

Walker swallowed, the dry sound echoing in his own head. His chest felt heavy, as if the air had changed density. He felt exposed, cornered, unable to hold their gaze.

At that moment, Bob returned with the can in his hand, smiling distractedly, as if nothing in the world weighed on him. He sat down again, unaware that in his absence, they had opened John up like a half-burned book.

The dark-haired man opened the can with a metallic click, the foam bubbled a little, and he drank calmly, oblivious to the tense looks still floating around the table. John feigned normality, swallowing hard and looking away toward the window, where yellow ribbons fluttered like open wounds in the wind.

The conversation tried to pick up again, but it didn't sound the same anymore.

“So what happens now?” Bob asked, breaking the silence with the innocence of someone who hadn't seen the edge of the previous conversation. His eyes moved from one to another, searching for answers. “Will they close the classes or what?”

Barnes shook his head, in a sharp, almost automatic gesture.
“No. The police just put guards at the entrance.”

“Yeah,” added Yelena, biting listlessly into a piece of bread. “Because we all know that a couple of fat cops with flashlights are enough to stop someone who stabs people until he gets tired...”

Bob shrunk into his seat, looking down at his soda. Ava, on the other hand, watched him with that icy calm that never seemed natural.

“You should be more concerned, Bob,” she murmured, as if speaking only to him, but audible to everyone.

John leaned forward slightly, digging his elbows into the table.
“Enough. We don't need to scare each other or be suspicious of each other.”

Yelena smiled with her usual poisonous irony.
“Among ourselves, Walker?” she repeated, drawing out the words as if tasting them in her mouth.

John's eyes flashed with defiant anger for a second, but he held back. He looked at Bob, who didn't understand, who didn't seem to see what was happening beneath the surface. And it was that simple fact—his innocent disconnect—that turned his stomach.

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The rest of the day dragged on slowly, as if the hours were crawling along in chains. Classes were held as usual, but no one was really paying attention. The teachers talked, and the background murmur was always the same: the murder.

When the bell finally rang and the hallways emptied, John waited by the exit. Bob appeared shortly after, his backpack hanging awkwardly from one shoulder and an empty soda bottle in his hand.

“Want to walk with me?” Bob asked casually, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

John's heart skipped a beat, which he quickly hid with a shrug.
“Sure.”

They walked together toward the exit, crossing the campus that was already bathed in the light of sunset. The murmur of the other students gradually faded away until only the two of them remained.

Bob kicked stones on the path, distracted. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, his chest tight with a mixture of relief and anxiety. He had spent the whole day bearing the weight of his friends' inquisitive glances, and now, in that small shared silence, he felt he could breathe a little easier.

“Hey...” Bob said suddenly, turning his head toward him. “Are you okay? You seemed... I don't know, weird today.”

John pressed his lips together. He couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't tell him that the only thing weird was that every time he looked at him, the world seemed to crumble around him.

So he lied.
“I'm fine. Just tired.”

Bob watched him for a moment longer, with those eyes that seemed too clear for the rarefied air they breathed. Then he nodded, without insisting.

They walked together in silence to the edge of the street, where their paths would separate.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Bob said, with an ease that seemed so foreign to the chaos each of them carried.

John stood frozen, staring at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face at impossible angles, and yet all he could see was clarity. He felt the words rise in his throat, urgent, burning his chest. “Stay. I don't want you to go. I love you, Bob, but I'm too much of an idiot to admit it.”

But his tongue was tied in an ironclad silence.

All he managed was a clumsy nod, a “yes” muffled in his mouth.
Bob gave him one last smile before crossing the street, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Walker stood there, motionless, his hands clenched into fists inside his pockets. A strangled confession trembled between his teeth, like a ghost difficult to exorcise.

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···

Night fell heavily on the city, enveloping the campus in a silence that felt too vulnerable.

In the window of a cramped apartment, Valentina corrected exams with the fragile patience of someone who had slept little and was carrying too much weight. The yellowish light from her lamp barely contained the gloom, and the sound of the pen scratching against the paper was her only company.

Suddenly, the phone rang. The ringtone startled her, her heart racing for no reason. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The silence on the other end stretched on so long that for a moment she thought it was a bad joke. She was about to hang up when a voice emerged: deep, metallic, as if each word were being dragged through the throat.

“It's getting late, teacher.”

A chill ran down her spine. She got up to close the window, uncomfortable.
“Who is this?”

Heavy breathing came through the line, slow and deliberate.

“Someone who enjoys watching you work... even though it won't do any good anymore.”

Valentina clutched the phone tightly.
“Look, if you keep up with these jokes, I'm going to call the police.”

A low, harsh laugh echoed in her ear.
“Call them. I want to hear you beg as your throat fills with blood.”

Her blood ran cold. Even though the window was already closed, she could still feel the weight of eyes fixed on her, somewhere outside.

“What... what did you say?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

The breathing grew closer, almost inside the receiver.
“I said you're alone. And the next time you blink... I'll be right there with you.”

The click as the phone hung up was worse than any scream. Silence returned, but it was no longer the same: now it weighed like a sentence.

Valentina moved away from the phone, her hands trembling. She took barely two steps toward the table when something rumbled from the hallway. The sound was sharp, metallic, as if a forced hinge had given way.

“Hello?” she managed to say, with that absurd hope that it was a neighbor.

There was no answer. Only the slow creaking of the floorboards, each step getting closer.

Until she saw it: a hooded silhouette outlined against the darkness, motionless, with an icy glint in its hand. The knife seemed to absorb the light.

“My God...” the woman whispered, backing away.

The hooded figure didn't speak or stop to chat. He lunged at her with overwhelming violence, and the first slash opened her side before she could scream. Blood spurted instantly, hot, staining the carpet and her scattered notes.

Valentina stumbled against the table, looking for something to defend herself with, but another stab pierced her shoulder. The scream that escaped her throat barely covered the sound of the blade tearing through flesh.

“Stop! Please, stop!” she begged, trying to cover herself with her bloody hands.

The hooded figure tilted his head, as if studying the panic reflected in her eyes, and sank the blade into her abdomen with cruel slowness, savoring every spasm of pain.

Valentina fell to her knees, spitting blood, while the figure held her by the hair to keep her upright.

“Shhh...” murmured the distorted voice from under the hood, brushing her ear. “No one will hear you. Calm down...”

The last movement was brutal, a clean cut across her throat that bathed the table and floor in red. The teacher lay sprawled out, her eyes open in empty astonishment, while the hooded figure stood for a moment contemplating his work, breathing deeply, enjoying the silence that once again filled the room.

The tall figure remained motionless for a moment longer, breathing calmly in front of the body. With measured movements, the mask was removed. A dark strand of hair fell over their eyes; the yellowish light from the lamp illuminated half of their face, leaving the other half in shadow. They ran their fingers through their hair, a casual, almost human gesture, and something in the way they did it suggested another presence, another intention. A minor detail, but enough for anyone watching to doubt their gender or even their identity.

A small camera, taken from a nearby shelf, gleamed with a metallic flash. The figure crouched down, capturing a photograph. An almost ritualistic and morbid gesture, as if they wanted to preserve the masterpiece of terror they had just created. Then, without haste, it set the camera aside and walked out the back door, disappearing into the shadows of the night, leaving behind the echo of its footsteps and the metallic scent of fresh blood.

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The following dawn brought with it whispers laden with fear and speculation. The news of Valentina's murder spread like wildfire, and although the campus was open, no one walked around carefree. Every sound of the morning seemed amplified and every shadow seemed to have a life of its own.

In the cafeteria, the usual table was occupied. Yelena, Ava, Bucky, Bob, and John took their seats, tension clinging to their shoulders like a heavy coat. No one needed to speak to know that something had changed.

“Did you hear about Professor Valentina...?” Yelena said, breaking the silence with that sharp voice that sought no comfort.

“Yes... And it wasn't on campus,” Ava added, setting her backpack on the table, her eyes attentive to everyone's reactions. That makes it even scarier."

Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. “Someone who can come and go without being seen... that someone either knows our routines or is watching too closely.”

Bob swallowed, nervously playing with his soda can. His gaze moved from one to another, and John watched him with a frown, feeling the tension build in every muscle of his body. He wanted to tell Bob that he was safe, that nothing would happen to him... but his words got stuck in his throat.

“We have to stay calm,” he finally said, his voice firm even though he was agitated inside. “Let's take care of each other.”

A heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by the sound of cutlery and the murmur of the cafeteria, which seemed heavier than ever, as if the air itself contained fear. No one spoke loudly, but every word that came out of the group's table carried a weight that made the other students look at them sideways.

“Seriously, I can't believe this is happening,” said Yelena, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. “First Mel, and now Professor Valentina. Who's next?”

“What if it's someone we know?” whispered Ava, staring at an undefined point. “Someone who walks among us every day and no one suspects.”

Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes but not taking his attention away from his friends. “Like who? A teacher? A new student? Maybe a former student who snuck in...”

“Or someone who was here all along,” Yelena interjected, tilting her head. “Don't you think it's weird that no one saw anything, not even the hooded figure?”

Bob shrank back, fiddling with his soda can. His voice was low and shaky.
“What if... what if it's someone who's just really good at hiding? I mean... anyone could be watching our routines.”

“Exactly,” said Ava, leaning forward, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. The killer knows what we do, what we say... even what we feel.

“Or maybe it's not someone on campus,” said Barnes, frowning as he analyzed every movement of the nearby students. “Maybe it's someone from outside, someone with a sick obsession... or a motive we don't yet understand.”

Yelena turned her head toward a nearby table where two girls were laughing nervously. “Look, even they seem suspicious now. The way they're looking at the police tape... it's too obvious.”

“We can't trust anyone,” Bob muttered, swallowing hard. “Not even those we think we know well.”

John glanced at him sideways, feeling that every word Bob said had a double meaning. He wanted to reassure him, to make sure he didn't let fear consume him, but every attempt to say something seemed insufficient, caught between caution and urgency.
“Bob...” he began, his voice barely audible. “The important thing is that we watch each other's backs. Always.”

“Yes,” Ava agreed, but her tone was cold. "Because anyone could be the next victim. And the killer could be here, listening. Watching. Analyzing every reaction.

Bucky tapped the table lightly, breaking the silence that was beginning to feel unbearable. “Then we need to pay attention. To everyone. Every movement, every gesture... even the smallest thing could be a clue.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows, tilting her head in a calculating gesture. "And who decides who to look at first? The ones who look suspicious? The ones who don't? Because the truth is... anyone could be.

Bob looked away, sitting up a little straighter. His heart was beating too fast, and without knowing how, his eyes rested on John for a moment before turning to his empty glass. John caught his gaze, and for a second they shared a silence laden with unspoken words, fears, and secrets that no one else understood.

“What we need,” John finally said, his voice seeking firmness, “is to stay calm. Not to let ourselves be carried away by paranoia. And to trust, at least a little, that none of us would hurt the others... right?”

Chapter 2: Blood on the screen.

Summary:

Tensions mount on campus. Arguments and suspicions emanate. No one trusts anyone, and a new murder exposes the brutality of the mysterious hooded man. Amid all this chaos, a small moment of tenderness manages to open a glimmer of light in the darkness.

Notes:

Well... I think it's not an idea anymore, it's an obsession LOL. I literally can't get this AU out of my head and I had to keep at it because otherwise I was going to go crazy.
For the record, if I knew how to draw, I would have already made a mini comic with every gory scene and every romantic glance, but hey, I'm content with writing it properly.

The silence at the table gradually extended like an invisible blade, slicing through the air after John's words. No one dared to answer. No one wanted to be the first to speak out in the midst of the tension. In the end, it was Ava who let out a dry laugh, too brief, like a stifled sigh.

"Sure, John..." she murmured, fiddling with the hem of her jacket. "Trusting others... As if it were so easy."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, without taking his gaze from her.
"And do you trust anyone here?" he asked calmly, though his tone laced with venom.

That was enough to get everyone talking again, but not in an orderly fashion. The table filled with loose phrases, veiled accusations, and awkward gestures.
"I was in my room. Ask..."
"And how do we know it wasn't you?"
"Someone must have seen something, right?"

And amidst that murmur, John remained calm. He must have been for everyone, or at least he pretended to be. He observed everything. The almost imperceptible tremor in Ava's leg, the way Bucky sounded uncomfortably cold, the glances they exchanged when someone mentioned Valentina. By now, the group didn't seem like a team: they were a pile of broken pieces, distrustful even of their own shadow.

Voices crashed against each other like broken glass. Each venomous word hung in the air, unconquered, until it transformed into an unbearable echo.

Bob said nothing; he had remained expectant since the argument began. But John noticed it. That slight slump in his shoulders, as if he were carrying an invisible weight crushing him. The way his hands nervously fiddled with each other, clenching into fists. Even the restless gleam in his eyes, avoiding glances that seemed too pointed.

"What's wrong with you, Reynolds?" Ava's sharp voice cut across the table. "You're very quiet."

The silence returned, heavier than before. The dark-haired man swallowed, with a slowness that seemed to betray him. John felt him tense, like an animal trapped in a spotlight.

"I... I just don't have anything to say," Bob murmured, but his voice came out broken and raspy, as if he was struggling to keep it steady.

Yelena clicked her tongue loudly, leaning forward.
"Really? That's your brilliant theory, Starr?" she snapped, staring at Ava. "Bob is silent, and he's already a suspect. Well, then you shut up too, and we'll see what we think."

The tension was cut for a second by the sarcasm, but it didn't last long.

"Leave him alone," John added, without needing to raise his voice. He reached out and placed his hand on Bob's shoulder. Firm, reassuring. Bob flinched at the touch, then slowly relaxed his expression as if he'd found an anchor.
"Look around. We're all under suspicion, but if we're devouring each other, that killer won't even need to get his hands dirty."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, but said nothing. Ava looked away in annoyance.

That's when Bob stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with an uncomfortable creak. His hands trembled slightly as he leaned on the table, as if he needed support to keep from collapsing.
"I need... air," he murmured, avoiding the trio of eyes on him, and moved toward the door with clumsy, almost desperate steps.

Silence followed him like a shadow.

John stood up too, too quickly, as if his muscles had moved before his head had decided.
"I'm going with him," he announced, with a casualness that sounded more like a declaration than an offer.

He didn't ask permission. He didn't even wait for a response. He simply followed Bob, his figure silhouetted against the door before disappearing behind him.

The hallway was silent, illuminated by the morning sunlight that filtered through the large windows. Bob's footsteps echoed with an uneven rhythm, faster at first, until John finally caught up with him and stood beside him.

"You didn't have to come," Bob said quietly, without looking at him.

"Of course I did," John replied without hesitation. "I'm not going to leave you alone now."

Bob swallowed, as if the walls were closing in on him. The tension was suffocating him, but John tried to ease it with conversation, throwing words like stones into the water to deflect the ripples.

"Look, everyone in there is going crazy looking for someone to blame, but... what if it's not any of us?" he said, his tone casual but charged with meaning.

Bob glanced at him.
"What do you mean?"

Walker shrugged.
"It could be anyone. A teacher, the principal... someone who came in from the outside. A student no one notices because they go unnoticed." He paused, lowering his voice. Hell, it could even be someone from security.

Bob turned his face slightly, his lips curling into a grimace that wasn't a smile or a sneer.
"What if the monster is closer than you think?" he murmured, almost unconsciously.

John blinked, surprised by the statement.
"What?"

The dark-haired man immediately shook his head, as if dismissing it.
"Nothing... just things you think." He quickened his pace, as if trying to escape the comment that had slipped out.

Walker didn't insist, although deep down, the doubt lingered like a thorn in his side. And yet, as they left the building and headed toward campus, the fresh air seemed to wash away the tension.

They sat on one of the benches along the side of the road, the trees seeming to whisper in the wind. For the first time in hours, the conversation turned to trivial matters: Bob complained about the cheap coffee from the vending machine, John joked about the history teacher who always seemed asleep in class. They were silly, yes, but John enjoyed them as if they were intimate confessions.

Bob, tired, ended up leaning back, resting his head on the backrest, looking up at the gray sky. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, his profile softly illuminated by the sunlight. There was something calm, almost vulnerable about him, that made him forget all the horror for a moment.

John looked at him silently. He could have said it was simple curiosity, but it wasn't. There was something about Bob that stung his chest every time he watched him like that, unprepared. The way the light seemed to highlight his brown curls, the contrast with his pale skin, his tired expression that, far from detracting from his beauty, made him almost hypnotic. Even his slow, deep breathing seemed a reminder that Bob was there, alive, tangible.

It was as ridiculous as it was inevitable: the more he looked at him, the more he realized how beautiful he was. Not just attractive… beautiful, in that strange, melancholy way that seemed oblivious to the rest of the world.

Bob opened one eye, barely a crack, as if he'd felt the intensity of that gaze.
"We shouldn't be long before we're back," he murmured, his voice slurred, hoarse with exhaustion.

John quickly looked away, feigning interest in a group of students passing by, laughing in the distance.
"Yeah… I guess not."

Bob stretched his hands forward, interlacing his fingers and twisting his wrists as if trying to relieve some invisible tension. John followed him with his eyes, caught in that simple gesture. Bob's hands were large, firm, with prominent veins running up his arms and disappearing beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. He couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to feel them against his skin, what it would be like if those same hands clung to him not on a random impulse, but because Bob loved him too.

Walker felt his tongue go dry. He had to say it. He had to say it now, right there, even though he might regret it later.

He opened his mouth, his heart pounding in his chest as if it wanted to escape. He was ready to let it all out, to confess what ate away at him every time he saw Bob breathe.

And then the campus bell rang, loud, metallic, and cruel.

The blond man snapped his mouth shut, cursing inwardly with all his pent-up rage. If some higher power wanted to see him suffer, it was more than fulfilling its purpose.

"I guess it's time to go back..." Bob said, calmly standing up.

John nodded reluctantly, swallowing the words that burned in his throat. He stood up and walked back to the building, hating every step that took him away from what could have been.

The next few hours dragged on like torture. John barely managed to concentrate on his classes: each blackboard seemed emptier, each professor's word floated like a distant noise. The air in the hallways was heavy, and although no one said it out loud, everyone knew the campus was no longer safe.

In literature, the professor called attendance with a barely perceptible tremor in her voice. When she reached a certain name, the silence was absolute, like a void impossible to fill. From his seat, John pressed his pencil against the desk, biting himself.

In history, a gray-haired professor cleared his throat before speaking:
"Today we should pay a small tribute to our colleague, Professor Valentina... and also to our student, Melissa. May their memory inspire us to stand together in these difficult times."

There was an awkward murmur, heads bowed in respect, an attempt at applause that died quickly. John felt nauseous: it wasn't a tribute, it was a reminder that someone was scrutinizing them.

The rest of the day was a parade of shifty glances, empty desks, and hushed conversations. No one wanted to be left alone, no one wanted to be "next."

Until night fell.

The campus slowly faded. The classroom lights went out, the nervous laughter of the groups faded with quick steps toward the exits. Everyone left in a flock, seeking safety in the crowd.

Everyone, except one student.

It was in the gym's locker room, almost deserted at that hour. Darren Mitchell, the team's wide receiver, had stayed behind after his workout. The guy was everything that irritated anyone: a smug smile, show-stopping muscles, and an ego the size of a stadium.

He was alone, filming himself in the mirror, when his cell phone vibrated on the bench. The screen displayed an "Unknown Number." Darren raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Who next?" he muttered before answering.

"Hey, Darren." The distorted voice sounded from the other end of the line, cold and metallic.

The kid let out a short laugh.
"If you're another idiot on the team trying to make a joke about the killer, I'll kick your butt."

"You think this is a joke?" The voice lowered, almost a whisper. "Because I don't."

Darren frowned. He was still smiling, but his jaw tightened noticeably.
"Okay... What are you supposed to want?"

"I want to play with you. Do you want to play, Darren?"

The kid looked at himself in the mirror again, as if searching for a reaction from his own reflection.
"You're in serious trouble, dude."

"I have a knife." The voice didn't rise in pitch; it became slower, crueler. "And you have five minutes to live."

The phone slipped a little from his hand. He swallowed uncomfortably.
"Who the hell are you?"

There was a long silence. Then, a murmur like someone breathing very close to the receiver:
"Look in the mirror, Darren."

He turned his gaze sharply. In the glass behind his shoulder, a black silhouette was reflected, wearing a white mask, fixed and chilling. The phone fell to the floor with a thud.

"Hey, wait, this isn't funny!" he stammered, backing away. Before the first cut opened his shoulder.

The knife entered with a sharp force, tearing his shirt and skin in a deep gash. Darren screamed, stumbling against the benches. The figure gave him no respite: it grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the metal lockers, over and over again, until the boy's forehead left red marks on the metal.

"Stop it, stop it, fuck!" he pleaded, wailing, but the mask just watched him, relentless.

Another blow, this time the knife pierced his abdomen. Darren doubled over in pain, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The killer twisted the blade inside the wound, slowly, as if enjoying the twitching of the muscles.

The boy tried to crawl, but a boot crushed his leg. A dry crunch filled the locker room. His scream soon turned into a desperate shriek.

"I told you, only five minutes," the figure murmured, leaning over him. "And they're already over."

The knife shot up, straight into his chest. Once, twice, three times. Blood splattered the mirror, the floor, even the screen of his fallen cell phone. Darren tried to cover himself with his hands, useless, as the person behind the mask stabbed him with unbridled fury, each thrust stronger than the last.

Finally, when his body was barely spasming, the knife moved so fast that it sliced ​​his throat in one clean, brutal motion. The sound of flesh splitting was recorded in the air, along with a spray of blood that painted the lockers red.

The phone, which had been recording the entire time, captured everything. His final shot was Darren's body slumped in a dark puddle, and the white-masked figure turned toward the camera, as if the killer knew someone would see him sooner or later.

The figure bowed its head, as if in mockery, and raised a gloved hand, only to raise its middle finger, a blatant insult directed at anyone watching the video. Then, with the ease of someone finishing a daily chore, he picked up the cell phone from the floor, slid his bloody finger across the screen, and with just a few taps, the video was uploaded to Darren's social media.

The killer placed the device on his victim's still-warm chest. The "Published" notification lit up the screen, bathing Darren's motionless face in a blue glow.

In a matter of minutes, the entire campus would find out what had happened...

At Yelena's house, the blonde couldn't believe what she was seeing on her laptop screen. The raw, uncensored video had appeared in her feed like a regular notification. But it wasn't just any old thing. It was Darren, dead. And it was all too real.

With a brusque gesture, she grabbed her phone and opened the group chat. Her fingers trembled as she typed:

Yelena: Have you seen it yet?

Everyone's response was quick to arrive.

Ava: See what?

Bucky: If this is another one of your pointless memes, I'm going to block you.

Bob: What's up, Yelena?

John. W: Hey, get to the point. Will you?

Yelena clenched her jaw, took a deep breath, and replied, this time letting the punch fall.

Yelena: Go to Darren's accounts. Or better yet... I'll save you the trip.

(File sent)

The next thing was a parade of notifications that almost made her phone vibrate in her hands.

Bucky: "Fucking hell..."

Ava: "No way... it's real? No... Isn't it a setup?"

John. W: What the fuck was that?! It killed him like it was nothing!

Bob: That person didn't look human... It was... it was just too much rage.

Yelena: "And it's the third time."

Bucky: "The third victim."

Ava: "And who knows how many more there will be... It can't all be a coincidence."

John. W: "Of course not! That bastard is hunting people!"

Bob: "Hey..."

Bob: "Did you hear his voice?"

Ava: "Barely... It was, well, it sounded distorted, like... like he was using a modulator."

Bucky: "It's not even recognizable. Not even the pitch, nothing. Damn it."

John. W: "It could be anyone."

Yelena: "And that's the problem."

Yelena: "We don't know who it is... but it's definitely someone on the fucking campus."

Bucky: "Listen, listen to me... if that bastard is on the loose, then it could have been any of us. Where were we all earlier?"

The chat room quickly exploded.

Ava: “What the hell are you insinuating? That any of us are to blame?”

John. W: “This is absurd, Bucky. We're not part of that shit.”

Yelena: “If you have suspicions, Bucky, say it straight away. But don't lump everyone together.”

Bob: “You can't talk to us like that. We're not part of this.”

The notifications went silent for a few minutes, until Bucky's name appeared on the screen again.

Bucky: “Funny… everyone gets outraged. And fast. If they really had nothing to hide, why all the fuss?”

Ava: “Or maybe the one who accuses so easily is just trying to divert attention from themselves.”

Bucky: “From me? Nice try. But I, at least, don't stay silent when blood continues to flow on this campus.”

John. W: “Stop it. This isn't helping matters.”

Bucky: “It helps more than continuing to pretend none of us have any secrets here.”

Their fingers finally stopped on the screens, as if each previously written word had left a crack impossible to close. In the end, it was Yelena who typed again, tersely, as if imposing order.

Yelena: “So let's keep it simple. Everyone tells us where they were. And that way we stop wasting time.”

There were a few more seconds of resistance. Then, little by little, they began to type.

Bucky: “I'll start. I was in the common room, with a couple of teammates. You can ask them if you don't believe me.”

Ava: “I was in the computer lab. I had a project to finish, and there were other people there. I have nothing to hide.”

Yelena: “Until recently, I was sleeping. Period. If you want proof, I don't have it. But I'm not interested in convincing you either, Barnes.”

John. W: “I'm in my room. Reviewing some notes from the history teacher. So far I'm alone.”

No one else wrote; everyone knew who was missing.

Bob: “I... was in the library. Reviewing material for tomorrow's class. There weren't many people there, so... probably no one saw me.”

Ava: “How convenient.”

Bucky: “Yeah, too convenient. An empty library, no witnesses, nothing. You expect us to believe you, Bob?”

Bob: “It's the truth! What am I supposed to say? I don't have to make anything up!”

Yelena: “Stop it. I'm not going to repeat it: Bob isn't the killer.”

John W: “I agree. Attacking him like this just shows how quickly they're eager to blame the first person who flinches a little. That's no proof of anything.”

Bucky: “All it shows is that they're overprotecting him.”

Ava: “Exactly. Why so much defense? Or do they know something the others don't?”

John W: “We're defending him because we know him. And if you have to fabricate suspicions to feel useful, that's up to you. But don't do it at his expense.”

The chat froze. The discussion had crossed a line: it wasn't just paranoia anymore; it was the beginning of a rift.

It was Yelena who finally wrote:

Yelena: “If we keep this up, that bastard is going to pick us off one by one.”

Ava: “And what are you proposing? That we sit back and wait for our turn?”

Bucky: “No. We have to get ahead of ourselves. Investigate. Find out who it is before he strikes again.”

Bob: “Investigate… ourselves? What if it's too dangerous?”

John. W: “He's already dangerous, Bob. Sitting around waiting isn't going to change anything. If he's hunting students, we need a head start.”

Yelena: “Exactly. That bastard isn't a ghost. He eats, breathes, bleeds. And we can catch him.”

Ava: “Yes, but at least until we know who he is, we need to give him a name. We can't keep saying 'the killer' or 'the hooded man' like they're ten different ones.”

The cursor flickered for a few seconds before Bucky typed what everyone was thinking:

Bucky: “How about Ghostface?”

A heavy silence fell over the chat again. The nickname immediately sank in, cold and violent, like a knife in the skin.

Yelena: “Perfect. Ghostface, then.”

John. W: “Fine. If this Ghostface guy wants to play… we'll play. But by our rules.”

Bob: “God…”

Bucky: “So, are we meeting up? Tomorrow, at the library. First thing.”

Ava: “Perfect. We need a plan, and fast.”

Yelena: “Yeah, no one's going to interfere there. See you early. Get some rest, guys.”

Bob: “Okay… Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow.”

John. W: “Tomorrow will be different for everyone, I'm sure. Sleep well and let me know anything.”

The group fell silent. One by one, the notifications stopped until the screen went black, as if everyone had decided to surrender to the forced sleep of dawn.

John left his phone on the nightstand, but he couldn't get Bob out of his head. He could almost see him clearly: his fingers trembling as he typed, that way of carrying everyone's weight even if it wasn't his. A pang went through him, a mixture of tenderness and a desperate desire to protect him.

A few minutes passed. The keyboard cursor flickered before his eyes, and his fingers hesitated over what to type. He deleted two attempts, typed a third, and deleted that one too. Finally, he swallowed and gathered his courage.

Private message; John. W. → Bob.

“I know this is all crazy, but I want you to sleep peacefully. You're stronger than you think, and above all, you're not alone in this, okay? No matter what happens, I'll be there for you.”

He stared at the message, about to regret it and delete it; Bob had probably already fallen asleep. Until the seen notification appeared. His heart skipped a beat. It took Bob a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, but finally the reply came:

Bob: “Thank you, John… that means a lot to me. Really. <3”

John felt his chest tighten, as if those words had been written with fire directly into his heart. He sank into the pillow, grinning like an idiot.

Across town, Bob was still holding his cell phone. The light from the screen illuminated his tired face, but it wasn't fatigue that was keeping him awake, but the strange feeling that had settled in his chest.

He read John's message again, and then again. As if the words were a refuge he could visit whenever he wanted.

"No matter what happens, I'll be there for you."

He wasn't used to someone saying it so clearly. Not like this. His friends had always been part of the chaos, the competition, and the mistrust that was now rotting them from the inside out. But John... John spoke as if he truly believed it. As if he was willing to take it on without asking for anything in return.

Bob felt a tingling sensation run through his stomach, a mix of nerves and something warmer, more dangerous. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shoo it away, but it didn't go away. On the contrary, it spread like a slow fire.

"Thank you, John... that means a lot to me. <3"

That's what he had written. And when he saw the seen notification, the anxiety transformed into a small spark of joy.

For the first time in days, he truly smiled. A short, shy, but real smile. His heart was beating fast, too fast for a simple text. He fell back onto the bed, his cell phone clutched to his chest.

He didn't want to admit it yet, but something inside him was starting to lean toward that dangerous place where what John was saying stopped being simple support and began to feel like something more. As if, little by little, Walker's words were building a refuge where Bob longed to stay.

Notes:

So... what do you think? I'm already clutching my heart every time this couple gets romantic <3
Although... I don't know about you, but Bob's been pretty jumpy lately... don't you think?

I hope the killer doesn't separate them... but you know, no one here is above suspicion.

Notes:

So, what did you think?
Were you hooked?
I got excited while writing, so I'm asking.
Do you have any suspects in mind?
I'm reading your theories. Who do you think our ghost face is?