𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍
don't blink
❪ Ridgeway Fieldhouse ❫
⏰ 11:30 a.m.

──────────────────

They hadn't planned the meetup.

No one texted a location.

But somehow, they all ended up there — at the back of the abandoned Ridgeway fieldhouse, the one with the rusting bleachers and busted vending machines. It was where the baseball team used to warm up decades ago. Now it was just a shell, tucked away behind the east parking lot.

The wind was brisk, but not cold. Still, everyone looked like they'd just walked through a hurricane.

Nadia leaned against a pillar, arms folded tight over her chest, oversized sunglasses shielding half her face. Her hair was still done — makeup smudged but intact — as if she hadn't slept at all, just survived the night on adrenaline and a bottle of Gatorade. Or maybe more vodka.

Gabrielle sat on the ledge, legs crossed, biting a nail she'd already chipped. No bow in her hair. Her varsity jacket hung off her shoulders like it didn't belong to her.

Mattheo, hood up, toothpick hanging from his lips, paced. He hadn't said a word yet. Just walked in circles like a caged animal. If anyone noticed the slight tremble in his fingers, they didn't mention it.

Yuki stood a little ways away from them, back to the group, eyes locked on nothing. Her arms were still crossed, as if bracing herself for impact. Her cup — the one with the eyeballs — had been bagged and tossed, but the image wouldn't leave her. Not when she could still feel the weight of it in her hands.

Jules kept glancing at her, wringing her fingers. She wanted to say something. Anything. But what could she say?

Eli and Jaydee arrived together, both looking like they hadn't changed since the party. Jaydee kept sniffing, maybe to mask how quiet he'd been all morning. Eli had a small digital camera slung around his neck — the kind he always carried — but his hands didn't touch it.

Mari and Yale came last, Mari with dark sunglasses despite the clouds, and Yale clutching a to-go iced coffee like his life depended on it.

The silence stretched long enough to make them all restless.

Finally, Yale broke it. His voice was scratchy. "Eyeballs?"

Jules looked down. "Yeah. In Yuki's cup. Just... floating."

"That's not just sick," Jaydee said, rubbing his eyes. "That's calculated."

Nadia's voice was clipped. "They knew it was hers."

"They knew," Gabrielle echoed, barely above a whisper.

Mattheo stopped pacing. "So that's two of us now," he said. "Gabrielle with the blood attack. Yuki with the... whatever the fuck that was."

"They're picking us off," Yuki said suddenly. She turned around, face unreadable. "Not physically. But piece by piece. In public. In private. Doesn't matter."

Mari crossed her arms. "If they wanted to kill us, they would've. This is worse. This is humiliation."

"It's personal," Nadia added. "That cup wasn't a warning. That was psychological warfare."

Eli shifted. "What if it's not just us? What if more people at school—"

"No," Jaydee cut in. "They're watching us. It's too specific. Too precise."

"They were in the house," Jules murmured. "They walked around us. Sat next to us. Might've danced with us. We wouldn't have known."

That hit everyone hard.

A beat passed. Then another.

"I don't like this," Yale muttered, his usual playfulness gone. "I don't like not knowing if someone's watching us right now."

"Maybe," Mari said slowly, "we should talk about the possibility—"

"No," Gabrielle snapped, too fast. "Don't even go there."

"Gabby—"

"No!" she repeated, voice cracking. "We are not accusing one of our own. That's exactly what they want. To divide us."

"Are we sure we're not already divided?" Jaydee said, quieter. "We barely talk to each other anymore unless someone dies or gets a body part dropped in their cup."

The silence after that was deafening.

Yuki finally looked at them all — really looked — her voice calm, but heavy. "I think they want us to start turning on each other."

"And it's working," Jules added.

Nadia pushed off the pillar and stood straight. "Okay. Then we don't let it work. We don't fight. We don't splinter. We play their game, but on our terms."

Gabrielle nodded. "We're not victims."

Mattheo, quiet for the first time, muttered, "We're not innocent either."

They all looked at him.

But he didn't elaborate.

Instead, he turned, picked up a stone, and hurled it at the fence.

The clatter echoed.

"Fine," Mari said. "Then we start watching everyone. Not just strangers. Teachers. Students. People at parties. People who talk too much. People who stay too quiet."

Gabrielle hesitated. "Even each other?"

Mari didn't answer.

Neither did anyone else.

Because deep down... they all already had.

──

The school was technically closed, but Yale had a spare janitor's key — borrowed, not stolen, thank you very much — and the trio slipped into the back entrance unnoticed.

No one came to the basement level anymore. It was musty, poorly lit, and filled with half-forgotten boxes, water-stained books, and creaking metal shelves that looked one sneeze away from collapsing. It was also where Ridgeway kept its archived records — everything from decades-old faculty memos, club scrapbooks, and yearbooks yellowed with time.

Jules dragged a chair toward one of the long metal filing cabinets. "Why do all murder stories lead to dusty archives?"

"Because secrets love dust," Yale replied, snapping on a pair of latex gloves he brought "for aesthetic purposes."

Mattheo just grunted and started digging.

They split up, scanning through different sets of files and folders. No one spoke for the first twenty minutes — just the sound of turning pages, drawers squeaking open, and the occasional cough from the paper dust hanging in the air.

Jules suddenly paused. "Uh... guys?"

Yale turned from where he was skimming a binder labeled Administrative Disciplinary Reports: 1996–2002. "Find something?"

She turned the yearbook around.

A grainy photo from the 1980s. A school dance. Blurry and sepia-toned. But front and center was a girl — smile sharp, eyes narrowed — someone who looked eerily familiar.

Mattheo crossed the room just as Yale whispered, "Wait. I've seen her."

They all stared at the image.

"She looks like—" Jules started.

"—someone we know," Yale finished, uneasily.

Mattheo didn't speak. His jaw was tight.

They flipped through the pages. The girl appeared again, and again — never with a name listed. Always in the background. Always looking at the camera. Smiling. Watching.

"Is it her mom? Sister?" Jules murmured.

"Or her," Yale said quietly. "Because if these are the 80s, that's impossible. And yet..."

Mattheo snapped the book shut. "Let's not spiral."

"Too late for that," Jules said.

They kept digging.

The deeper they went, the more they uncovered.

A missing person case from 2001. A teacher fired under strange circumstances in 1987. A cheerleader overdose ruled 'accidental' in 1993 despite anonymous student letters suggesting otherwise. Another 'accidental' gym collapse in the 70s that killed two. Scandals buried. Names omitted. Patterns emerging.

But one file stood out — partially redacted, misfiled under a folder titled "Event Budgets." Inside was a faculty report from 2005, involving a then-junior student and "a misconduct incident involving administration."

There were just enough words to make out a name.

And it wasn't a student's.

It was Nadia's last name.

Jules blinked. "Wait, wait — this has to be a coincidence."

Yale shook his head. "Same spelling. Same middle initial."

Mattheo stared hard at the file. "Could be a relative."

"Or not," Jules whispered.

The energy shifted.

None of them said what they were thinking — that this wasn't just about taunts, or secrets, or even revenge. There was something deeper. Rotting beneath the surface of Ridgeway for years.

And whoever was behind it knew how to hide.

Knew how to erase history.

Almost.

──

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind where even the sound of the desk fan was deafening.

Ryder Mason sat with his back to the door, eyes locked on the glow of his dual monitors. One screen had code running — meaningless, just something to look busy in case anyone walked in. The real content was on the second screen.

A folder labeled STUDY MATERIAL opened into a grid of subfolders. Each is labeled by year.

Freshmen. Sophomores. Juniors. Seniors.

He clicked into one — a folder named "Freshman – B Hall." Inside were thumbnails of paused footage. Bathroom mirrors. Locker room ceilings. Beneath desks. Some showed no faces, just silhouettes — backs hunched over, changing shirts, brushing hair, tying shoes.

Cameras are hidden where no one would think to look.

Each frame was time-stamped. Tidy. Catalogued. Like data.

On the corkboard behind him were photos — dozens, maybe hundreds. Some were printouts from the footage. Others were clearly long-lens shots, taken without consent. Girls in the cafeteria. Girls are walking in the halls. Laughing. Talking. Unaware.

He had circled some of them. Others had sticky notes.

"Came in alone."
"Locker: 2nd from the end."
"Said she missed her bus today."
"New lip gloss. Noticed it."

A file sat open on the side, a blurred image from a classroom camera. Someone — a sophomore girl, maybe — was reaching into her bag. Her face was partially turned, a smile visible. Underneath it, Ryder had scrawled in a digital note, "Keep watching. She always stays behind."

He wasn't twitchy. He wasn't breathing heavily. He was calm. Too calm. As if this were a routine.

Something buzzed. He unplugged a small device from his computer — a USB. He slid it into a box that contained half a dozen others, each marked with a small red dot.

Then, a notification pinged on his anonymous messaging account.

A new message — not from him, but to him.

How long do you think you can hide this?

Ryder froze. Eyes widened slightly.

Not fear.

Just confusion.

He clicked. Nothing else followed. No trace. No username.

He looked around the room slowly — at the walls, the corners, the vents.

And then, with slow, deliberate motions, he reached behind his monitor and turned off the light.

Darkness swallowed the room. But the glow of the monitors still painted his face — pale, hollow, still.

He blinked once. And smiled faintly.

──

The music was thunderous, thudding like a second heartbeat. The air buzzed with laughter, beer fizz, pool splashes, and the faint burn of cigarettes.

Everyone was too drunk, too distracted, too locked in their own chaos to notice the stranger by the back fence.

Ryder Mason stood there for a full five minutes. Unmoving. Watching.

He wore a dark hoodie, the hood up, sleeves too long. He didn't approach the beer pong table. Didn't look for a drink. His eyes moved like a scanner — slow, mechanical. Observing.

No one paid him any mind.

He moved along the edge of the crowd like a shadow sliding along a wall. Past Mari and her Untouchables dancing near the speakers. Past the cheer team whooping at Yale's cannonball into the pool. Past Gabrielle pulling someone by the collar into the kitchen.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn't check it.

He paused only once — when he passed the second floor stairway, where Jules, Yuki, and the others had dragged a drunken Nadia to clean up earlier. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening.

Then kept walking.

No one asked why he was there. No one noticed him watching them. But he had noticed everyone. Eyes flicking toward the locked guest bedroom, toward the flickering hallway light upstairs, toward the girl alone on the patio texting someone — alone.

He made mental notes.

He didn't drink. He didn't dance. He didn't smile.

And then... just as silently as he arrived, Ryder disappeared into the house. A few people looked over as the back door clicked shut, but no one questioned it.

After all, it was a party. And no one ever thinks twice until it's too late.

──

The sound of water dripping echoed like a ticking clock. Each plink against the stained concrete floor amplified Ryder's breathing — erratic, shallow, and soaked in terror.

A single overhead bulb flickered, casting shadows that bent like twisted limbs. The rest of the room was veiled in darkness — just Ryder, strapped to an old iron chair with rust-stained bolts and duct tape biting into his wrists, ankles, and chest. A metal tray glimmered in the low light. Surgical tools lined it like a dinner setting — sterile, silent, and hungry.

He was crying. Not the loud, frantic sobs of someone begging for a second chance. No, Ryder was breaking quietly. The kind of cry that came when the body surrendered before the mind did.

"I-I didn't do anything. I swear. I didn't touch them," he whispered into the dark.

"It was just pictures... just looking. Just watching—that's not the same, right?"

No response.

Then came the sound.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Deliberate. Measured. The kind of footfall that spoke not of anger, but intent.

Someone emerged just enough to be a silhouette. They wore black gloves and a plastic rain poncho flecked with old, dried blood. No words. Just the slow lift of a smartphone screen in front of Ryder's face.

Photos. His own photos.

Snapshots of girls in locker rooms, hallways, and changing behind half-closed curtains. Images he thought were buried deep in encrypted folders.

And then — a video. A tiny hidden camera, mounted behind a vent. The cheer squad stretching.

Ryder's body seized. "That's not—that wasn't... no one was supposed to see that," he stammered. "It's not what you think. I-I never—I mean, I thought they'd want—I'm sick, okay? I know that now. I can get help—"

"Help won't give them privacy back," came the stranger's voice. Calm. Flat. Chilling.
Ryder's eyes widened. "Please... I'll stop. I swear. I'll turn myself in."

The figure tilted their head slightly, like inspecting a bug before crushing it.

"You watched people like they were your personal channel. Now it's time to switch it off."
Then they turned to the tray.

The scalpel glinted like a serpent's fang as it was picked up — held with precision. Not rage. Not messiness. This wasn't revenge.

This was punishment.

Ryder screamed before it even touched him. "PLEASE—not the eyes—anything but—"

But the killer didn't stop.

They pressed a hand to his forehead, forcing his head back as the scalpel dug into the tender flesh around his eye. Blood poured immediately, mixing with his tears. The pain was blinding. The sounds he made were inhuman — guttural, choking, begging.

The killer worked efficiently, unfazed by the gore. They extracted one eye with a sickening pop. Ryder thrashed until his restraints bit into skin. He screamed again — louder now, raw and ruined.

The second eye came out slower. Ryder's sobs turned to whimpers. Then silence, save for the squelch of the blade slicing through optic nerves.

He was blind.

He was broken.

But someone wasn't done.

"You stole their sight. Now, I've taken yours."

Then, the stabbing began. Not a frenzy. Each stab was a decision.

To the heart.

To the lungs.

To the gut.

To the throat.

Over and over. Blood coated the killer's gloves. Ryder's body jerked once, twice — then sagged.

His last breath rattled between broken ribs and a crushed trachea.

Dead. Disposed. Desecrated.

The killer, careful as ever, placed both eyes in a red cup. Sloshing. Blood mixing with warm beer. "One for the show."

They tucked it into their coat, walked calmly upstairs, blending into the chaos of the party.

──

The hallway buzzed with its usual morning noise — the shuffle of sneakers, slamming lockers, the occasional laughter echoing down tiled floors.

Until it didn't.

A sharp whisper cut through the white noise.

"Did you hear about Ryder Mason?"

Heads turned. Eyes locked. Conversations faltered.

Gabrielle, gripping her coffee, furrowed her brows. Sloane, walking beside her, tensed. "What about him?"

From behind them, a student spoke too loudly to a friend.

"He's dead. Like, murdered. They found him behind someone's shed."

"Behind Dawson's house, apparently," someone else added. "Like, two days ago."

More whispers. More reactions.

Yale stopped mid-step near his locker. Mattheo, who'd been chatting with someone on the team, went quiet.

Yuki's blood ran cold.

Jules looked up from her phone, heart hammering.

Jaydee turned slowly toward Eli, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Eli's expression was unreadable, stiff.

"No way," a freshman gasped, "they said it was brutal... like, really brutal."

"He had no—"

"Don't. Just stop," someone interrupted sharply, visibly shaken.

In the middle of it all, Nadia stood silently, unreadable, her eyes scanning every face, every reaction.

She clutched her binder just a little too tightly.

The intercom cracked on, and for once, even the static sounded grim.

"Good morning, Ridgeway. We'd like to take a moment of silence for Ryder Mason, a fellow student whose sudden passing has shocked our community..."

Jules flinched.

Yuki barely breathed.

Mattheo stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

And from down the hall, just barely overheard —

"Wait... wasn't he at the party?"

"Yeah. He was."

"So was almost everyone."