𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑
promises made, promises kept
❪ Wednesday, Yearbook Club Room ❫
⏰  6:44 a.m.

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Evan Marsh never liked coming in early, but today was different. The yearbook deadline was two weeks away, and the photo layouts still looked like a fifth-grader's scrapbook. Mr. Danner had nagged him three times yesterday — "You want Ivy League or community college, Marsh? Get it done."

So he came in with a Red Bull, earbuds, and a smug sense of superiority, as always.

The hallway lights flickered slightly when he pushed open the door to the Yearbook Club Room, Room 2B. It was cold. Colder than usual. The janitor must've left the AC on again.

Evan clicked the door shut behind him and set his bag on the desk, opening his laptop. The familiar hum of the machine starting up was comforting. Normal. Safe.

He didn't notice the shift behind the supply cabinet.

Not at first.

As he loaded the folder labeled "Fall Assembly Layout," he felt it — that tingle, that sixth sense, like the air wasn't still anymore. Like he wasn't alone.

He pulled out one earbud. Silence.

"Hello?" he called out, already annoyed. "Is this some dumb prank? Because I swear, if this is Ryder—"

A soft creak behind him.

He spun. Nothing. Just the empty rows of desks and the ancient printer.

"Grow up," he muttered.

He turned back to his screen and froze.

His name was on it.

Big. Bold. Black text on a white background

2. Evan Marsh

Below that, a video file, "confession.mp4"

His chest tightened. He didn't remember saving this. He didn't even film—

The screen flickered.

Then it played.

A video — grainy, handheld — of him, freshman year, slipping a USB drive onto Mr. Omura's desk.

A voice whispered behind the camera, "You really gonna turn them all in for extra credit?" Evan's recorded self smirked. "Please. They deserve it."

The screen went black.

Then came a different sound — not from the laptop, but the room.

Behind him.

A click. A dragging noise.

He turned slowly, pulse racing, and that's when he saw it.

Someone — no, something — wearing a mask.

Smooth, expressionless. Featureless. Black hoodie. Gloves.

They held piano wire.

"Wait—wait, no—"

The wire flashed forward like a whip.

Evan choked before he could scream. His chair crashed backward, papers flying, Red Bull splattering. He kicked, twisted, tried to claw at the wire biting into his throat. His vision blurred. The figure didn't flinch.

Just watched.

Just tightened.

Until Evan Marsh stopped moving.

──

❪ Thursday, School Pool
West Building ❫
⏰ 6:07 a.m.

──

The morning was unusually still. The janitor's mop sloshed down the west hallway, music humming low in one earbud. Everything was locked except the pool — it had been booked early for the swim team.

Sophomore Noelle Yim was first in. A model student, and annoyingly punctual, even for 6 a.m. practices.

She slid the door open, tossing her towel onto the bench and kicked off her sneakers. The pool was quiet, faintly blue under the overhead fluorescents.

And then she saw it. At first, she thought someone had left a training dummy in the water.
But it wasn't floating — it was sunken, face-down, tangled in lane dividers.

A body. A real one.

Still. Pale. Mouth slightly open.

Noelle didn't scream — not immediately. She stood frozen for three full seconds before a sound clawed its way up her throat. "HELP! H-HELP!! THERE'S SOMEONE — THERE'S —"

Her voice cracked as she stumbled backward, slipping in the wet tiles, feet slapping against the ground.

──

❪ Thursday, Gymnasium ❫
⏰ 10:00 a.m.

──

The gym didn't feel like a gym anymore.

The bleachers were pulled out, but no one leaned back in them. Teachers lined the walls like prison guards. Students huddled together, more out of fear than friendship. The chatter, normally a sea of murmurs and gossip, had quieted into uneasy silence.

At center stage was a blown-up portrait of Eliza Park, her hair in a perfect bun, expression poised, ballet shoes slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were glassy, lifeless — not in the photograph, but in memory.

A black ribbon looped over the corner of the frame.

The microphone screeched as Principal Harrow stepped forward, clasping the podium like it might collapse. He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. His voice cracked on the first word. "We are here today not just to mourn the loss of Eliza Park... but to confront the shadow that has fallen over this school."

There it was. No pretending anymore. No vague language. No "unfortunate incident" to skirt around.

He took a breath. "Eliza was more than a student. She was a gifted performer. A scholar. And a part of our Ridgeway High family. The recent tragedy has shaken us to our core. Let me be clear — we are doing everything in our power to ensure the safety of our students."

That was a lie. And everyone knew it.

He gestured offstage. "Now, Student Council President Delancey Chung will say a few words."

Nadia stepped into view, spine straight, expression unreadable. Her black blazer was pristine, the council pin polished until it gleamed. She approached the mic, eyes scanning the crowd like a general counting casualties. "Eliza was a classmate. A dancer. A daughter. And someone most of us never truly knew. But whether you loved her or feared her... no one deserved what happened."

There was a hush. "To the person doing this — we see you. We may not know your face yet, but we will. And to the rest of us... don't let fear isolate you. Talk to each other. Look out for one another. And remember: no one survives alone."

A few students clapped, half-hearted and hesitant. Nadia didn't expect applause.

──

As the crowd funneled out, the speakers overhead crackled to life. The entire student body stopped in their tracks.

"This is an official notice. A second confirmed death has occurred. We urge students to remain in pairs and avoid isolated areas."

A sharp pause.

"Any students on the list that circulated online — you will be contacted for individual meetings."

The speaker went silent. The unease only grew louder.

Mari shoved open the door to the debate club room, footsteps loud, loud, loud. She hated the silence now — it made everything feel final.

Jaydee was already inside, hunched over a textbook. Mari didn't even sit. She paced. "He was annoying. A snitch. But no one deserves to be bagged in the school pool like a dead fish."

Jaydee raised an eyebrow. "Mari—"

"No. No, don't give me the 'you're being insensitive' look." Her voice cracked. Jaydee exhaled slowly. "We're not just witnesses. We're waiting in line."

Mari stopped pacing. "Not me. If they want me dead, they better bring backup."

Eli leaned against the auditorium's backstage wall, scrolling through the headlines on his phone. RIDGEWAY HIGH UNDER THREAT: "KILL LIST" GOES LIVE.

He looked up at Yuki, who sat cross-legged on the stage, humming softly while scribbling notes in the margins of her audition sheet. "Hey... do you think they'll cancel theatre too?" he asked, half-joking.

Yuki didn't laugh. She didn't even look up. "Evan's dead, Eli. They found him bloated and blue in the pool. I'm scared."

"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I'm joking. To pretend we're not next." Yuki finally looked at him, her smile faint and forced. "I'll pretend with you. For now."

Jules lingered near the music wing's stairwell, her trumpet case swinging gently at her side. She clutched a slip of red fabric — Evan's old yearbook ribbon, discarded in a trash can near the memorial.

She hummed a funeral march. Off-key. Not on purpose. "You all thought he was annoying," she whispered to the empty stairwell. "I did too. But now you care because he's dead. Funny how that works."

Gabby sat in front of her vanity mirror in the locker room, the hum of the curling iron cutting through the tense quiet. She had just redone her lip gloss.

"They really pulled him out of the pool?" she asked her cheer captain. The girl nodded. Gabrielle scoffed. "That's pathetic. All that tattling and he couldn't even save himself."

Sloane blinked. "Gabby..."

"What? It's not like anyone liked him." She stared at her reflection — long lashes, full lips, eyes that didn't flinch. But inside, a cold knot had started to form. "Whatever," she said, softer. "At least it wasn't me. Yet."

Matt sat in the boys' locker room, elbows on his knees, forehead resting in his hands. The locker across from him — his — stood open, an empty Gatorade bottle rolling on the floor.

Inside, taped crookedly to the top shelf, was a small note card in handwriting that wasn't his:
"Your lungs will be the first to fail. Try holding your breath, Captain."

He hadn't told anyone.

He didn't plan to.

His hands were shaking. Not because of Evan — but because whoever left that note had his combination. Had touched his stuff. Had looked into his life. In that moment, he felt fourteen again — invisible, unwanted, scared.

Jaydee hadn't cried. He sat at the back of the library, headphones in but no music playing. Evan had once accused him of cheating on a quiz. That smug little look. That nose-in-the-air thing he always did.

But Evan hadn't deserved this. Nobody did.

Jaydee opened his notebook, fingers twitching, and wrote, "He smiled like he was smarter than death. I guess death didn't like that."

He paused.

Then scribbled again, this time with more pressure, "If they come for me, they'll regret it."

Yale watched the memorial crowd shuffle into their fourth-period classes from the far end of the courtyard, head bowed, arms crossed. He hadn't gone in. He never liked crowds.

Two down.

Yale didn't speak often, but he noticed everything. And someone was watching them. Stalking them. Testing how long they could run.

"I won't die in this school," he murmured, voice like frostbite. "Not quietly. Not easily."

──

❪ Thursday, The Old Library Wing ❫
⏰ 5:23 p.m.

──

Jaydee Davenport wasn't in the mood for people. Which, to be fair, wasn't new. But it had gotten worse lately — ever since Evan Marsh's body was wheeled out of the school by two silent paramedics and a tarp that didn't hide the fact he'd died with his eyes open. There were whispers now. Footsteps behind him that didn't match anyone's pace. The kill list felt less like a rumor and more like a prophecy.

So yeah. Jaydee wasn't going home yet. He just wanted to disappear for a few hours.

That's how he ended up in the abandoned library wing, the part of Ridgeway High that smelled like forgotten air and mildew, where the lights didn't work and the tables were still covered in old library cards no one had thrown out.

Except he wasn't alone.

Click. Click. Click.

He turned the corner, already frowning.

There she was. Sitting on top of one of the dusty tables like she owned it — which, knowing her, she probably did — with legs crossed at the ankle, nails tapping against her phone screen. Nadia. Her blazer was still crisp, her mini skirt pleated to perfection. Like grief didn't touch her. Like death was something she could out-organize.

Jaydee groaned. "Are you stalking me or something?" Nadia didn't even flinch. "Relax, Julian. Some of us value silence."

Jaydee threw his bag down on the nearest chair and sat, arms crossed. "Yeah, well. Some of us are trying not to be corpse number three." That got her attention. Her gaze snapped up — sharp, cold, calculating. "You think you're next?"

He shrugged. "I'm on the list. That's enough, right?" Nadia's lips curled slightly — not a smile, exactly. "Maybe they're going alphabetically."

"Great," he said dryly. "At least I'll die after you. Silver linings." She paused at that, like she was doing the math in her head. She always was doing math in her head.

"I don't like surprises," she finally said. Jaydee smirked. "You don't like being out of control."

"And you like pretending you don't care, but your eye's been twitching for the past five minutes." He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Before either could land the next hit, the door creaked open again. They both turned sharply.

Mattheo stepped in, backlit by the hallway's dying sunlight, his frame filling the doorway like a shadow out of a dream. Or a nightmare. He looked... shaken.

Nadia stood. Jaydee leaned forward. Matt didn't speak. He just lifted his hand and held out a crumpled, wet note.

His voice was low. Hoarse. "This was in my locker."

Jaydee took it before Nadia could, squinting at the smudged ink. "'Your lungs will be the first to fail. Try holding your breath, Captain.'" He blinked. "Dude—what the hell?"

"I thought it was a prank," Mattheo said. "Until I smelled it." Nadia raised the note to her nose. Her expression didn't change, but her posture stiffened. "Chlorine."

Jaydee cursed under his breath. "The pool." Matt nodded. "And no one saw anything?" Nadia asked, already scanning through possibilities like this was a case file. "Locker hallway cameras have been down since last month," Matt said flatly. "Coach keeps saying they'll fix them."

Jaydee looked between the two. "Okay, so we're officially in a horror movie now. Just sayin'."

"This isn't a movie," Nadia snapped. "It's a message."

"Yeah?" Jaydee said. "Well, it's not a love letter."
She paced a few steps away, still holding the note. Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing together. "It's a warning."

Matt frowned. "You think they're giving us a chance to stop it?" Jaydee shook his head. "Or they want us to panic."

Silence.

Then Nadia spoke again, voice cold and level. "Either way... this is escalation."

Jaydee rubbed the back of his neck. "They want us scared."

"They want us isolated," Nadia corrected. "Divided. Confused."

Matt leaned against a shelf, jaw tight. "It's working." Jaydee snorted. "Welcome to Ridgeway High — where someone's playing God and we're the cast of Final Destination: The Kill List."

Matt shot him a look. "You joke a lot for someone on the list." Jaydee shrugged. "If I'm gonna die, I might as well have a solid one-liner first."

"You're not dying," Nadia said. Jaydee blinked. "That sounded dangerously like optimism, Chung." She shot him a glare. "It was strategy. Don't twist it."

Matt held up the note again. "We need to tell someone." Jaydee raised a brow. "Like who? The same principal who gave us a five-minute moment of silence and told us not to talk shit about the current events?"

"Not yet," Nadia said. "We don't know who we can trust." Matt looked between them. "So what do we do?" Nadia folded the note, gave it back to Mattheo. "We stay alive."

"And how exactly do we do that?" Jaydee asked.
She looked up at them, chin raised. "We pay attention. We connect dots. And we don't let them see us break."

Jaydee exhaled through his nose. "So we're forming the nerdiest little survival club, huh?"

"I never said we were a team," Nadia said coolly.
Matt nodded, voice low. "But we might not have a choice."

──

❪ Friday, Sierra's Bedroom ❫
⏰ 9:01 p.m.

──

The soft hum of her ring light filled the silence. Sierra Vance sat cross-legged on her bed, trying for the eighth time to record a TikTok — a get ready with me. She applied gloss, struck a pose, tilted her head, then paused and stared at her phone camera.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

She hit the big red button. Again.

Draft deleted.

She tossed the phone across the bed and buried her face in her hands. The usual calm of her room — pastel walls, dried flower garlands, mood boards — felt like a set now, artificial. The kind of place you'd see in a murder doc about how "she seemed normal until she snapped."

But she wasn't going to snap. She was going to survive. Again.

Just like she did last time.

Just like she did when she sold out her best friend to stay on top.

Sierra swallowed hard, her fingers twitching toward her phone. She didn't want to think about Maya. Maya, with the dumb heart necklace they bought together in freshman year. Maya, who got dragged into that scandal with the AP cheating ring — who only got caught because Sierra turned over the screenshot.

It wasn't even that big a deal. It was just one assignment.

But when administration called Sierra into the office and told her they "knew someone else was involved," she'd panicked. She'd ratted Maya out. She said Maya pressured her. That it was all Maya's idea.

And Maya got suspended.

Sierra got a clean record and a chance to run for junior class president.

They never spoke again.

And now Maya was gone — transferred to a private school out of state. Her Instagram was private. Her texts unread.

And Sierra?

Number three.

She got up from the bed, pacing, the memory gnawing at her. She had told herself she did the right thing. That it was either her or Maya. That Maya would've done the same. But in the back of her head, she could still see Maya's face the day it happened — confused, betrayed, holding back tears as teachers walked her out of the admin building.

She didn't even look back.

Sierra stopped pacing and moved toward her vanity, where an old Polaroid peeked out from a drawer — her and Maya, grinning in matching Halloween cat ears, arms around each other.

She shoved the drawer shut with a sharp bang.

Her phone buzzed.

She flinched.

A text. No name. No number.

Just a photo.

Of her house. Her bedroom window. From the street.

She blinked at it in disbelief, her blood running cold.

Then came the message, "You looked better when you had a conscience."

"Your turn."

Sierra let out a strangled cry and dropped the phone. It bounced once on the rug before disappearing beneath the dresser.

She clutched the edge of her vanity as her lungs started to seize up. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. The walls felt like they were closing in.

They knew.

Whoever was behind the list — they knew about Maya.

They knew about everything.

She yanked the curtains closed and twisted the window lock. Checked the door. Again. And again. Her heart was thudding so loud she could barely think. Every shadow felt like a person. Every sound like footsteps.

This wasn't just paranoia.

This was guilt clawing its way up her throat.

And this time, she couldn't delete it.

──

2̷.̷ ̷E̷V̷A̷N̷ ̷M̷A̷R̷S̷H̷
The Teacher's Pet – 16
Yearbook editor. Told on half the class. Everyone hated his smug grin.

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𓈀 ❪ ISO'S NOTES ✶ ❫ OKAAAY ! Last death for now... thank you for all the love for the last few chapters <3 ;(