Page 6

I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over Xavier’s contact. I attempt another call. Yet it’s another straight shot to voicemail. I curse under my breath as I switch the phone’s torchlight on.

I move slowly down the hall, sneakers quiet on polished tiles as darkness clings to corners. The usual hum of security cameras, the red blinking eyes that always made me feel watched, are gone. Dead and utterly silent. Did a power outage cause this? Or... did someone cut the cameras on purpose?

I step into empty studios, dark classrooms, and a storeroom with scattered lighting gear. The torch from my phone pans from one end to another. Nothing. The university is nothing but a graveyard.

“Fuck…” I mutter under my breath. I peek into another classroom, sliding the door open just enough to see, then carefully call out his name, “Xavier…?”

I should call the police. In fact, I should’ve never come here in the first place. But what if… what if he really is just wandering somewhere, working late, distracted, slouched over some project? That’s possible. Logical. Maybe even likely.

But then why the cameras? Why the unlocked door?

I don’t even attempt to switch on a main light; that’s just stupid... yet here I am sneaking around like some heroic pledge to find my friend. I mutter curses again, fingers instantly reaching for the scar on the side of my neck as my other hand still grips my phone, throwing pale light over tables and chairs.

“Xavier…” I whisper again, quieter this time, trying not to scream his name into the void. My pulse picks up, each beat dragging my nerves tighter.

But I can’t stop until I find him.

I peek down another hallway, and there, right at the end, a door stands ajar.

“Turn the fuck back,” I tell myself, begging my body to drag me out of this impending doom.

I swallow hard, throat dry, and my legs move before my brain can argue with me. I hate this, but not as much as I hate the fact that Xavier’s throwing the whole group dynamic into shambles with his out-of-character behavior.

I reach the door, hand steady as I push it. The hinges protest with a long, shrill creak that seems impossibly loud in the dark. The room is vast, scattered with overturned chairs and toppled papers that rustle softly in the faint draft from an open window. Dust motes swirl in the moonbeams, but the light barely touches the edges of the corners. Shit, what the hell happened here?

The scene is a mess, yet I investigate further.

A faint sound answers me, and I freeze, nerves straining at the sound. There’s a wet, subtle drag, and as I take another step, my sneaker slips slightly.

I look down.

Something slick coats the sole.

Is that…blood?

A streak leads across the floor, uneven and messy, like someone, or something, has stumbled and left a trail. My pulse rockets, every nerve screaming, every rational thought commanding me to run. I swallow again, but it's like trying to swallow sand. My eyes dart around, trying to find… well, anything, trying to make sense of it, but the twilight shine only highlights the horror on the floor beneath my feet.

And then I hear it again.

I take a cautious step forward despite the hair raising on the back of my neck, following the streaks of blood. I can’t tell if I’m imagining the sounds, but the blood doesn’t lie. I take another careful step, and the realization hits me as I round a toppled desk.

The world pitches and I crash backward onto my ass.

The breath punched straight out of me. My palms slip behind me, and I scramble, sneakers smearing through the liquid as I crawl back until my spine slams into the leg of a table, sending a sharp jolt through my spine.

The sound comes again, all wet and choking.

I snap my head up.

A silhouette lies stretched across the floor. The shape of a leg. A shoulder. A head tipped at an angle that sends frostbite straight through my veins.

I blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t change.

Fuck, FUCK. I push up, gripping the edge of the table, but my entire body trembles so violently it feels like my bones are rattling.

Xavier lies there sprawled on the white tiles in a pool of his own blood. There’s a gash tearing across his neck, spilling thick, dark blood that gathers under him in a spreading halo. His chest lifts in a shallow jerk, then stutters. His fingers twitch weakly against the floor like he’s clawing for air, for help, for anything.

He’s alive but barely fucking so. A wave of realization rides the currents of my nerves. I step forward, and the room tilts. But I keep moving.