Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of antiseptic and cold metal. Monitors hummed softly, their screens casting an eerie glow on the faces of the gathered scientists. At the centre of it all lay a man—Patient Zero—his wrists and ankles restrained by thick leather straps. His chest rose and fell in shallow, laboured breaths. Wires trailed from his temples, slithering into machines that captured every flicker of brain activity. 

Dr Charlotte Mecklenburg-Strelitz stood at the head of the table, her knuckles pale from gripping the edge of the console. The ache in her chest mirrored the weight of years spent chasing salvation. Not for herself—but for George. Her love. Her reason.

“Commencing Phase Four of ReVive Trials,” Charlotte announced, her voice taut with fragile composure, the weight of sleepless nights and desperation clinging to every syllable.

A bead of sweat traced down Charlotte’s temple, but her dark eyes remained locked on the patient—their linchpin, their gamble.

“Charlotte,” Dr. Brimsley’s voice, low and cautious, cut through the tension. “Are you certain we’re ready for this phase?”

Her knuckles whitened against the console. “There’s no room for doubt. This is for George.”

The syringe glinted coldly beneath the surgical lights, the amber liquid inside. “Administering serum,” she declared, her voice a fragile blade.

The needle sank into the patient’s jugular, the fluid disappearing into his bloodstream.

The response was instant and violent.

A guttural, strangled gasp tore from the man’s throat as his body arched. Muscles bulged, veins blackened, and the restraints groaned under the force of his spasms.

“Heart rate surging—184 BPM,” Brimsley called, tension threading his voice. His eyes flicked across the jagged, chaotic lines on the monitor. “Prion’s binding...”

Suddenly, the seizure broke. The patient’s body slackened, chest heaving in raw, laboured breaths. The violent spikes on the monitor softened, steadying into a rhythmic pulse.

“Gamma waves...” Brimsley’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Returning to baseline. Neural activity normal.”

A beat of disbelieving silence. Then—

“He’s... stabilizing,” Brimsley breathed, his eyes wide. “It’s holding.”

A tremor ran through Charlotte’s fingertips. Her voice, soft and shaking, escaped in a whisper. “It’s working.” The words tasted like a prayer. Her chest tightened, the ache of hope sharp and painful. “George... I can save you.”

A shaky laugh broke from Brimsley. “I’ll start prepping the final report—”

“Wait,” Dr Reynolds’ voice, low and sharp, cut through the fragile joy. His eyes narrowed at the monitors. “Do you see that?”

The heart monitor... staggered. Once. Twice.

The patient’s breath hitched, shallow, sharp.

“Hold on,” Brimsley said urgently. “What is—”

The eyes of Patient Zero snapped open.

But what stared back was hollow. Alien.

A cold, mechanical scream erupted from the heart monitor—erratic, broken, unnatural.

Brimsley’s fingers flew across the console. “Heart rate... surging again! 267 BPM! His system—” His voice fractured, disbelief swallowing the end of his sentence.

The man on the table convulsed violently. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, a grotesque dance of flesh and bone, as if his body fought a war within itself. The air grew thick with the stench of sweat and something fouler—something rotten.

Charlotte’s voice cracked, sharp with command. “Reynolds, restrain his arm—now!”

Reynolds lunged forward, gloved hands gripping the man’s arm. The skin was hot, too hot—searing through latex like a brand. “Jesus—he’s burning up!” he grunted, feeling the unnatural heat as he struggled to hold the thrashing limb.

The patient’s veins, dark as ink, crawled like roots under translucent skin. His fingers contorted, nails splitting and cracking, curling into jagged claws as his hand shot out, dragging against the steel table with a screech, leaving deep, twisted grooves.

“His vitals are... erratic!” Brimsley shouted, his voice tight with alarm. The monitor spiked violently—heart rate climbing, then crashing, then climbing again in a pattern that made no sense.

Patient Zero’s lips trembled, peeling back in a grotesque rictus, somewhere between a snarl and a scream. A strangled, gurgling sound escaped his throat, raw and unnatural.

“What’s happening to him?!” Reynolds demanded, his voice high with panic.

“The prion—” Brimsley’s fingers flew across the console. “It’s—” He paused, eyes wide. “The prion isn’t repairing. It’s... rewriting.”

Charlotte’s stomach turned cold. “Rewriting what?”

Brimsley’s throat bobbed. “Everything.”

A sudden, guttural sound—inhuman, primal—rattled from deep in the patient. His mouth gaped wide, and a torrent of black, viscous fluid spewed out, splattering the pristine floor with a sickening slap.

Charlotte’s heart pounded. Her mind screamed to step back, but her body held its ground. “What... what is that?” she demanded.

“His cells,” Brimsley’s voice trembled, “They’re... breaking down—and rebuilding.”

The patient’s eyes—black, soulless pits—rolled wildly, his face contorted in agony as his body bent in an unnatural arc. A sickening series of cracks echoed through the room as his spine shifted beneath his skin, vertebrae pressing grotesquely outward before snapping back into place.

Charlotte’s voice, cold and precise, sliced through the chaos. “Sedate him! Now!”

Reynolds fumbled for the syringe, plunging it into the patient’s exposed neck. The sedative hissed into his bloodstream—but his body only twitched, unfazed.

“It’s not working!” Reynolds barked, panic cracking through his composure.

The air thickened with a foul heat as the patient’s laboured breaths turned to something... new. Low. Hungry.

Charlotte’s blood ran cold.

Suddenly, the man's movements stopped. Stillness. Only the frantic shriek of the heart monitor filled the air.

Then, his head turned.

Slowly.

His eyes, black and glassy, locked with Charlotte’s.

The thing on the table smiled.

Charlotte's whisper was barely audible. "Dear God... what have we done?"

Suddenly the patient’s body spasmed violently, the restraints digging deep into his flesh. With a sickening pop, his shoulder dislocated, but he didn’t scream. His face was contorted—slack, but his eyes burned with something sentient, something wrong.

A wet, cracking sound filled the room as Patient Zero’s neck twisted, bone snapping and re-knitting beneath papery skin. His breathing slowed—thick, heavy breaths that rattled, like something was breaking apart inside him.

Then nothing.

Charlotte’s voice broke the silence. “Reynolds. Is he—”

SNAP.

The restraints failed.

Patient Zero’s arm shot free, claws raking across Reynolds chest, carving deep, bloody furrows. Reynolds screamed, crashing to the floor, his blood pooling beneath him.

“No!” Brimsley’s voice tore from his throat, raw and shaking, thick with something deeper than terror. His wide eyes fixed on Reynolds, panic strangling the breath from his chest. “Stay with me!”

Charlotte’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. “Brimsley—lock down the room! Now!”

Brimsley’s trembling hands hesitated—a flicker, a heartbeat—as his gaze clung to Reynolds’s pale, bloodied form. Then he slammed the emergency override with a shuddering gasp.

Klaxons blared as crimson lights strobed, plunging the room in and out of darkness.

A mechanical voice echoed coldly through the facility: “Emergency lockdown initiated. All exits sealed.”

Thick steel doors hissed shut with a thunderous clang as the facility’s defences engaged. Gas hissed from the vents, but Charlotte’s eyes remained fixed on the thing that used to be a man.

Patient Zero turned his head towards Brimsley, lips curling back into a jagged, horrifying grin. With inhuman speed, he lunged—

Brimsley’s scream was cut short as he crashed against the console, glass and metal shattering around him.

“Brimsley!” Charlotte’s voice cracked, her chest heaving with terror and fury.

The alarms screamed, a mechanical cacophony punctuated by the gnashing teeth of the abomination they created. Overhead lights flickered erratically as sparks rained from broken panels.

Reynolds, bloodied but conscious, reached for Charlotte with a trembling hand. “Go... run...” he rasped, voice wet with agony.

But Charlotte stood frozen, eyes blazing with both horror and defiance. “This... this wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice broke into a whisper. “We were supposed to save him.”

The thing in front of her—no longer a patient, no longer human—twitched, muscles tightening as if readying to pounce.

A thunderous crack—

The reinforced glass to the observation chamber splintered from the impact of Patient Zero’s fist.

With an inhuman shriek, he launched himself through the fractured glass, his body tearing through the final barrier.

And he was gone.

The alarms continued to wailed and the red lights pulsed through the shattered lab, casting jagged shadows over a scene carved from a nightmare.

Charlotte’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as she took in the carnage. Blood slicked the floor, pooling beneath shattered glass and twisted steel. Reynolds lay motionless, his chest a ruin of torn flesh.

Her gaze shifted to Brimsley.

He was crumpled beside Reynolds, his body shaking, fingers trembling as they pressed desperately against the gaping wounds. Blood soaked through his hands, warm and relentless, but he didn’t move to stop his own. His face was pale, eyes wild and shattered, and then—his breath hitched. A sound broke from his throat—raw, broken—something between a sob and a scream. His shoulders heaved, and his body folded over Reynolds, a quivering shield against the chaos that still raged around them.

Charlotte felt her chest seize, the agony in Brimsley’s grief louder than the screaming alarms. The flashing red lights painted the scene in a nightmarish haze—Brimsley’s tear-streaked face, his silent devastation, the tremor in his fingers as they brushed Reynolds’s slack, bloodied hand.

The world around them fractured into shadow and noise—the shrieking alarms, the mechanical warnings, the distant crackle of static from broken monitors—but Charlotte’s focus narrowed to the hollow ache in front of her.

Her fingers curled into her palm, nails biting skin. She tore her eyes away, her throat burning.

A faint, fractured voice pierced the cacophony. “What... was that?” A surviving scientist, their voice trembling, dared to ask the question that was stuck in all their throats.

“I... I don’t know,” Charlotte confessed. “But we have to find it—before it finds anyone else.”

A flicker of movement on the cracked console—a security feed, glitching, grainy. The corridor beyond the lab, streaked with the emergency lights, stood empty… but then, a flash—a blur. The feed cut to static.

“Where is it heading?” Charlotte demanded, her voice cracking through the sirens.

Brimsley, pale and shaking, rasped through his bloodied lips. “The outer corridor... exit doors are overridden.”

Then, another voice—hoarse and panicked: “The external security feed—”

A screen sputtered to life, showing the building’s perimeter. And beyond it, the outline of a structure etched against the horizon.

The breath in Charlotte’s chest turned to ice.

“The high school,” Brimsley whispered, his voice hollow.

Chapter Text

The world was silent.

Penelope stood alone, the air cold and thin, a whisper against her skin. Around her stretched an endless expanse of nothing—a vast, monotone void where sky and earth bled into each other. The sky above was a sheet of pale, lifeless grey—no sun, no moon, not even the suggestion of time. Just emptiness. The ground beneath her feet was brittle, covered in black, dead grass that crunched softly underfoot.

The stillness pressed against her ears, a silence so complete it felt unnatural.

A strange pull in her chest urged her forward. Bare feet disturbed the brittle grass with every step, the sound papery and dry. She moved without knowing why—without any sense of direction. Just the steady rhythm of her steps. Am I alone?

Her breath hung in the air, thin and cold, but there was no wind, no shift in the atmosphere. The horizon—if it could be called that—stretched endlessly, a seamless blur where sky and ground merged into oblivion. This place... it’s wrong.

A sound—so soft it was barely there. A whisper? Or was it the grass breaking beneath her step?

She stopped.

The ground felt colder now, the brittle grass thinning into patches of dark, cracked earth. Something inside her twisted. Her pulse quickened.

Keep moving.

But with every step, something changed . The air thickened. The silence... deepened, as though something waited beneath it. Watching.

Her fingers curled tightly into her palms, nails biting into her skin. She swallowed, her throat dry. "Hello?" she tried, her voice barely above a whisper.

No echo. No response.

Just—

A faint crunch. Not from her.

Her body stiffened. She turned her head slowly.

Nothing.

The sky... was darker.

The ground... colder.

What is this place?

Then—movement.

Penelope’s eyes locked ahead. A figure. Distant. Still.

Relief flickered—someone. “Hey!” she called out, her voice breaking the thick silence.

No response.

Her chest tightened. She moved forward, her feet crunching against the dead grass. “Hello?” she tried again, louder.

The figure didn’t move.

A chill crawled up her spine, but something—curiosity, desperation—urged her on. Her arm extended, fingers trembling as she reached out.

The figure turned.

A face... but not.

Blank. Smooth, like clay wiped clean, no eyes, no mouth—just a hollow suggestion of a person.

Penelope’s breath hitched. Ice flooded her veins. She stumbled back, a gasp breaking from her throat.

Then—

More.

They emerged from the void—faceless, shapeless—closing in. Their bodies were bent and unnaturally still. Heads tilted at wrong angles, necks cracking with sickening snaps as they turned toward her. She felt their gaze— somehow —despite their emptiness.

The silence shattered.

Laughter. Jagged. Warped.

Their hollow faces split open without mouths, a sound born from nothing and everything. Fingers lifted—pointing. At her.

Her heart thundered. Heat and shame crawled under her skin. She spun around, but they were everywhere. Smothering. Surrounding.

The laughter—shrill, unnatural—ripped through her skull. A violation that tunnelled deep into her bones. 

A thousand distorted voices, cracking and splintering, tore at reality. Laughter—warped, grotesque—folded into itself, a discordant chorus that scraped against her mind, stripping sanity raw.

“Stop!” Penelope’s voice burst out, fractured and desperate. Her throat felt shredded. “Just— stop it! ”

The laughter only fed on her terror, rising, doubling—no, multiplying —until it became a shrieking, living mass. Beneath it, whispers slithered, cold and wormlike, sliding under her skin:

Worthless. Freak. No one cares.

Her chest seized. Her breath came in broken gasps—too fast—too shallow. Her hands shot to her ears, nails digging until skin tore, warm blood trickling through her fingers. But it didn’t help. The sound wasn’t coming from outside.

It was within her.

The ground pulsed beneath her as she fell to her knees. Freezing and wet, the dead grass turning slick and warm— blood? —it soaked through her clothes, thick and metallic.

The faceless things—those hollow figures—were closer now. Their forms bent and warped, limbs bending backward, joints snapping as they shook with silent, grinning mirth. Their fingers twitched, crooked and sharp, nails like cracked glass. 

Her ribs crushed inward. Her throat sealed. Their mocking filling every crack of her being, twisting through her lungs, wrapping around her heart.

Her head pounded— Her vision blurred—

Breathe—just—breathe—

But she couldn’t. Her lungs felt stitched shut.

The laughter hit a fever pitch—a shriek so violent her skull felt like it was splitting—

“STOP!”

Her scream erupted, raw and inhuman, tearing her throat open—blood sprayed from her lips, hot and coppery. The sound fractured through the void—

But the laughter didn’t stop.

It only grew harder. Louder. As if her suffering was the punchline.

Penelope’s body jolted into motion. She turned—ran—her feet pounding against the cold, wet ground, splashing through the thick, warm filth beneath her. But the shadows closed in, pressing against her skin like unseen fingers.

Then, the hollow men reached for her. 

One latched onto her wrist—bone-thin, slick, and wrong. Another clamped her shoulder, nails biting deep, hot pain blooming instantly. Another—digging into her ankle, pulling—pulling down.

She hit the ground hard, a choked scream tearing from her throat as her skin scraped raw against something sharp and wet. 

The faceless things swarmed her, their forms bending unnaturally, joints cracking, heads lolling as they pressed closer. Their fingers—too long, too cold—pinned her limbs. She thrashed, her heart slamming against her ribs, her voice ragged and raw.

“ Stop—stop—please— ” she sobbed, her voice cracking, tears hot and blurring everything. The laughter roared above her cries, consuming every plea.

One of them leaned close—empty, smooth face split into a toothless smile just inches from her. She felt it— the absence of anything. The void where eyes should be watched her. And then it—

Breathed.

A cold, rotting vapor seeped into her lungs. Her chest burned , her body convulsing violently, bile rising—

Move—MOVE—

Her body snapped —suddenly she was free.

Blood smeared her palms as she clawed forward, nails jagged and torn. She ran, her legs screaming, each step a desperate lurch. The earth beneath her writhed, cold and slick, like a living thing waiting to swallow her whole.

Run. Run!

Then… the ground split with a wet, guttural gurgle .

Black tar—thick, viscous, and glistening—oozed up from the cracks, devouring the brittle grass and pooling around her feet. The air reeked of burning rot and decay.

Her steps faltered. The tar, clinging and cold, sucked at her feet with an oily, wet hiss.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She yanked one foot free with a sickening pop , but the other—

No— it sank deeper. The tar tightened , a cold, hungry grip pulling at her ankle.

Panic struck hard. “ No—no! ” she cried, voice cracking. “ Please— ”

The tar crept higher. Her knees, her thighs—

Every movement felt slow, heavy—like her body fought through cement. Her hands slapped against the surface, thick and warm like blood, but the more she fought, the deeper it dragged her.

The air thickened—

Then came the hands.

They erupted from the tar—too many, too thin, too wrong. Splintered fingers, sharp with jagged nails, lashed around her wrists and calves. Their grip was vicious, crushing bone, slicing her skin raw.

She thrashed, her voice tearing from her throat. “ Stop—stop! ” Her nails ripped against the tar’s surface, but her hands sank through, meeting nothing — everything.

The hands pulled harder. Her body jerked downward—knees—hips— chest. Her ribs crushed under unseen pressure. The tar surged, slamming into her mouth, filling her throat with the foul taste of copper and rot. She gagged, choking, every breath a struggle.

More hands—gripping her hair, face, neck. One clawed her shoulder, its nails tearing through flesh. Her body twisted violently, agony searing through every nerve.

Her head slipped under.

The world turned black. Silent. Cold. But she still felt them—grasping, tearing, holding her under.

Her lungs burned. Her body convulsed, writhing against the smothering, thick abyss. 

She opened her mouth—one final, raw , shattered scream—

The covers were ripped from her body.

"Get Up!"

Penelope jolted upright, her throat shredded from the scream that still echoed in her ears. Her chest heaved, each breath jagged and panicked. Her eyes, wide and wild, darted frantically around the room, her body tense and shaking.

The room— her room. The familiar shadows of her furniture stood against the pale morning light. But the terror clung to her ribs, thick and cold. Her skin prickled, every nerve screaming that the hands were still there— pulling, tearing.  

But there was nothing.

Her heart pounded, and her voice cracked as she rasped, “No—what—” Her hands trembled, fingers curled tight, nails digging into her palms.

“Up! ” Portia’s voice, sharp and impatient, sliced through the haze. “Get. Up!”

Penelope’s eyes snapped to her mother, the cold authority in her stare piercing through the lingering panic. The harshness in Portia’s voice made her flinch, but—

The hands were gone.

The tar was gone.

Her chest heaved once more, and then—a breath. Then another.

It was a dream.

Her shoulders sagged, the terror in her limbs fading into exhaustion. Her body ached from tension, and her skin felt too hot, too cold—too wrong. But it wasn’t real.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, forcing her pulse to slow.

The clock glowed: 6:10 a.m.

Her voice cracked from sleep and something deeper. “It’s too early,” she mumbled hoarsely. “I still have two and a half hours before school starts.”

The taste of the tar still lingered on her tongue.

Portia’s heels clicked once against the hardwood floor, a single sharp warning. “If you’d answered the first time, you’d know why you’re up.” Her eyes, icy and unforgiving, raked over her daughter. “Get dressed. Now.”

Penelope rubbed her face, her head still pounding. Her voice dropped, hoarse and strained. “I feel sick. Maybe I should stay home today.”

Her throat felt raw. She wasn’t even pretending. Just one day. Just some peace.

Portia’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressed thin in a line of cold disapproval. “You’re fine,” she said, voice harsh. “I don’t have time for your nonsense. Philippa’s bus leaves for Millfield at seven, and she will not miss the state competition. And if you’re not ready in the next twenty minutes, you’ll be grounded for a month.” The words struck with surgical precision. “No phone. No internet. No anything. ”

The air in the room felt tight. Suffocating.

Penelope’s stomach twisted into knots. “So I have to suffer because Pippa has fencing?” Her voice cracked with frustration.

The temperature dropped between them. The room, once cold from morning air, felt frigid from Portia’s stare.

The older woman’s voice was a blade: “You always have an excuse, Penelope. Your sister has something important ahead of her, and the least you could do is show some support.”

The silence after was suffocating, and then—

Thud. The door slammed behind Portia, the sharp crack of wood on frame ringing in the air.

Penelope’s fists curled into the sheets, the fabric tight and warm under her fingers, the only comfort in the freezing room. Her jaw clenched, her throat thick.

Perfect. Another morning in hell.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even 6:15.

Sighing, she quickly swung her legs off the bed, her body still thrumming with the nightmare. Her breaths came uneven, her chest tight, and for a fleeting second, she swore the sticky weight of tar still clung to her skin. She rubbed her arms hard, as if she could scrub away the feeling, before shaking it off with a shuddering breath.

The icy floorboards stung her bare feet as she crossed to her wardrobe. The doors groaned softly as she pulled them open, revealing her uniform hanging neatly inside—grey skirt, light blue shirt, and a royal blue jumper. The matching dark blue blazer hung beside it, crisp and stiff from the last wash.

She dressed quickly, the cold fabric brushing against her warm skin. Her fingers fumbled with the tie—twice, she had to redo it—but she finally tugged it against her collar. The mirror caught her eye as she smoothed down her skirt and fixed the sleeves of her jumper. She hesitated.

Her hair was still tousled from sleep, a wild red frame around her face. She reached for her brush, pulling it through the tangles in quick, sharp strokes before slipping on a dark blue headband. It sat, taming the mess into something polished. She leaned closer to the mirror, the pale light catching on her features as she swiped on mascara with a quick, practiced hand, a hint of blush to her cheeks, and the soft sheen of lip balm.

Her reflection looked back. Tidy, composed.

I actually look... pretty.

A small, uncertain smile tugged at her lips. The thought was hesitant and fragile, but it was there. And it felt... good.

The door flew open.

Philippa stood there, already fully dressed in her black leggings and team jacket—the royal blue fabric proudly stitched with their school emblem. A purple duffle bag hung lazily from her shoulder. Her face lit up with a smirk.

“Finally,” she teased, her voice threaded with amusement. “I was starting to think you’d died in there. Better hurry up, Penny. Unless you want Mum to come up here and drag you out by your hair. And, well... I wouldn’t stop her.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “So helpful,” she shot back dryly, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Penelope Anne!” Portia’s sharp voice impatiently thundered from downstairs.

Philippa’s expression turned smug, eyebrows lifting in triumph. Told you so, her eyes seemed to say.

Penelope groaned, a long, exaggerated sigh as she rolled her eyes. “ I’m coming! ” she shouted back, her voice strained with annoyance.

With a huff, she snatched her bag from the desk, shoving her books and headphones inside haphazardly. Finally, she grabbed her blazer then her phone. 

One more glance at the mirror.

Then she turned away, her footsteps quick as she chased after Philippa, the soft click of the door shutting behind her.

Chapter Text

Portia stood at the bottom of the stairs, her gaze locking onto Penelope the instant she appeared. Prudence lingered beside her, eyes narrowed with barely concealed amusement.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Portia snapped, her voice tight with impatience. “Do you have any concept of time, Penelope? Or do you enjoy making everyone else suffer because you can’t be bothered to move faster?”

Penelope’s jaw tensed. She forced her lips into a thin line, biting back the retort bubbling beneath. If you’d stop talking and let me leave, I’d be on time, she thought, frustration hot and sharp in her chest. But no, let’s waste time with a lecture instead.

Portia’s voice droned on. “I shouldn’t have to yell up the stairs like a lunatic every morning just to get you out the door. Honestly, Penelope, it’s pathetic.”

Penelope felt her pulse spike, and her grip on her bag tightened. She’s still going. I could be halfway down the street by now. She forced her expression into something neutral, her chest tight with the effort to hold her tongue.

Prudence clicked her tongue, shaking her head with mock disappointment. "You know, Penelope, at this rate, we should start leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow. Maybe then you'd make it downstairs on time."

Penelope’s eyes flicked to her sister. "Wow, Pru," she muttered. "Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did you pull it from the bedtime story you read last night?"

Prudence’s smirk faltered for the briefest second before she scoffed, flipping her hair back with an exaggerated flick of her wrist. "Whatever," she said, recovering quickly, her voice dripping with self-satisfaction, "I have somewhere far more important to be." She paused, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Harry’s waiting. Try not to make Mum explode before I’m gone, yeah?"

And with that, she breezed past them, her heels clicking against the floor, the door swinging open with a dramatic flair.

The door snapped shut, leaving only the echo of her departure.

Penelope exhaled slowly. Good riddance.

Then, her stomach gave a dull, hollow twist. She was hungry. Hoping it wasn't too late for breakfast, she let her feet carry her toward the kitchen. Her mind already on something warm to eat. Maybe a piece of toast and some tea, she thought.

But before she could reach the doorway—

“Where do you think you’re going?” Portia’s voice stopped her cold. "It's time to go." 

Penelope halted, her back stiffening. Her fingers dug into her bag strap. “I'm just getting breakfast,” she replied, her voice careful, cautious.

A beat of silence, then—

“You don’t need it.” The words, flat and cutting, fell heavy. “Haven’t you had enough already?”

Penelope’s heart clenched. The familiar sting, hot and sharp, bloomed beneath her ribs. Her fingers curled tighter. Her mouth went dry, and something thick lodged itself in her throat. There it is. The ache in her stomach twisted with something uglier—something colder.

But she knew better than to argue. She swallowed, the burn scraping down hard and painful.

“Okay,” she murmured. The word barely scraped past her lips, small and strained, the taste of it bitter and sour.

Her body felt too warm, her skin prickling as shame crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks.

But Portia wasn’t finished.

“You always find time for that, don’t you?” Her mother said, the words heavy with something unspoken. “Maybe if you showed a little more restraint—”

Penelope froze. Nails digging crescent moons into her palm so hard it hurt. There it is again. The familiar chorus. Maybe if. Maybe if.

But she said nothing. The words blurred into static. She tuned them out. She had heard this speech so many times, she could play it back perfectly without another word being said. I know. I KNOW. Just stop.

Her chest was tight—tight enough that she thought if she opened her mouth, something would break.

A shift in her periphery.

Philippa.

Her sister stood beside her, unreadable, watching. Her expression flickered—something too quick to catch. But she didn’t speak.

Say something, Penelope thought. Please.

But the silence stretched.

The heat on her face burned hotter. She didn’t trust her voice, didn’t trust herself—

But she had to say something.

“Goodbye, Mum. See you after school…” Her voice was quiet, soft, despite the slight tremble.

Her feet moved. One in front of the other. Quick, clipped steps that carried her away.

Her breath felt tight, her chest like it was packed with glass.

Philippa’s footsteps followed. Not rushed. Not slow.

Just there.

Penelope stepped outside, the crisp morning air brushing against her skin. Across the road, movement caught her eye—the unmistakable presence of the Bridgertons.

Her gaze swept over them, drawn first to Eloise, who stood off to the side, arms crossed and eyes half-closed. A yawn escaped her, exaggerated and theatrical, her lips moving in a familiar grumble—no doubt complaining about how unbearably early it was. Penelope’s lips twitched. It’s not even that early. She’s just being dramatic.

Then—

Her eyes landed on him.

Colin.

He was leaning lazily against the driver’s side of the car, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, his head bowed slightly as he scrolled. The morning light kissed his skin, tracing the angles of his face—the strong jaw, the curve of his smile tugging faintly at his lips. His hair, casually tousled, looked effortlessly perfect, and it struck her. How unfair. How completely and utterly unfair it was that anyone could look so perfect this early in the morning.

Her heart fluttered—light, sudden, and maddening.

Ridiculous, she thought, warmth creeping up her neck. She quickly looked away, but not before her eyes betrayed her and flicked back for another fleeting second.

In the car, Francesca sat tucked into the backseat, headphones on, her fingers lightly tapping against her knee. A book of sheet music rested open on her lap, her eyes scanning it with serene focus, completely lost in her own world.

Near the trunk, Daphne stood, dressed in the familiar team jacket—the same as Philippa’s—but with soft, light blue leggings that matched the scrunchie holding her hair in a neat bun. She moved with easy precision as she hoisted her pale pink duffle bag into the back of the car. 

Confident. Effortless.

Penelope felt the weight of it all. The wight of them.

And she just watched.

The soft hum of the Bridgertons world moved on the other side of the road.

And Penelope stood in hers.

A flash of movement suddenly caught her eye. Eloise.

She had spotted Penelope and was now waving—wildly, enthusiastically, her arm swinging like she was trying to flag down an airplane. Penelope’s lips curved, and she lifted her hand, returning the wave.

Eloise grinned and immediately pulled out her phone, her fingers tapping rapidly. A second later, Penelope’s own phone buzzed.

She glanced down.

|Eloise: can u believe this?? too bloody early and WE’RE not even the ones competing in the damn thing.

Another buzz.

|Eloise: if i have to be up at this ungodly hour, I’m hitting the football pitch. meet me? might as well get some practice shots in. u can be my goalie ;)

|Penelope: Absolutely not.

|Eloise: come onnnnnn. u just have to stand there. barely any effort required

|Penelope: If I just have to stand there, why do you need me. Get someone else. 

|Eloise: i could but then i’d have no one to mock when they flinch dramatically after every shot

|Penelope: I do not flinch dramatically.

|Eloise: u do. it’s adorable

|Penelope: I loathe you...

|Eloise: no you don't <3

|Penelope: 😑

|Eloise: plssssss pen?? u owe me

|Penelope: For what?

|Eloise: for existing in your life and making it endlessly entertaining

|Penelope: That’s not how owing someone works.

|Eloise: fine. if you really want me to spell it out

|Eloise: *sighs* i suffered through maths yesterday ;-;

|Penelope: We both suffered through Maths yesterday.

|Eloise: yes, but i suffered more

|Penelope: Why?

|Eloise: bc i felt like I suffered more. that’s enough

|Penelope: That’s ridiculous.

|Eloise: u know what else is ridiculous? how long ur dragging this out when we both know you’re going to say yes anyway

|Penelope: …

|Eloise: pen.

|Penelope: If I get hit in the face, I’m walking straight to the principal’s office and telling them this was premeditated assault.

|Eloise: that’s the spirit!

“Texting your girlfriend?”

Penelope startled, her head snapping up to meet her sister’s smirking gaze.

“Eloise isn’t my girlfriend, so no.” Penelope replied with an eye roll. “She just wants to practice on the lower field before school starts.”

Philippa shrugged, her duffle bag swinging lightly from her shoulder. “Well, good luck with that. You know she’ll talk your ear off more than she’ll play.”

Penelope’s lips twitched. “Yeah, probably.”

Philippa jerked her chin toward the car. “C’mon. I don’t want to miss the bus.”

With a final glance across the road, Penelope caught sight of Eloise now standing off to the side, arms crossed, clearly annoyed. Benedict had now appeared, casually tossing a football against her back every few seconds, grinning as she stiffened with each impact. Eloise shot him a withering glare, but he remained unfazed, lazily kicking the ball back up to his hands as if he had all the time in the world. Penelope bit back a smirk before turning away.

The car door clicked as she opened it, and she slid into the passenger seat. Philippa followed, the driver’s side door shutting with a low thunk.

The engine rumbled softly, and they pulled out of the driveway. For a few minutes, only the sound of the tires against the road and the soft hum of the heater filled the space.

Then Philippa spoke.

“You know,” she began, her eyes on the road but her tone careful, “you shouldn’t let what Mum said get to you.” Her fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. “I know she’s... harsh. But... she wants us to have a better life. A better chance than she did.”

Penelope’s grip on her bag tightened, her knuckles whitening as her nails pressed deep into the fabric. “I know,” she said softly.

But her words still hurt.

The silence returned, thicker now. But Philippa wasn’t finished.

“So...” Her voice dipped, softer but searching. “School. How’s that been?” A pause. “The... other kids. Is it still happening?”

Penelope’s stomach knotted. Her eyes flicked to the window, watching trees smear into shapeless blurs of green and grey. Her reflection stared back at her; pale, guarded, and tired.

“I’m... fine,” she said, the words brittle and thin, cracking under their own weight. Her fingers curled tighter against her bag. Say it enough times and it might be true.

Philippa’s voice pressed in, firmer now. “Penny,” she said, the nickname laced with gentle insistence. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Penelope’s lips thinned, her shoulders folding inward, as if her body could shield her from the conversation. “It’s...” She hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... the same. The usual.” Her throat felt tight. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Philippa’s fingers curled around the wheel. “What are they saying?”

Penelope’s voice snapped, quick and sharp. “It doesn’t matter.” She felt her heart pounding. “I said it’s nothing.”

Philippa’s jaw clenched, her voice lowering with frustration—not at her, but for her. “It’s not nothing if it’s hurting you.” She paused, her voice gentler now. “You shouldn’t have to–”

“I’m used to it,” Penelope cut in, her voice tight and raw, her eyes still locked on the passing trees. “It’s not new.”

The words felt like they scraped her throat as they came out, and she hated how hollow they sounded.

“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.” Philippa murmured softly.

The road stretched endlessly ahead. Grey, empty, and cold.

Penelope’s gaze stayed on the window, her reflection blending into the blur of the outside world. And without looking away, she spoke.

“Thanks, Pip.” Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the car.

Philippa didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Instead, her hand lifted briefly from the wheel, brushing against Penelope’s for the briefest second.

Penelope kept her eyes on the window. Neither of them spoke.

The car slowed as they pulled into the school parking lot, the familiar chaos of morning drop-offs buzzing around them. Engines humming, doors slamming, muffled conversations carried through the air. Penelope’s eyes flicked toward the sprawling brick building, its windows reflecting the cloudless sky. 

The car eased into a space, and the engine cut off, leaving a sudden, soft silence.

Philippa popped her door open with a practiced swing and stepped out, her sneakers scuffing lightly against the ground. Penelope followed, the cool air brushing against her cheeks as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

Philippa circled to the back of the car, pulling open the boot. The metallic clatter of the latch broke the quiet as she grabbed her duffle bag.

Penelope paused, her voice quiet. “Good luck today,” she said, her lips curving into a small sincere smile.

Philippa glanced up, and something warm sparked in her eyes as she slung the bag over her shoulder. “Thanks, Penny,” she replied. “That means a lot.”

A brief beat of quiet passed before Philippa’s voice softened with something protective. “Hey,” she added, her eyes meeting Penelope’s, “if... anything happens, you can call me. You know that, right?”

Penelope’s fingers curled around her bag strap, and her chest tightened with an unfamiliar warmth.

Her reply came with a knowing smile. “Yeah. I know.”

Philippa’s lips pulled into a grin—brief but genuine—before she gave a playful bump to Penelope’s shoulder. “Good.”

Penelope shifted her weight and nodded once. “Go win something, Pippa.”

With that, Penelope turned, her steps measured as she headed toward the football pitch.

Chapter Text

The morning carried the crisp scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. The field stretched out before her, open and quiet. The white metal goal stark against the grey sky. The grass was dark with moisture, still heavy with morning dew. Penelope could already imagine how quickly it would seep through her clothes if she sat down.

Not worth it.

Instead, she leaned against the goalpost, shifting slightly to keep the chill of the metal from pressing too hard against her back. The pitch was empty—she had beaten Eloise here, which wasn’t much of a surprise considering she had left first.

With nothing else to do, Penelope slipped off her bag and pulled out some school notes, flipping through the pages until she found where she had left off. She slid her headphones over her ears and pressed play on a random playlist.

The equations and paragraphs on the page blurred slightly as she skimmed through them, her fingers idly tapping against the paper. She didn’t need to study—not really—but it gave her something to focus on. Something to keep her mind busy. Something that wasn’t this morning. Her mother’s words. The weight in her chest. The nightmare.

Minutes passed peacefully—until something struck the net behind her, sending a jolt up the metal frame.

Penelope jumped, her notes nearly slipping from her grasp as her heart leapt into her throat. She ripped off her headphones, her eyes snapping up to see Eloise standing a few feet away, grinning.

A football rolled lazily past her foot.

“Seriously?” Penelope exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest as she steadied her breathing. “You could have hit me.”

Eloise, smiling and unconcerned, strode forward, casually flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “Please,” she scoffed. “I’m a perfect shot. I wouldn’t have hit you.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to shake her head and gather her papers. Unbelievable.

Eloise, meanwhile, had already moved on, tugging her jumper over her head and chucking it unceremoniously next to her bag—already tossed carelessly to the side. She didn’t even check if the ground was wet, which, of course, it was.

Penelope sighed, eyeing the damp fabric. Typical.

Eloise stretched her arms overhead, rolling her shoulders before bending down to tighten the laces of her runners. “You looked very studious when I got here. Let me guess—more notes?”

Penelope tucked her papers back into her bag, shaking her head slightly. “Just revising a little.”

Eloise scoffed, straightening up and placing her hands on her hips. “You need to stop doing that. I swear you’re going to drown in textbooks one day.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. "I’ll have you know that some of us actually care about passing our GCSE exams."

Eloise waved a dismissive hand. "Passing is easy. You just have to be naturally brilliant like me." She grinned, nudging the ball with her foot. "Or, you know, find a way to cheat."

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Tempting offer, but I think I’ll stick with studying."

Eloise sighed dramatically, placing a foot on the ball and leaning against it. "Suit yourself. But one day, you’re going to look back and regret not having a little more fun. Speaking of which—" She tapped the ball twice before kicking it up and catching it with her hands. "Are you going to stand there all morning, or are you going to help me warm up?"

Penelope gave her a look. "By 'help,' do you mean stand still while you kick footballs at me?"

Eloise grinned. "Exactly."

Penelope exhaled a long, suffering sigh. "Fine. But if you hit me, I’m leaving."

Eloise's grin widened as she placed the ball back onto the grass. "You won’t. I’m a perfect shot, remember?"

Eloise rolled the ball forward with the tip of her foot and glanced at Penelope expectantly. "Kick it back. Then stand in the goal."

Penelope tensed, eyeing the ball warily. "Eloise, you know I’m terrible at this."

Eloise shrugged. "Doesn’t matter. I just need a body to stand in the way."

Penelope shot her a flat look. "Wow. I feel so appreciated."

Eloise smirked, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. "You should. Now hurry up."

With a sigh, Penelope nudged the ball forward with the side of her foot—not exactly the strongest or most coordinated kick, but it reached Eloise well enough. Then, reluctantly, she trudged toward the goal, positioning herself dead centre.

Eloise didn’t wait. She kicked the ball sharply, sending it straight into the net beside Penelope’s shoulder. Penelope barely moved, watching it whiz past with wide eyes.

Eloise frowned. "You do know the goal of a goalie is to stop the ball, right?"

Penelope turned her head slowly, blinking at her. "I’m not a goalie, Eloise."

"Not with that attitude, you’re not."

Another kick—harder, this time, sending the ball toward the lower left corner. Penelope yelped and instinctively dodged out of the way, letting it sail past her and into the net again.

Eloise groaned dramatically. "Penelope! The whole point is to stop the ball, not run from it."

Penelope shot her a look, arms crossed tightly. "Well, forgive me for not wanting to get hit in the face at seven a clock in the morning."

Eloise jogged forward to retrieve the ball, laughing under her breath. "Oh, please, I’d never hit your face. Your stomach, maybe, but not your face."

Penelope’s glare deepened, but before she could fire back, Eloise was already lining up another shot.

This was definitely a mistake.

The next shot came fast—too fast. Penelope barely had time to react before it zipped past her, grazing her arm as it hit the back of the net. She flinched, whipping around. "Eloise!"

Eloise grinned, unfazed. "That was a warm-up. Now actually try."

Penelope sighed heavily, positioning herself again, knees slightly bent, arms spread just in case she miraculously found the coordination to stop something. She barely had time to blink before Eloise sent another ball flying.

Instead of blocking it, Penelope dodged again, letting it sail straight into the net. She turned to Eloise, hands on her hips. "Happy?"

Eloise looked personally offended. "Are you even trying?"

"I am trying. I’m trying not to die."

Eloise shook her head and placed the ball down again, rolling it with her foot. "Alright, one more. This time, actually put effort in."

Penelope groaned but braced herself. Eloise smirked, took a step back, then fired. The ball shot toward the centre of the goal, and Penelope, in a moment of pure instinct, moved. Her arms flailed wildly, and by sheer dumb luck, her hand clipped the ball just enough to send it bouncing away.

For a second, silence.

Then—

Eloise clapped her hands together, her expression lighting up like she had just witnessed a miracle. "Would you look at that! She can use her hands!"

Penelope, still recovering from the shock of actually making contact with the ball, shot her a glare. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," Eloise said breezily, jogging to retrieve the ball again. "Alright, one more–"

"No!"

Eloise cackled, spinning the ball on her finger. "You’re getting better already."

Penelope sighed, rubbing her face. "I need new friends."

"No, you don’t," Eloise repeated, winking before lining up another shot.

Penelope braced herself, already regretting every choice that led her to this moment.

After another few near misses, she huffed, throwing her hands up. "Alright, alright, what if we try a different exercise? Maybe—oh, I don’t know—dribbling the ball instead of launching it at my skull?"

Eloise rolled her eyes but relented, kicking the ball up with her foot and catching it. "Fine. But you’re missing out on valuable goalie training."

"Oh, how will I ever recover?" Penelope deadpanned, crossing her arms as she watched Eloise move.

They fell into an easy rhythm, the distant sounds of students arriving mixing with the rhythmic tap of the ball against the damp grass.

"You ever wonder what would happen if you just walked out of school one day and never came back?" Eloise asked suddenly, effortlessly controlling the ball as she pivoted.

Penelope blinked. "What?"

"Like, say you get up, walk out, and just—poof—never return. Do you think anyone would notice? Would they assume you were kidnapped? Would they care?" Eloise continued, eyes fixed on the ball, her expression unreadable.

Penelope snorted. "I think your mother would personally hunt you down before the police could even file a report."

"True," Eloise said, nodding sagely. "But you? What if you walked out?"

Penelope hesitated, shifting her weight. "I mean… I’d like to think someone would notice. Maybe my sisters, eventually. Maybe not."

Eloise flicked the ball up with her knee before letting it drop back to the ground. "I’d notice."

The words were so casual, so matter-of-fact, that Penelope didn’t quite know how to respond. Warmth bloomed in her chest, and she hated how much it meant to hear it.

"Well," she said after a pause, aiming for lightness, "if you ever disappear, I promise I’ll at least pretend to be concerned."

"See, that’s all I ask," Eloise replied, smirking.

The ball slowed between them, rolling lazily in the space at their feet.

Eloise sighed, glancing at the sky before turning to Penelope. "What time is it?"

Penelope pulled out her phone, checking the screen. "Nearly eight."

Eloise froze for half a second, then cursed under her breath. "Damn it—I was supposed to meet Philip at the greenhouse before school."

Penelope raised an eyebrow, tucking her phone back into her blazer pocket. "Then go. You’re going to have, what, twenty minutes before the bell by the time you get there?"

Eloise groaned dramatically, grabbing her jumper from the grass and shaking it out. "Ugh, he’s going to be so smug about me being late."

"Then you better run," Penelope teased. "Or he’ll have extra time to prepare his gloating."

Eloise pulled a face but didn’t waste another second, slinging her jumper over her shoulder. "Sorry for bailing. We’ll continue your torture session later."

Penelope waved her off. "I can’t wait."

With one final grin, Eloise turned on her heel and jogged toward the school, leaving Penelope standing alone on the pitch, the damp morning air settling around her.

For a moment, she simply stood there, the echoes of their conversation lingering. Then, with a sigh, she picked up her bag and started toward the main building.

Chapter Text

Penelope walked with her head slightly bowed, her mind somewhere else. The dampness of the grass clung to the soles of her shoes as she made her way toward the back entrance.

Then—laughter. Sharp. Mocking.

She stiffened.

“Well, well.”

A voice slithered through the air, curling around her like a trap snapping shut.

Reginald Fife stepped out from behind the old shed near the oval, a smirk carved into his face. His gaze swept over her with casual amusement, like a cat cornering a wounded mouse. “If it isn’t little Piglet Featherington. What are you doing out here all alone?”

Penelope’s breath hitched. She stopped mid-step, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag.

Before she could move, more figures emerged from behind the shed. Eric Wilding and Charles Cho flanked Fife, their expressions unreadable but their presence making her stomach clench.

“I… I need to get to class,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her throat felt dry. She tried to sidestep them, but Fife moved with her, blocking her path.

“Class can wait,” he said, his grin widening. “Don’t be rude, Piglet. We just wanna talk.”

“Yeah,” Wilding added, stepping closer, his tone dripping with fake sincerity. “Why not hang out with us for a bit? We’re way more fun than whatever book you’re probably running off to read.”

Penelope’s heart pounded. She glanced toward the school again, as if willing someone to appear—to break the moment. But the field was empty.

“I really need to go—” she tried again, taking another step back.

Fife’s hand shot out.

Her bag was ripped from her shoulder before she could react.

“Hey! Give that back!” she protested, panic threading through her voice.

Fife laughed, holding the bag high above his head. “Jump for it, Featherington.”

Wilding snickered, plucking the bag from Fife’s grip before she could lunge for it. “Nah, let’s make it interesting. Up for a game of 'Piggy in the Middle'?”

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the bag to Cho. Penelope spun, reaching for it, but Cho was already stepping back, smirking as he lobbed it back to Fife.

The three of them played their cruel game, throwing the bag between them, keeping it just out of reach.

Penelope scrambled, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Her hands swiped at empty air. The laughter around her grew louder, harsher, digging into her skin like tiny needles.

She needed Eloise to come back.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Just—give it back.”

She felt heat crawl up her neck, her face burning with humiliation. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the tears prickled at the edges of her vision anyway.

“Why should we? This is far more entertaining,” Fife sneered, his lips curling into a wicked smirk. The predatory glint in his eyes sharpened as he suddenly reached down and yanked open her bag, the teeth of the zipper rasping like a blade being drawn.

Penelope’s pulse spiked. “No, stop! That’s mine!” Her voice cracked with panic as she lunged forward, but Fife’s arm shot out, shoving her to the ground. She hit the dirt with a choked gasp, the impact rattling through her bones.

Fife chuckled, a harsh, mocking sound. “Let’s see what you’re hiding, little piglet,” he murmured, his fingers thumbing roughly through the pages of her notebook, crumpling corners and bending the spine. His eyes flicked over the ink-scrawled pages, his voice dripping with venom. “Poetry? Or... oh... love notes for Bridgerton?”

Penelope’s stomach twisted, heat and humiliation burning her face. “Give it back!” she gasped, scrambling up, her voice raw and shaking.

But Fife only grinned wider. “Relax, love,” he taunted, his voice cold and syrupy. He tossed the notebook back into her bag carelessly, letting it hit the ground with a dull thump. But he didn’t move aside. His hand shot out, snatching her arm in a bruising grip.

Her skin screamed under his fingers. “Fife, let me go!” she yelled, twisting violently, but he only tightened his hold, his nails biting through the fabric of her sleeve.

“Not so fast,” he growled, his voice dipping into something darker, something hungry. The air felt colder, heavier.

Wilding and Cho closed in, shadows with grins. Penelope’s chest heaved. Her heart pounded, and the hairs on her neck rose.

“Reginald, stop! I’ll scream!” she warned, her voice thin and shaking.

Fife’s lips grazed her ear, his breath hot and sour. “No, you won’t,” he whispered, the threat coiling like smoke. “Because if you’re quiet... this’ll all be over faster.”

Penelope’s throat felt tight, her breath shallow and ragged. The world around her narrowed to the pounding of her pulse and the grinding sound of her shoes dragging across gravel as he pulled her towards the old sports shed.

The shed door loomed, its wood cracked and splintered, a mouth ready to swallow her whole. With a wrenching shove, Fife forced her through. Dust and mildew choked her senses as the door slammed behind her with a deafening clang.

Darkness swallowed her.

Wilding’s laughter, low and ugly, echoed through the cramped, rotting air.

The cold pressed against Penelope’s skin, seeping into her bones. The silence was worse than the noise—a thick, dreadful quiet broken only by her own jagged breaths and the thunderous pound of her pulse.

The latch scraped.

Locked.

Her trembling fingers scraped the rough, splintered wall. Her stomach knotted, every muscle bracing for what came next.

Suddenly—

Fife was on her, the stench of sweat and cruelty filling the space between them. His smirk, wide and venomous, gleamed in the fractured shadows. “Look at you,” he sneered, “trembling like a scared little lamb.”

Penelope’s throat was tight, her voice a fragile thread. “Please...” It broke as it left her lips.

Fife clicked his tongue, tilting his head like he was dealing with a particularly slow child. “Now, now, Penelope, don’t start crying just yet. We have a little business to discuss.”

Her stomach churned. “Business?” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady.

His smirk deepened. “Your dear old dad owes my father a lot of money.” He dragged out the words, savouring them. “And you know how it is—when a man can’t pay his debts, someone else has to. And lucky you—” he tapped a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him, “—you get to be the generous one.”

She recoiled from his touch, heart hammering. “I—I don’t have anything to do with that. I don’t have money.”

Fife let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Oh, Penny. That’s not the right answer.” His voice was sickly sweet, dripping with condescension. “You see, I don’t really care whether or not you think this is your problem. It is. Your father made it that way. And since he’s not here to make things right... well.” He sighed, feigning disappointment. “Looks like it falls on you.”

She shook her head, panic rising. “I can’t—I don’t have anything—”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s not very helpful, is it? But don’t worry.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll make sure you figure out a way. One way or another.”

Her pulse thundered, her breath coming short and fast.

“Wilding,” Fife barked, “get your phone out.”

A brief hesitation, then the faint click of Wilding’s phone unlocking.

Fife’s smirk deepened. “I’m just going to give you a little motivation, Piglet. A nudge in the right direction.”

He tapped a finger against his chin, tilting his head like he was mulling something over. Then, his grin widened. “And while we’re at it—let’s give Bridgerton something to laugh at.” He drawled, mockery dripping from every word. “Think he’d enjoy this? Bet he’d crack up. Call you pathetic. Just like the rest of us.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, her voice raw and shaking.

Fife’s amusement sharpened into something darker. “A little fight in you, huh?” His lips curled. “I like that.”

Wilding raised the phone, the lens a cold, unblinking eye. “And action,” he jeered.

Fife leaned into frame, his voice dripping venom for the recording. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he mocked, “presenting Piglet Featherington, starring in today’s episode of Why Nobody Likes You.”

Penelope twisted violently, her heart hammering against her ribs as she shoved at him with all the strength she had left. It wasn’t enough. Fife’s hands shot out—rough, bruising—fingers digging cruelly into her wrists as he slammed them against the wall with a dull, painful thud.

“Stop squirming,” he hissed, his breath hot against her ear. “You’ll ruin my shot.”

Wilding chuckled from behind the phone, his voice sticky with malice. “Smile for the camera, Piglet.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Fife’s smirk sharpened into something cruel. “She looks pathetic enough already.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, her chest tight, the weight of humiliation pressing against her ribs like a vice.

A voice—uncertain, uneasy—cut through the air. “Fife... maybe we should—” Cho hesitated.

“Shut up and keep watch,” Fife snapped, his grip tightening, his gaze never leaving Penelope.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself anywhere but here. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

But it was. And they were laughing. And there was nothing she could do.

Her vision blurred as tears welled, burning hot trails down her cheeks. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “Just let me go.”

Fife tilted his head, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. “Come on, Piglet,” he drawled. “Where’s that big brain of yours now? Or does all that wit go out the window when someone actually pays attention to you?”

She refused to speak. Her throat burned, her breath hitched, but she swallowed it down, locking every ounce of fear behind clenched teeth. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Wouldn't let him hear her break.

Fife leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin, the scent of stale mint and arrogance curling in the space between them. His fingers trailed along her arm, light but deliberate, sending a shudder down her spine.

"Come on, pretty Penny," he murmured, his voice syrupy sweet with mock affection. "Not even a little plea? A tiny beg? You must have something to say. You were saying so much before."

Penelope stayed silent, her nails digging into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her.

Fife chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "You're stronger than you look." He tilted his head, studying her like she was some fascinating little puzzle for him to pick apart. "Let's see how much it takes for you to break."

His fingers curled around her chin, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. "We're going to have so much fun together, little love." His grin widened, a sharp, wicked thing. "Whether you like it or not."

~*~*~*~

Penelope stood frozen in the middle of the shed, her shirt and jumper discarded in a crumpled heap nearby. The chill of the air bit at her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the searing humiliation burning beneath it. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, a feeble attempt to shield against their lingering gazes. Against the violation that clung to her.

Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked movements. The dim light barely illuminated the cramped space, casting jagged shadows against the wooden walls. The air was thick—stagnant with the scent of damp wood, old sweat, and something else, something suffocating.

Her skin still crawling from where Fife’s hands had been. Even though he had stepped away, she could still feel it, the ghost of his touch lingering like a sickness beneath her skin. No matter how hard she tried to shake it off, it clung to her, insidious and unrelenting.

Fife stood before her, phone in hand, the screen casting an eerie glow against his smug expression. He tilted it slightly, just enough for her to see. The video played in agonizing detail—his hands gripping her wrists, his voice low and taunting, her muffled protests, the way she’d struggled and failed.

Her breath hitched as she watched it unfold, as if seeing it from the outside somehow made it worse. Fife’s fingers moved with slow, deliberate intent, undoing the buttons of her shirt one by one. Her own voice, cracking and raw, begged him to stop. The way he looked at her, the way his hands roamed as if she were nothing more than something to be used.

Wilding’s laughter echoed faintly in the background, hollow and cruel.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She was going to be sick.

“See, Piglet,” Fife murmured, tilting his head mockingly. “I think we both know you don’t want this getting out.”

Penelope’s mouth went dry. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay still, to keep from flinching under his gaze. “Delete it.”

Fife chuckled, shaking his head. “Now, why would I do that? This is insurance. See, if you get me that money, I’ll be kind enough to forget about your daddy’s debt and the video stays between us. But if you don’t…” He trailed off, watching her with something close to amusement. “I imagine Bridgerton would love to see this. Maybe the whole school, too.”

A cold, sharp panic stabbed through her. She felt her hands start to tremble, her entire body threatening to collapse under the weight of his words.

Fife stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You do exactly what I say, when I say it. Now get me that money and this stays buried. Understand?”

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. “I—”

“Ah,” he cut her off, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t overthink it, Featherington. Just nod.”

Her body moved before she could think, a small, stiff nod jerking from her. The smirk that stretched across his face made her stomach lurch.

“Good girl,” he drawled, pocketing the phone. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“Hey, Fife,” Wilding said suddenly, glancing toward the window. “We’ve got company.”

Fife cursed under his breath. Without another word, he stepped back, rolling his shoulders like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Let’s go,” he ordered, already moving toward the door.

Wilding smirked as he and Cho followed, leaving Penelope behind like she was nothing, like she hadn’t even been there at all.

The door slammed shut, the impact rattling the flimsy walls of the shed.

Silence.

Penelope stood frozen for a moment, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Then, as if her body could no longer hold itself upright, she collapsed to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest. She clutched at her discarded clothes, gripping the fabric so tightly that her fingers ached.

Her body trembled, a violent, uncontrollable shiver that started deep within her spine and spread outward. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on her, suffocating, unbearable.

She needed to move. She needed to get out of here.

Minutes passed—maybe longer. Time blurred, stretched, folded in on itself.

Finally, she forced herself to her feet, limbs heavy, stomach twisting. With shaking hands, she pulled on her jumper, adjusted her bag over her shoulder, and turned toward the door.

One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking.

She stepped outside, the cold air biting against her skin as she made her way back toward the building.

Chapter Text

Penelope barely registered how she got there when the bathroom door slammed behind her. The sound echoed off the tiled walls, too loud, too sharp. Her breaths came fast, too fast, ragged and uneven as she stumbled into the nearest stall, locking the door with trembling fingers.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Her chest seized. The air felt thick, pressing in around her. Her vision blurred at the edges, the fluorescent lights above casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow. She pressed her back against the stall door, sinking down, her knees hitting the cold floor. Her fingers curled into her school bag, gripping the fabric like it could ground her.

He filmed it. They all saw. They laughed.

A broken sound caught in her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything else. Her body shook, her lungs burning, her mind racing through every possibility, every horror, every way this could spiral further.

She couldn’t get the money. She had nothing. No savings, no secret stash tucked away. Her family barely scraped by as it was. Even if she had years, she couldn’t come up with what her father owed—not even close. And Fife knew that. He knew it, and he didn’t care.

He’s going to send it. He’s going to show Colin. He’s going to show everyone.

A shudder ran through her, violent and unstoppable. Her hands flew to her head, fingers threading through her hair, tugging at the roots as if she could pull herself out of this spiral. But the panic gripped her tight, unrelenting, dragging her under.

His voice rang in her ears, wrapping around her, drowning her.

‘You can beg better than that, love.’

‘If Loverboy could see you now.’

Her vision tunnelled, her body locking up, trapped in itself.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

She dug her nails into her palm. Hard.

The sharp sting cut through the suffocating haze. She gasped, dragging in a breath—shaky, uneven, but there. Another. And another.

She counted. One. Two. Three. Her nails pressed deeper, grounding her. Four. Five. Six.

Slowly, the panic loosened its grip, retreating just enough for her to move.

Her limbs felt heavy as she pushed herself up, gripping the stall walls to steady herself. Her legs wobbled beneath her, weak and unsteady, but she forced herself to stand. She had to move—had to fix herself before anyone saw.

She unlocked the door and stepped out, the mirror greeting her with a reflection she barely recognized. Wide, red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy cheeks. Mascara smudged beneath her lashes. Her uniform was rumpled, her blazer slipping off one shoulder, tie loose.

She turned the tap on, letting the cold water rush over her fingers before splashing it onto her face. The chill shocked her system, pulling her fully back into herself.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

She wasn’t. But she had to be.

Fixing her tie with shaking hands, she smoothed her skirt, adjusted her blazer, and swiped a tissue under her eyes.

She quickly redid her hair and makeup so she looked put together.

Like nothing had happened at all.

She stared at her reflection, willing herself to feel normal, to push everything that had just happened far, far down. It was already settling somewhere deep inside her, buried beneath layers of practiced indifference. A place she wouldn’t have to acknowledge. A place she wouldn’t have to feel it.

It didn’t happen. It doesn’t matter. You’re fine.

She straightened her shoulders, inhaled sharply, and steeled herself for the day ahead.

Then—the sharp ring of the 8:45 bell split through the quiet.

Penelope groaned. Five minutes until I’m officially late.

She grabbed her bag and hurried out, weaving through the hallways as the sound of chattering students and shuffling footsteps filled the air. Her heart still felt heavy, but she forced herself to keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Just get through the day.

By the time she reached her Form room, the final bell had just finished ringing. She slipped through the door, already opening her mouth to apologize. "Sorry I'm late, Miss."

Miss Huxley, her Form Tutor, stood near her desk, flipping through a stack of papers, barely glancing up at Penelope’s arrival. “Hardly late, Miss Featherington,” she said absently, checking something off on her clipboard. “Take your seat.”

Penelope nodded quickly, relieved that there was no further questioning. She turned her gaze toward the rows of desks, scanning the familiar faces of her classmates.

Then she spotted Eloise, who was already waving her over, exaggerated and impatient, as if Penelope had been gone for days. The seat beside her was empty, waiting.

Penelope made her way over, sliding into the chair just as Eloise turned toward her, brow furrowing. “Where were you?” she whispered, keeping her voice low but urgent. “I was looking for you when the bell rang, but you weren’t in the hallway. I texted you.”

Penelope forced a small, apologetic smile. “I was in the bathroom,” she murmured, keeping her gaze on the desk in front of her. “I didn’t see it.”

Eloise frowned but didn’t push further. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Well, don’t disappear like that. You made me sit here alone with these two for five minutes.” She jerked her head toward Edwina Sharma and Michael Stirling, who were sitting across from them, both looking equally amused and exasperated.

“You survived,” Edwina whispered, smirking as she twirled a pen between her fingers.

Michael chuckled under his breath. “Barely.”

Penelope let out a small huff of laughter, something tight in her chest loosening just slightly at the familiar banter. She turned her head slightly to the row behind them, where Theo Sharpe was already scribbling something in the margins of his notebook, only looking up briefly to acknowledge her arrival with a nod.

Miss Huxley cleared her throat, standing at the front of the room. “Right, I’m doing the roll now, so quiet down.”

Micheal leaned slightly toward Penelope as the class settled. “What classes do you have first?” he whispered.

“Maths,” she answered, shifting in her seat. “Then English.”

Miss Huxley’s voice cut through. “Eloise Bridgerton.”

“Here, Miss,” Eloise responded absentmindedly before turning back to Penelope, her expression horrified. “This school is a prison. Why are Maths and English compulsory? It’s absurd.”

“Because they’re essential,” Edwina pointed out with a small smile. “I know it’s shocking, Eloise, but knowing how to read and do basic calculations is actually useful.”

Eloise made a face. “I can read and count, and yet here I am, trapped in another year of both.”

“Cressida Cowper.” Miss Huxley continued.

“Here, Miss.”

Penelope smirked before turning to Michael. “What do you have?”

“Science and Business,” he sighed. “How thrilling.”

“Could be worse,” Eloise said. “You could be stuck in Maths with us.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “That sounds exactly like my personal hell.”

Eloise nodded solemnly. “My condolences.”

“Abigail Evans.”

“Here, Miss.”

Michael ignored her, instead shifting toward Penelope. “What are we doing for morning break?”

“I have a meeting for the school paper,” Penelope replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll be on the pitch,” Eloise added, stretching her arms behind her head. “Football practice.”

“I have a music lesson,” Edwina said, checking her timetable.

“Penelope Featherington.”

“Yes, Miss,” she responded quickly before turning back to Michael.

Michael groaned. “You’re all abandoning me.”

“You’ll live,” Eloise said with a smirk. “Anyway, we’re meeting Genevieve in the library at lunch to study.”

Michael frowned. “Studying? At lunch?”

“Margaret Goring,” 

“Here, Miss.”

“Studying at lunch? That doesn’t sound like something Eloise willingly agreed to.”

Penelope’s lips twitched. “It was Eloise’s idea.”

Eloise gasped, scandalised. “Lies!”

“Edwina Sharma.”

“Here, Miss.”

Penelope arched a brow. “You literally suggested it.”

“I made a throwaway comment! You weren’t supposed to take it seriously!” Eloise huffed.

Michael grinned. “So, what I’m hearing is Penelope is forcing you to study.”

Eloise clutched her chest dramatically. “I am but an innocent victim in all of this.”

“More like a victim of your own words,” Edwina quipped.

“Theo Sharpe.”

“Here, Miss,” Theo muttered before going back to drawing in his book.

Penelope shook her head, smiling. “Well, you committed to it, so now you’re stuck.”

Micheal let out an exaggerated sigh. “Wow. I see how it is. No time for me. No one ever thinks, ‘Hey, let’s ask Micheal what he wants to do.’”

Edwina snorted. “Dramatic much?”

“Michael Stirling.”

“Yes, Miss,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and pouting. “Not nearly dramatic enough.”

Penelope rolled her eyes playfully. “Micheal, do you want to come study with us?”

“No, thank you,” he said immediately. “Unlike some people, I actually plan to do something productive at lunch. Like play basketball.”

Eloise grinned. “Ah yes, because throwing a ball into a hoop is far more important than securing your future.”

Micheal smirked. “Absolutely.”

He snorted, a little too loudly.

Miss Huxley’s sharp gaze snapped toward him. “Mr. Stirling, do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

Michael immediately sat up straighter. “No, Miss.”

“Then I suggest you keep your voice down unless you’d like to spend your lunch with me in detention.”

Michael pressed his lips together, nodding solemnly, though his eyes flicked toward Penelope and Eloise, who were both struggling not to laugh.

The classroom remained anything but silent after that. Conversations buzzed in low murmurs, students whispering to each other while some finished last-minute homework. Chairs creaked, pencils tapped against desks, and the occasional suppressed laugh broke through the hum of chatter.

Michael leaned toward Penelope and Eloise again, keeping his voice low. “Okay, but let’s be honest—how much trouble would I actually get in if I pulled the fire alarm right now to get out of Science?”

Eloise smirked. “And not get suspended? Probably detentions for the rest of your life.”

Penelope chuckled. “And they’d all be with Miss Huxley.”

Michael sighed, tilting his head back thoughtfully. “You know, I think I’d make detention fun.”

Theo snorted from behind them. “Yeah, fun for you. The rest of those poor souls in detention would have to sit through your monologues.”

Michael gasped in mock outrage. “First of all, my monologues are educational.”

Edwina shook her head, grinning. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Michael pressed a hand to his chest. “I am deeply wounded by this betrayal.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “You’ll survive.”

Before Michael could launch into another dramatic speech about his suffering, the shrill ring of the bell cut through the room. The chatter immediately spiked as chairs scraped against the floor, students hurrying to grab their bags and rush off to first period.

Michael stretched his arms above his head, groaning. “Well, time to go suffer through Science.”

“Try not to set anything on fire,” Eloise said.

“No promises. It might be my only excuse to pull the fire alarm.”

Theo clapped him on the back. “We’ll see if he makes it through the period without blowing something up.”

Michael waggled his eyebrows. “That’s the spirit.”

Michael and Theo split off toward their respective classes, leaving Penelope, Eloise, and Edwina weaving through the crowded hallway toward Maths. The air buzzed with life—students darting past, conversations overlapping, laughter echoing down the corridors.

Eloise sighed dramatically. “Do you think if I walk slowly enough, I’ll never actually reach Maths?”

Penelope smirked. “You could just skip.”

Edwina gave her a pointed look. “You’re encouraging delinquency?”

“I’m just saying it’s an option.”

Eloise huffed. “Unfortunately, my mother would somehow sense that I skipped and materialize out of nowhere to lecture me.”

Edwina chuckled. “That does sound like Mrs Bridgerton.”

They turned a corner, dodging a group of younger students loitering near the lockers.

“So, who's the Sub we have for Maths again?” Eloise asked as they approached their classroom.

Penelope groaned. “Mr. Berbrooke.”

Eloise visibly deflated. “Ugh, he’s the worst.”

“He’s not that bad,” Edwina offered, though even she couldn’t say it with much enthusiasm.

“He smells like stale coffee and despair,” Eloise muttered.

Edwina bit back a laugh. “That’s just the essence of being a teacher.”

Penelope shook her head. “No, Eloise is right. He’s actually awful. He barely knows what he’s talking about half the time.”

“Right?” Eloise said, nodding vigorously. “Remember last time he subbed? He just gave up trying to explain algebra and told us to ‘figure it out amongst ourselves.’”

Penelope sighed. “That was painful.”

“Painful?” Eloise scoffed. “It was a waste of time. If I wanted to struggle through Maths with no actual guidance, I’d just teach myself on YouTube.”

“And let’s not forget the other issue,” Penelope muttered, lowering her voice as they neared the classroom.

Eloise grimaced. “Ugh, yeah.”

Edwina frowned. “What other issue?”

Eloise exchanged a look with Penelope before turning to Edwina. “You do know how creepy he is, right?”

Edwina hesitated. “I mean… he’s weird, sure, but—”

“He stares,” Eloise cut in, shuddering. “Like, full-on, lingering eye contact. And not in a normal way.”

Penelope nodded. “Last time, he told Cressida she had ‘a very mature presence for her age.’”

Edwina wrinkled her nose. “That’s… unsettling.”

“That’s disgusting,” Eloise corrected. “I swear, if he so much as looks at me the wrong way, I will report him.”

“You should,” Penelope said seriously. “Teachers like that get away with too much because no one wants to make a fuss.”

Edwina exhaled. “Maybe he’s just socially awkward?”

Eloise shot her a look. “He told Theo that he had ‘the strong, capable hands of a man who knows how to handle things.’”

Edwina winced. “Okay. That’s weird.”

“Exactly.” Eloise groaned, rubbing her temples. “And we’re supposed to learn from him?”

"At this point, I’d rather sit in silence than have him ‘teach’ us anything," Penelope muttered, pulling open the classroom door.

Eloise groaned dramatically, dragging her feet as she followed. "If I fall asleep, just leave me here. Let me slip peacefully into the void."

Edwina snorted. "You say that like you don’t already sleep through half of our classes."

Eloise shot her a look but didn’t deny it. "Speaking of things I regret, do we have to meet Genevieve in the library at lunch? Surely she’ll survive if we skip just one study session."

Penelope smirked. "We could skip, but then she’ll hunt us down and guilt-trip us for the rest of the week."

Edwina hummed. "And remind us that she’s doing us a favour by tutoring us."

Eloise groaned louder. "Fine. But I’m only going if we get snacks first."

"Deal," Penelope smiled.

Chapter Text

The library buzzed with quiet activity, a symphony of rustling pages, scratching pens, and the occasional low murmur of conversation. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting a warm, golden light across the towering shelves of books. 

Penelope sat at her usual desk near the back, her books and notes spread out in a precise, methodical sprawl. Around her, her friends chatted in hushed voices, their laughter threading through fragments of idle conversation.

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, glancing briefly toward the glass doors as a group of students entered, laughing softly amongst themselves.

It was just another ordinary lunchtime. Everything was calm, normal, as it always was. And yet, her mind wouldn’t stop spinning, thoughts overlapping, tangling, refusing to settle.

Her stomach churned. The dream. The shed. The laughter. It all blurred together, bleeding into one another until she could barely tell what was real and what wasn’t. They were faceless in my dream, but they aren’t faceless here. They had names. They had voices. And they had power.

She shook her head, willing herself to focus on the book in front of her. But the words refused to cooperate, swimming together in an indecipherable blur. Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand.

Tell someone. The thought surfaced, unbidden, unwanted. Eloise. Edwina. Geneviève. The school. Colin.

Her throat tightened. Could she? Should she? Would they even believe her? Would they look at her the way Fife did, with that cruel smirk, that knowledge that he owned her now? Would they ask why she didn’t stop it, why she let it happen, why she didn’t fight harder?

What if telling them makes it worse?

A quiet discomfort settled over her, suffocating, heavy. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, trying to force the thoughts away.

Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t tell. You just have to deal with it.

She sighed, tapping her pen against the edge of her book as she forced herself to read the same paragraph for the third time.

“I can’t believe we have to write a full essay on The Canterbury Tales by Monday,” Eloise groaned, slumping dramatically over her open notebook. “Who even cares about a bunch of medieval pilgrims?” 

“Mrs Arnold does,” Geneviève said dryly.

“El, if you don’t stop complaining and write that paper, you’re going to fail—again.” Edwina remarked.

Geneviève smirked, sketching lazily in the margins of her notebook. “Let her whine. It’s the only way she knows how to cope.”

“I didn’t fail, thank you very much. I just didn’t try last time.” Eloise flipped her pen between her fingers and shot Geneviève a glare. “And I’m not whining.”

“Sure,” Geneviève said with a smirk, “and I’m going to read Middlemarch for fun this weekend.” 

Edwina giggled from her seat beside Penelope. “At least Mrs Arnold didn’t assign us a presentation. I’d rather write a hundred essays than stand up in front of the class again.” 

“That’s because you’re terrified of public speaking,” Eloise teased, sitting up straight. “But lucky for you, you’re very good at essays. The same cannot be said for some of us.” 

“Don’t worry,” Geneviève said, flashing a grin. “I’ll write your essay—for a price.” 

Eloise snorted. “What price? Let me guess—help you smuggle snacks into the dorms?” 

“No. You’re bringing me a latte from the café across the street every morning for the rest of the month.”

“You’re extortionate.” 

Geneviève shrugged, unconcerned. “I prefer the term opportunistic.” 

Penelope smiled faintly at their bickering, her pen hovering over her notebook. She hadn’t written a single word of her essay.

“Pen,” Eloise said suddenly, leaning closer. “What do you think? Extortionate, right?” 

Penelope blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “What?” 

“Geneviève charging me thirty-one coffees for an essay.” 

“Oh.” Penelope smiled weakly. “Well, it does seem like a lot.” 

“It’s not that much,” Geneviève argued, grinning at Penelope. “Besides, you’re supposed to be on my side.” 

“I think I’ll stay neutral,” Penelope said, fiddling with sleeve. 

Edwina nudged her arm. “You’re awfully quiet today. Everything okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Penelope said quickly. “Just… tired, I guess.” 

“You should’ve skipped Chemistry with me this morning,” Eloise said, leaning back in her chair. “Best decision I’ve made all week.” 

“You’re going to get detention again,” Edwina pointed out. 

“Worth it,” Eloise replied smugly. 

Their laughter was cut short by a sudden sound—the heavy thud of footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. All four of them turned instinctively toward the library’s glass doors. 

“What was that?” Edwina asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Probably just someone late for study period,” Geneviève said, though her hand tightened around her pen. 

The footsteps grew louder, frantic and uneven, like someone running—or stumbling. Penelope’s stomach twisted. 

Then the doors burst open. 

A group of students tumbled in, their uniforms dishevelled and streaked with blood. One boy fell to his knees, clutching at a gaping wound on his shoulder. 

“Help!” a girl screamed, her voice raw with panic. 

The library erupted into chaos as the bloody group stumbled further inside, screaming for help. Blood smeared the polished floors where they collapsed, their desperate cries mingling with wet, choking coughs.

“What the hell is happening?” Eloise whispered, her voice trembling as she grabbed Penelope’s arm.

One of the students—a girl Penelope vaguely recognised from Year 12—staggered forward, her hands pressed to a wound on her side. Her face was pale, her eyes wild. “They’re coming—they’re coming! You have to run!”

“What’s coming?” Edwina asked, her voice sharp with fear.

Before the girl could answer, a loud, guttural scream tore through the air. A boy—one of the injured students—threw himself onto another, teeth sinking into flesh with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the floor.

The screams were deafening.

Penelope’s stomach flipped as the bitten student thrashed and gurgled, his eyes rolling back. Within moments, his convulsions stopped. Then, impossibly, he opened his bloodshot eyes and lurched to his feet.

“Oh my god,” Geneviève whispered, backing away.

The infected boy’s head snapped toward the nearest group of students. With an animalistic growl, he lunged.

“Run!” someone yelled, their voice barely audible over the rising hysteria.

Students scattered in every direction, overturning chairs and knocking over tables in their desperation to escape. Penelope froze, her breath caught in her throat as she watched another body fall, blood pooling beneath them.

“Penelope!” Eloise grabbed her hand, yanking her back to reality. “We have to move—now!”

The four of them bolted toward the back of the library, weaving through the maze of bookshelves. The sound of screaming and pounding footsteps chased them, vicious snarls growing louder with every passing second.

“Those things are everywhere!” Edwina cried, clutching at Penelope’s arm as they rounded a corner.

“Over there!” Geneviève pointed toward a side door, her voice trembling.

The four of them darted toward the narrow hallway.

Behind them, the library was a frenzy of screams as more creatures burst into the library, their bloodied hands clawing at anything within reach.

Eloise pushed at the door, grunting with effort. “It’s locked!”

“Let me try!” Geneviève shoved past her, fumbling with the handle.

“Faster!” Edwina cried, glancing back at the oncoming horde.

What were they? They looked as though they were infected with something—though Penelope wasn’t sure she wanted to know what. The creatures never lingered, never hesitated. They attacked with terrifying precision before moving on to the next victim, as if their sole purpose was to spread the horrifying contagion.

Her chest tightened as she looked around, heart pounding. The snarls of the creatures were growing louder. They were running out of time.

“We’re going to die,” Penelope whispered, her voice shaking.

“No, we’re not!” Eloise snapped, her voice cutting through Penelope’s panic. “We just need to—”

Before she could finish, one of the infected lunged toward them, clawing at the air. Geneviève screamed and stumbled back, nearly falling into Penelope.

“Go!” Edwina shouted, pointing toward another direction. The group bolted, weaving through overturned chairs and scattered books.

“This way!” Eloise yelled, spotting another door at the far end of the library.

But as they neared it, another infected student crashed through the shelves, cutting them off. The group skidded to a halt, panic gripping them.

“We’re trapped!” Geneviève said, her voice breaking.

“No, we’re not!” Eloise grabbed Edwina and Geneviève by the arms, pulling them toward a narrow aisle between the shelves.

“Penelope, come on!”

Penelope started to follow, but the press of bodies and the infected overwhelmed her. She tripped over a fallen chair, landing hard on her knees.

“Wait!” she cried, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of terror around her.

Eloise, Edwina, and Geneviève disappeared into the chaos, leaving Penelope alone.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked around, searching for a way out. The infected were closing in, their bloodied faces twisted with hunger.

Then she saw it—a window high up on the wall, its latch barely visible.

Penelope’s breath caught. It was her only chance.

She scrambled toward a nearby desk, clambering onto its surface. Her hands trembled as she reached for the window latch, her fingers slipping.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

The infected surged closer, their snarls echoing in her ears. She could feel the heat of their presence, the stink of blood and decay making her stomach churn.

Finally, the latch gave way, and she shoved the window open just as the first infected lunged for her. Penelope quickly climbed through the opening, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She fell hard onto the ground outside, the breath knocked out of her lungs.

For a moment, she lay there, stunned. Then she heard it—the pounding of fists and the gnashing of teeth as the infected pressed against the window, their hands clawing through the opening.

Fuck.

She scrambled back, her entire body shaking. The snarling faces pressed against the glass and the disfigured hands reaching through the opening were a nightmare come to life.

Dragging herself to her feet, Penelope ran.

Her chest heaved with each breath as she raced through the school trying to find somewhere safe.

But everywhere she turned, the creatures were there. They poured out of classrooms like a flood, their guttural snarls echoing through the corridors. On the oval, they hunted their prey relentlessly, tearing after panicked students who stumbled in their desperate attempts to escape.

Screams pierced the air, sharp and fleeting, as one by one, students were dragged down. The cries ended abruptly, swallowed by the horrific sounds of tearing flesh and savage growls.

What the hell is happening?!

Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, each one burning her throat as she weaved through the chaos and screams. The world around her was a dizzying haze of grey stone, dead grass, and the grotesque sprawl of bloodied bodies.

Her foot suddenly caught on something—a limb, a bag, she couldn’t tell.

Penelope let out a sharp cry as she fell forward, slamming onto the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Pain exploded in her palms and knees, but panic surged harder, forcing her to scramble upright.

She didn’t make it.

A feral snarl erupted behind her as one of the infected lunged. Its weight bore down on her, pinning her halfway to the ground.

Penelope screamed, her voice raw with terror, as she tried to claw herself away. The creature’s filthy, bloodstained hands locked around her ankle, yanking her back with unnatural strength. Its mouth snapped inches from her leg, dark blood streaking its face as it hissed and growled.

“Get off me!” she sobbed, thrashing desperately. She kicked out as hard as she could, but it barely faltered. Her body twisted and writhed, her foot slamming into its chest, its shoulder—but it didn’t let go. If anything, the creature seemed to tighten its grip, dragging her closer.

Tears blurred her vision as she screamed, clawing at the pavement with shaking hands. Her nails splintered, the jagged edges cutting into her skin, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t let it end like this.

The monster loomed over her, its face a grotesque mask of blood and hunger. Its jaws stretched wide, dripping crimson threads that hit the pavement.

This was it.

She was going to die.

Then came a loud crack. The creature’s head snapped to the side, blood spraying as it crumpled to the ground.

“Penelope!”

Penelope looked up, her breath hitching.

Colin Bridgerton stood over her, a cricket bat wrapped in barbed wire gripped tightly in his hands, his uniform splattered with blood.

“Pen,” he breathed, his voice steady despite the madness around them. “Are you hurt?”

He grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. Penelope could barely shake her head. Her hands trembled as she clutched at his arm, her sobs stifled by the sheer force of adrenaline

“Stay close to me,” Colin commanded, gripping the bat tightly.

He suddenly pulled her along as they raced through the carnage.

The schoolyard was a battleground. Screams echoed in every direction as students fled, others were dragged down. Blood pooled across the cracked pavement, streaking walls and staining the air with a metallic tang.

Colin swung his bat with brutal precision whenever an infected lunged too close, each hit followed by a sickening crunch. Penelope struggled to keep up, her chest heaving with each step.

“Where—where are we going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t out here!” Colin snapped, his voice edged with panic. “Just keep running.”

They reached the building's entrance, the glass doors wide open and splattered with bloody handprints. Colin pulled Penelope through, slamming the doors shut behind them.

The corridors inside were worse. Bodies littered the hallways, some slumped lifelessly against lockers, others half-eaten, their glassy eyes staring into nothing. The infected prowled and shrieked, lunging at anyone still alive.

“This way!” Colin barked, dragging Penelope towards the stairwell. They sprinted up the steps, their footfalls echoing sharply against the stone.

On the second-floor landing, two infected spotted them. Colin shoved Penelope behind him as they charged. He swung his bat in a wide arc, taking down one with a sickening crack to the temple, but the second lunged too fast. It slammed into him, nails raking across his shoulder.

“Colin!” Penelope screamed, her heart seizing.

Colin twisted, slamming the bat into the creature’s side, sending it tumbling down the stairs. “Go!” he shouted, his voice ragged.

They bolted, racing up to the third level. More infected appeared with each step, relentless in their pursuit of them. The stairwell was too narrow, too suffocating. Penelope’s vision blurred.

“Stay close!” Colin yelled. His hand never left hers, his grip unyielding.

When they reached the third floor, the infected surged from every corner, their guttural growls reverberating through the corridor. Colin swung wildly, taking down one, then another, but they kept coming.

“Pen, get back!” he shouted, his voice strained as he fended off another attacker. Blood splattered across his shirt as he slammed the bat into the nearest creature, but it wasn’t enough. They were surrounded, the hallway closing in. 

Penelope’s gaze darted frantically as panic took over. Her eyes locked on the red fire extinguisher mounted on the wall.

“Colin!” she shouted, darting towards it. Her fingers fumbled as she tore it from its holder. She yanked the pin free and turned back, heart pounding.

With a wild scream, she sprayed the extinguisher directly at the infected. The white cloud of foam burst forth, disorienting the creatures. They staggered, their clawed hands flailing blindly, and Colin seized the opportunity to swing the bat with brutal efficiency.

“That’s it Pen, keep going!” he shouted, his voice tight with effort.

Penelope didn’t reply, too focused on keeping the foam steady. The creatures shrieked and stumbled back, giving them just enough space to break through.

“Come on!” Colin yelled, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down the corridor, the bat still clutched in his other hand.

Penelope barely registered the fire extinguisher slipping from her grasp, the metal canister clattering to the ground with a dull thud. She didn’t stop to pick it up. They didn’t stop for anything. Not for the cries, the chaos, or the bodies littering their path. Her chest ached, her legs threatening to give out, but Colin’s unwavering grip kept her moving.

They raced down the hallway, their frantic footfalls echoing over the distant screams. Colin gripped the cricket bat tightly, his knuckles white.

“Just keep going,” Colin urged, glancing over his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Penelope’s legs burned, her whole body trembling from adrenaline and fear. Every door they passed was either locked or already overrun. They were going to die here. They both knew it.

“Colin!” Penelope gasped, clutching his arm and pointing to a classroom door ahead. The blinds were drawing over the windows, but movement flickered in the small glass pane set into the door, shadows shifting just out of sight. Survivors.

“There!” she cried.

Without hesitation, they sprinted for the door. Colin reached it first and slammed this fist against it. “Hey! Open up! Let us in!”

Penelope pressed her palms flat against the glass, her tear-streaked face inches away from it. “Please! Please, open the door!” Her voice cracked as she choked back sobs.

The door remained stubbornly shut. Inside, they could hear shuffling and muttered voices, but no one moved to open it.

“Damn it! Open the bloody door!” Colin shouted, his voice fierce, laced with urgency. He pounded the door again, harder this time. “We’re not one of them! We’re not—listen to me! You have to help us”

A face appeared behind the glass—Alfred Debling.

“Debling!” Colin shouted. “It’s me! Colin! Open the fucking door!”

“I—I can’t!” Alfred stammered, his voice muffled by the thick door. His eyes darted nervously down the hallway, then back at Colin. “We’re not letting anyone else in.”

“We’re not infected!” Colin hissed. “But we will be if you don’t open the damn door!”

“They’re coming!” Penelope cried as she grabbed the door handle, twisting and pulling with frantic desperation. It didn’t budge. She slammed her palm against the door, her fingers trembling as she struggled to force it open. “Please! Please, I don’t want to die out here!” 

“Debling, open the door!” Colin shouted, his voice tight with urgency. “Those things are almost here—” 

Penelope turned her head sharply, her breath catching at the sight down the hallway. The infected were surging toward them, their grotesque features bathed in the flickering hallway light. Bloodied hands reached out, teeth gnashing as they closed the distance faster than she’d ever thought possible. 

She screamed, pure terror ripping from her throat. “Open the door!” Her hands still scrambling at the doorknob, her grip slipping as sweat slicked her palms. Her heart thundered against her ribs, the sound of pounding feet and guttural groans filling her ears. 

The door remained locked. Penelope pulled harder, her panic mounting as the world around her dissolved. “Please!” she sobbed, her voice breaking. Tears blurred her vision as she begged, her words tumbling out in raw desperation. “Don’t let me die out here!” 

“Debling!” Colin roared, his voice tinged with panic.

Before Debling could respond, Penelope threw her shoulder against the door, banging against it with all her remaining strength. The door rattled under the impact, but it didn’t give.

“Open it! Open it!” she sobbed, her voice hoarse as she desperately tried to twist the handle again, her eyes frantic, her hands trembling uncontrollably.

Colin’s voice cut through the noise, his words fierce. “If you don’t open this door, we’re both dead!”

Suddenly, the lock clicked. The door swung open, and Colin grabbed Penelope, hauling her inside just as the infected reached the threshold. He kicked the door shut behind them and braced his body against it, chest heaving.

“You’re a right bastard Debling, you know that?” Colin mumbled, catching his breath.

Penelope collapsed against the nearest wall, her hands trembling as she covered her face. A sob broke free, followed by another; her relief so intense it left her shaking. For a moment, the sound of her tears was the only thing that cut through the oppressive silence of the room.

Colin dropped the bat and knelt beside her, his arms wrapping around her trembling frame. “You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the tremor in it. “You’re okay, Pen. I’ve got you.”

She clung to him, her fingers clutching at his shirt as though letting go would mean he’d disappear. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, but slowly, the solid warmth of Colin’s presence began to calm her.

From across the room, Alfred stood awkwardly, his pale face etched with guilt and fear. “I—I wasn’t sure…” he began weakly, his voice faltering under Colin’s glare.

Colin didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on Penelope, his hand gently rubbing her back as her sobs quieted. Before either of them could say a word, Colin was shoved aside with surprising force.

“Pen!” Eloise cried, throwing her arms around her best friend.

Penelope froze for a moment, her body stiff with shock. Then, as Eloise’s grip tightened and she felt the familiar warmth of her friend, Penelope’s composure broke. She clung to Eloise like a lifeline.

“You’re alive,” Penelope cried, her voice breaking.

Eloise was crying too, and for a moment, the outside world didn’t exist. It was just the two of them holding onto each other, trembling from the weight of what they’d survived.

“Hello?” Colin’s voice interrupted, loud and faux-annoyed. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

Eloise sniffled, pulling back from Penelope just enough to glance at her brother with a withering look. “You’re alive too? Pity.”

Despite her sarcasm, Eloise stepped forward and embraced him tightly, the relief evident in her trembling arms. “Thank you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “For saving her.”

Colin smirked, a flicker of his usual humour shining through. “I mean, it wasn’t easy, but I guess I’ve always been the hero type.”

Eloise rolled her eyes but gave him another quick squeeze before stepping aside as Edwina and Geneviève hurried over.

“Penelope!” Edwina exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion as she pulled Penelope into a warm hug. Geneviève joined in, wrapping an arm around them both.

Penelope’s tears hadn’t yet dried, but she managed a weak smile as her friends’ familiar faces surrounded her. The fear from moments ago seemed to lessen in their presence, though it still lingered in the corners of her mind.

On the other side of the room, Francesca—Colin and Eloise’s younger sister—rushed forward and threw her arms around Colin. “I thought—” she began, her voice breaking. “I thought you were gone.”

Colin froze for a moment, his eyes wide as he realised who was hugging him. “Frannie?” he breathed, his voice cracking. He pulled her back slightly, gripping her shoulders as if to make sure she was real. “What are you doing here? How—how did you even get out? You were on the other side of the school.”

Before Francesca could respond, Michael Stirling stepped forward, his face streaked with grime but his expression resolute. “I found her,” he said. “In the music room when it started. She was hiding in one of the cupboards.”

Colin’s eyes flicked to Michael, his gratitude evident even through his shock. “You got her out?”

Michael nodded. “Wasn’t easy, but yeah. We ran like hell.”

Francesca clung tighter to Colin, her voice muffled against his chest. “It was so loud, and I didn’t know where anyone was. If Michael hadn’t come…” Her words trailed off, but the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air.

Colin swallowed hard, pulling her into another fierce hug. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Michael gave a small, reassuring nod, but his jaw tightened as he glanced at the window. “Safe is relative right now, though.”

Colin’s expression hardened, but he didn’t let go of Francesca. “We’ll figure it out,” he said firmly, though a faint tremor in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

For a moment, his composure faltered. The tension in his shoulders eased as his mind drifted to the chaos outside—the horrifying images of friends and classmates overtaken by those… things. He clenched his jaw, pushing down the memory of their screams, the way their hands had clawed against locked doors.

His grip on Francesca tightened as his thoughts drifted back to the moment Penelope had almost been bitten. She’d tripped, and before she could scramble to her feet, one of those things had been on her. The image was burned into his mind—her wide, terrified eyes, her scream echoing in his ears. His fragile façade of control cracked.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Colin?” Francesca asked, her voice small as she looked up at him.

“I’m fine, Frannie,” Colin reassured her, resting his chin on the top of her head. His tone softened, but his grip around her was protective, unyielding. His eyes flicked across the room, landing on Penelope. The tension in his face eased slightly, his gaze lingering as he added, “We’re fine.”

The fragile moment suddenly shattered when a sharp, nasal voice cut through the room.

“You shouldn’t have let them in,” Cressida Cowper whined from her perch near the back of the room. “She could’ve been infected. And what happens to us if she is? It’s reckless! Utterly reckless!”

Penelope stiffened, the sound of Cressida’s voice like nails on a chalkboard. Her blood ran cold as she felt every set of eyes in the room turn toward her. Eloise immediately stepped closer, bristling like an angry cat.

“Shut it, Cowper,” Eloise snapped, her tone venomous. “You’re still breathing, so maybe show some gratitude.” Cressida huffed and crossed her arms but fell silent under Eloise’s glare.

Penelope tried to shake it off, instead scanning the room to see who else had made it. There were maybe 11 of them, including Colin and herself. Friends and familiar faces from classes and hallways—Alfred Debling, Cressida Cowper, Margret Goring, Micheal, Theo, Fran, El, Gen, and Eddie.

Penelope felt sick. There weren’t very many of them at all.

Theo’s voice broke the tense quiet. “How bad is it out there?” he asked, his tone a mix of fear and curiosity.

Penelope hesitated, her throat tightening. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She had no words for the horrors she’d witnessed.

Colin stepped forward, his face grim. “It’s bad,” he said simply.

Without another word, he moved to the window. The others followed, hesitating as they peered outside.

The scene on the oval was worse than anything Penelope had imagined. Bodies littered the ground, their forms twisted and lifeless. The infected were everywhere, swarming like a tide of death. Students screamed as they were dragged down, bitten, and torn apart. Some of the fallen twitched unnaturally, their movements jerky, bones cracking as they began to turn.

“Dear God,” Alfred muttered, his face pale.

Penelope pressed a hand to her mouth, her stomach churning. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so horrific in her life.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Colin said, his voice low but steady. “They’ll find their way in eventually.”

Penelope’s eyes remained glued to the bloodbath outside, her heart pounding as the reality of their situation settled over her like a suffocating weight.

Suddenly, the sound of pounding fists echoed through the room. The door handle rattled violently, and everyone froze. Penelope’s heart lodged in her throat as she turned toward the door.

In the small glass window, Philip Crane’s pale, sweat-soaked face appeared, his eyes wide with desperation. He mouthed something, his words muffled by the thick door.

“It’s Philip!” Eloise cried, rushing toward the door.

“Don’t you dare open it!” Cressida screeched, grabbing Eloise’s arm. “We can’t let anyone else in!”

Eloise shook her off with a glare. “He’s not infected!”

Ignoring Cressida’s protests, Eloise unlocked the door and pulled it open. Philip stumbled inside, clutching his side and gasping for air. Everyone quickly moved to him.

“Philip, are you okay? What happened?” Colin asked, his brow furrowed.

Philip shook his head, too breathless to respond.

Edwina glanced nervously around the group. “What is happening out there? What are those things?”

Colin rubbed the back of his neck, looking lost. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I think I do.” Michael stirred from where he was standing by the window. “Have any of you seen Dead Set?”

Theo blinked at him. “Are you talking about that old show from, like, twenty years ago? The one where zombies take over England and a film crew is like… trapped?”

“Exactly,” Michael said with a grim nod.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eloise groaned. She folded her arms, giving Michael a look. “You watch way too much TV. Zombies aren’t real.”

Michael turned toward the window and gestured for the group to follow him. “Look at them. They’re fast, they’re relentless, and they don’t stop until they get to you. It’s zombies.”

The group hesitated but slowly moved to the window again. Colin stood close to Penelope as they peered down at the massacre. The infected swarmed, piling over one another to reach the few survivors still running.

Penelope swallowed hard. “Zombies,” she whispered, the word foreign and terrible in her mouth.

Eloise let out a shaky laugh. “This can’t be real,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Michael’s expression was grim. “It’s real.”

“What does this mean for us?” Geneviève whispered, clutching Edwina’s arm.

Before anyone could respond, a loud bang made everyone jump. A hand slammed against the windowpane, and Penelope gasped, stumbling back.

It was Charles Cho, clinging to the ledge with a wild, panicked expression. Marina Thompson was just below him, gripping the frame and glaring into the room.

“Let us in!” Charles yelled, his voice muffled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eloise mutters when she sees Marina. “Of all the people to survive…”

Colin raced to the window and struggled to open it. With a hard shove, the window gave way, and Colin leaned out, grabbing Charles by the arm and pulling him inside. Once Charles collapsed onto the floor, Colin helped Marina climb through the window.

“Bloody hell, Cho,” Colin said, laughing in disbelief at his friend. “What the hell were you doing scaling the side of the building? We’re on the third floor.”

Charles groaned, laying flat on the floor to catch his breath.

Before he could answer, Marina spoke, her voice laced with sarcastic sweetness. “Oh, we just fancied the view. Plus, scaling walls seemed much more fun than being eaten alive.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of her words settling over them like a fog.

A sudden, bone-rattling crash shattered the moment, pulling everyone's attention to the door and the windows that looked out into the hallway. The blinds, though drawn, did little to obscure the horrifying sight outside.

Dozens of infected pressed against the glass, their bloodied faces twisted with mindless hunger. Hands, stripped of skin and smeared with gore, slapped against the windows, leaving bloody handprints. Fists pounded relentlessly on the door, each impact echoing through the room. The glass rattled dangerously in its frame, threatening to break under the force of the assault. There were more of them now—far more than before.

Penelope backed away, trembling. “What do we do?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the relentless banging.

No one had an answer.

Chapter Text

The door rattled violently, each slam echoing through the room as the undead clawed and battered against the door, desperate to break through.

Francesca began to cry, her small frame shaking with silent sobs. Colin was by her side in an instant, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and soothing. “It’s going to be okay, Frannie. I promise.”

Francesca clung to him, burying her face in his chest as he stroked her hair.

“You’re safe now,” Colin reassured her, his tone firm. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Penelope watched Colin, her chest tightening. She had loved him for as long as she could remember—since they were children playing in the garden, his laughter like sunlight cutting through the clouds.

Even now, in the middle of this nightmare, he was still him. Still kind, still selfless, still throwing himself into the role of protector without a thought for his own safety. Her heart gave a traitorous flutter as she took him in—his steady voice, his determined stance, the way he shielded the group as though it were second nature.

It was moments like this that reminded her why she’d never been able to stop loving him, no matter how much it hurt.

“Come on, we need to barricade the windows and doors. We can’t let them break through,” Alfred said, his voice steady but urgent. It was the first time he’d properly spoken since letting Colin and Penelope inside, and his words spurred the group into action.

Without waiting for a response, he moved toward the wall of windows, shoving a heavy desk against the glass. He tipped another on its side and stacked it on top, his movements quick and efficient.

As the others worked to help, Marina drifted over to Penelope, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. She leaned casually against the desk Penelope was standing near, her presence instantly unsettling.

“Well, well,” Marina began, her voice feigned with sweetness. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to see you alive, Piglet.”

Penelope stiffened, her breath hitching. She avoided Marina’s gaze, staring down at her trembling hands instead.

Marina chuckled softly. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s impressive, really. I mean, you’re not exactly the survival type, are you?”

Penelope’s stomach twisted. She knew what Marina was doing. It was the same old game, the same calculated cruelty wrapped in mock concern.

Marina tilted her head, her tone turning mockingly thoughtful. “Honestly, I figured you’d be one of the first to go. All that crying and stammering you always do? I thought for sure the zombies would eat you alive.”

“Stop,” Penelope whispered, her voice barely audible.

Marina ignored her. Instead, she leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Speaking of eating alive, you’ll never guess who showed me a little something earlier. Fife.” She smiled, her eyes glinting with malice.

Penelope’s chest tightened.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Marina said with a laugh. “He made sure I got the full show. That little video Wilding took? The one where Fife was…” She trailed off, her smile growing sharper. “Well, you know what he was doing. Hands all over you, saying the filthiest things. It’s honestly amazing how red your face got.”

Penelope felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Her legs wobbled, and she gripped the desk for support.

“You should’ve seen the look on your face,” Marina continued, her voice coated in fake sympathy. “God, Piglet, you’re so easy to wind up.”

“Why are you doing this?” Penelope choked out, her voice shaking.

Marina shrugged, her expression nonchalant. “I’m just making conversation. I mean, it’s not my fault you’re always an easy target. You practically beg for it.”

Penelope’s throat tightened, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. Her mind flashed back to Reginald’s leering grin, Eric’s cruel laughter, and Charles just standing there, doing nothing. The humiliation burned anew, and tears welled in her eyes.

Marina wasn’t done. “And Colin,” she added with a sly grin. “You really think he’s going to save you every time? You’re delusional, Piglet. He probably pities you more than anything. I mean, look at you.”

Penelope’s breath came in shallow gasps. Her entire body felt like it was on fire, the sting of Marina’s words cutting deeper than she’d thought possible.

Before she could respond, Colin’s voice cut through the tension. “Everything okay over here?”

Penelope flinched, snapping her head up to see Colin and Charles approaching.

Marina didn’t miss a beat, turning toward them with an innocent smile. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Right, Penny?” Her voice was syrupy sweet, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

Penelope’s lips trembled, but she forced herself to nod. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper.

Colin’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face as he glanced between the two of them. Marina, however, simply stepped back, giving Penelope a mocking pat on the shoulder.

“Good to see you’re holding up,” Marina said, her tone light and airy. Then, with a final smirk, she sauntered off.

Penelope stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving as she fought back the tears threatening to spill.

Colin hesitated, his gaze lingering on her. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nodded again, unable to meet his eyes. “I just… I need a minute,” she mumbled, before quickly walking over to the rest of the group.

From across the room, Marina glanced over her shoulder, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

Colin’s eyes tracked Marina as she moved, the satisfaction on her face grating against his nerves. With a sigh, he strode after her, catching up just as she leaned casually against the wall, inspecting her nails.

“What’s your problem with Penelope?” Colin asked, his tone low but firm.

Marina barely looked up, her expression carefully neutral. “I don’t have a problem with her.”

Colin scoffed. “Right. That’s why you keep calling her names and smirking like you’re in on some joke. You’ve been like this with her for years, Marina. Cut it out.”

Marina finally met his gaze, her lips curling into an indignant pout. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Little Penny’s just scared and exhausted—aren’t we all?” She tilted her head, her voice dripping with faux concern.

Colin crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “Don’t call her that.”

Marina sighed dramatically, pushing off the wall. “You’re always so defensive when it comes to her. Maybe you should worry less about what I’m saying and more about keeping everyone alive. Or does your little crush on Penny take priority?”

His jaw clenched, but before he could respond, she sidestepped him with a dismissive wave, rejoining the group.

“Unbelievable,” Colin muttered under his breath before following.

The group, now finished with their blockade, were now clustered near the outside windows. Philip rubbed his temples, a strained expression on his face. “We can’t just sit here,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “We need a plan. What do we do next?”

“We could try to create a safe zone,” Margret suggested tentatively. “Block off the windows and doors properly, maybe even reinforce them. I doubt they’ll last with only desks and chairs pushed up against them. Then we stay quiet until help arrives.”

“And what if no one comes?” Theo countered, his tone sharp. “That’s not a plan; that’s just waiting to die.”

“Maybe we could climb down the side of the building,” Charles suggested.

Eloise let out a sharp scoff, crossing her arms. “Oh, brilliant plan,” she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure the zombies will happily form an orderly queue and cheer us on as we dangle ourselves down like bait.”

The group lapsed into a momentary silence.

Penelope hesitated before speaking up. “What about a phone? If we could find one, we could call for help.”

Cressida, perched irritably on a desk, let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, please. Everyone has to hand their phones into the front office. How exactly do you think we can get there?”

Penelope glanced at her, her brow furrowed. “Not everyone actually hands theirs in. Some people give fake ones or don’t bother at all.”

The group exchanged glances, the idea settling in.

“That’s not bad,” Theo admitted. “There’s got to be at least one person in this classroom who kept theirs.”

Colin turned to Penelope, a small smile breaking through his grim expression. “That’s a great idea, Pen.”

Penelope blinked, momentarily stunned by the praise, before nodding. “Thanks. We’ll need to move quickly if we’re going to find one.”

The group spread out cautiously, searching through desks and forgotten school bags. The tension was palpable, every creak of the floorboards and distant echo from the halls putting them on edge. 

“Found one!” Genevieve called from across the room, holding up a sleek smartphone. The group gathered around her quickly, curiosity and hope lighting their faces. 

Genevieve tapped the screen, frowning. “It’s locked.” 

Philip leaned in, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. Emergency numbers still work, even on a locked phone.” He pressed the emergency call option and dialled 999, switching it to speaker as the group held their collective breath. 

The line rang twice before a voice answered. “Emergency services, what’s your location and the nature of your emergency?” 

Genevieve, her voice trembling slightly, said, “We’re at St. George’s Private Academy. There’s—there’s been an attack! People are getting hurt and turning into—” 

“Zombies,” Michael interjected dramatically, stepping closer to the phone. “It’s a full-on apocalypse, mate. You ever seen the show Dead Set? It’s just like that—” 

Eloise smacked the back of his head, glaring. “You’re making it worse!” 

The voice on the other end paused, then sighed audibly. “Look, kids, I don’t know what kind of prank you’re pulling, but this is an emergency line. It’s illegal to waste our time. I suggest you get somewhere safe, and try not to get bitten by your imaginary zombies. Goodbye.” 

The line went dead with a harsh beep. 

Francesca, clutching Colin’s arm tightly, spoke up, her voice breaking. “We need help! They can’t just ignore us like this!” 

Eloise, her face pale with frustration, reached for the phone. “Try again. Someone has to listen.” 

Philip redialled the number, but every attempt was met with scepticism or outright dismissal. “Another prank call? Right,” one operator sneered before hanging up. 

Penelope frowned, her mind racing. “They’re not going to believe us if we mention zombies.” 

Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “Then what do we do? Just sit here and wait for them to break through?” 

“No,” Penelope said firmly, her voice steadier than she felt. She took the phone from Genevieve and typed in a new number. 

“What are you doing?” Colin asked, watching her intently. 

“Calling the fire department,” Penelope replied. The phone rang, and a gruff voice answered. 

“Fire and Rescue. What’s your emergency?” 

“There’s a massive fire at St. George’s Private Academy,” Penelope said quickly, her words clipped but deliberate. “It’s spreading fast. We’re trapped inside with nowhere to go. You need to send help immediately.” 

The voice on the other end became serious. “A fire? You’re at St. George’s?” 

“Yes,” Penelope lied smoothly, her heart pounding. “Please, we need help right away!” 

The operator responded, “Alright, stay where you are. We’re dispatching a team now.” 

As the call ended, Penelope exhaled shakily, handing the phone back to Genevieve. 

“You lied,” Eloise said, half in shock and half in admiration. 

Penelope met her gaze evenly. “I had no choice. If it gets them here, then it’s worth it.” 

Colin stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. His soft and steady, filled with a mix of pride and adoration. “You’re bloody brilliant, Pen.”

Penelope’s heart fluttered, a shy smile pulling at her lips as she looked up at him. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything around them seemed to fade into the background.

Then, a low, guttural groan broke through the fleeting stillness, followed by a deafening bang on the door. Penelope flinched, her head snapping toward the source of the noise as reality came crashing back in. Time was running out.

Chapter Text

The school canteen buzzed with the usual midday chaos—voices overlapping, trays clattering, the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The scent of cheap cafeteria food clung to the air, mixing with the faint trace of sweat and old textbooks. It was a place of routine, of monotony. A cage Fife had long since grown tired of.

Reginald Fife lounged in his seat, legs stretched out, idly spinning his fork between his fingers as his gaze flicked over the students around him. Groups clustered together, laughing, gossiping, pretending their lives meant something. It was pathetic.

“This place is unbearable,” he muttered, stabbing a piece of food with unnecessary force. His voice was lazy, but the disdain was impossible to miss. “It’s like watching livestock shuffle around, completely oblivious to the fact they’ll be slaughtered the moment they step outside these walls.”

Wilding smirked from across the table, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

Fife scoffed. “Am I wrong? This school is a prison filled with idiots who think high school is the peak of existence. I can’t wait to be rid of them.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “Look at them—every single one convinced they’re going to make something of themselves. Meanwhile, they’ll be stuck working some dead-end job, clinging to the glory days like they meant something.”

Cho snorted, peeling the label off his water bottle. “And you think you’re any different?”

Fife smirked. “I know I am.”

Marina, sitting beside him, let out a quiet hum of amusement as she idly stirred her drink. “Ah, yes. The great Reginald Fife, destined for bigger and better things. Tell me, darling, how does one escape the tragedy of being so much better than everyone else?”

Fife turned to her with a slow grin. “By making sure they all know it.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smirk played at her lips as she took a slow sip of her drink.

Wilding tilting his head. “So, what’s the plan? Graduate and vanish into thin air?”

“The moment I walk out of this godforsaken school, I’m gone.” Fife leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Unlike the rest of these poor souls, I actually have options. Unlike Bridgerton, I won’t be stuck playing golden boy for the rest of my life.”

At the mention of Colin, Marina stiffened ever so slightly.

Wilding smirked. “Still no idea about you two, huh?”

Fife’s grin widened. “Not a clue. And if she’s smart, he never will.”

Marina shot him a sharp look. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act like I have no say in this.”

“Oh, you do, sweetheart.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it. “You just happen to agree with me.”

She said nothing, sipping her drink instead.

 “Not like it’d be the first time.” Wilding grinned.

“True. Some people just have a habit of coming around to my way of thinking.” Fife winked at Marina.

She shot him a look, unimpressed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah? Didn’t seem to bother you much when you were sneaking around behind Bridgerton’s back,” Wilding muttered.

Marina rolled her eyes, taking another sip. “I broke up with him, didn’t I?”

“Eventually.” Fife smiled.

Cho let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Cold.”

Marina huffed. “Oh, please. Colin and I were over long before I ended it. I just... sped things up.”

Wilding raised a brow. “By cheating on him?”

Marina shot him a glare. “By realising I wanted something else.” She shifted her gaze back to Fife, her lips curving slightly. “Someone else.”

Fife grinned. “And look where that got you.”

“Look where that got Colin,” Wilding corrected, a laugh in his voice.

Fife chuckled. “Yeah, poor bastard never saw it coming. You should’ve seen it Charles.”

Cho raised a brow. “Messy?”

“Entertaining,” Fife corrected, his gaze flicking toward Wilding. “Speaking of entertainment…”

Wilding nodded, as if he knew exactly what was coming. “The video?”

Fife’s smirk sharpened. “What else?”

Marina, stirring her drink lazily, let out an unimpressed hum. “If you two are going to be cryptic, at least make it worth my time.” She shot Fife a curious look. “What video?”

Wilding glanced at Fife, waiting.

Fife took his time, stretching out the moment, enjoying the control of it. Then, with deliberate ease, he pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen a few times before turning it toward Marina. "You’ll like this."

She leaned in, her curiosity mildly piqued. The screen lit up, and the video began to play. The shaky footage captured Penelope, wide-eyed and trembling, her voice breaking as she pleaded. The dim lighting of the shed made everything seem grainy, but the fear on her face was unmistakable. And then, Fife’s own voice, smooth and cruel, slithered through the speakers.

Marina let the video play a little longer, an amused glint flickering in her expression. “Wow,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. "She looks like some little mouse caught in a trap. Could she be any more pathetic? I swear, it’s embarrassing we’re even related."

Fife chuckled. "She makes it too easy."

Wilding smirked, leaning back in his chair. "And she still shows up every day like she’s not the school’s favourite punching bag. You almost have to respect the delusion."

Marina scoffed, rolling her eyes. "She’s always been like this. Even when we were kids. Acting like keeping her head down will make her invisible. Like people won’t notice how pitiful she is."

Fife hummed in amusement. "It’s cute how she thinks she’s untouchable."

Marina’s lips curled into a smirk, her eyes flashing with something mean. "She’s not, though. Is she?"

Fife turned his phone back toward himself, tapping the screen to pause the video. The frozen image of Penelope’s tear-streaked face lingered for a moment before the screen went black.

“Alright,” Marina pressed, tilting her head. “What’s the grand plan? You didn’t show me this just to gloat."

Fife leaned back, turning the phone lazily in his hand, tapping his fingers against the back of it. "She’s going to pay me," he said casually, like it was a simple fact, already set in stone. "One way or another."

Marina arched a brow, unimpressed. "And what if she can’t?"

Fife’s smirked. "Then she’ll have to get creative." He tapped the screen, the darkened reflection of the paused video staring back at him. "She doesn’t have a choice. Her old man dug this hole, and since he decided to run, it’s on her to fill it."

Cho, arms crossed, exhaled through his nose. "You really think she’s got that kind of cash lying around?"

Fife chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course not. But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Keeping her on a leash. Watching her scramble. Watching her panic. I want her desperate." His grip tightened around the phone for a fraction of a second before he slipped it back into his pocket. "And when she realises she can’t win… when she’s wrung out every last favour, every last ounce of dignity, and still comes up short—then I’ll show her just how worthless begging really is."

Marina took a slow sip of her drink. "You’re dragging this out for nothing. If she can’t pay, she can’t pay. I mean, what happens when you stop?"

"Who said anything about stopping?" Fife’s grin widened. "I’ll get what I want, and when I do… maybe I’ll be feeling generous. Maybe I’ll let her off the hook. Or maybe I’ll post the video anyway. Teach her a lesson about debts and consequences." He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, his amusement almost lazy. "Haven’t decided yet."

Wilding hummed, considering. "Bet Bridgerton would love to see it."

Fife laughed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Yeah. And so would the rest of the school."

A blood curdling scream suddenly tore through the air.

Fife exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face. Oh, for fuck’s sake. What now? His head snapped toward the source, expecting some overdramatic fight or an idiot making a scene.

Instead, every head in the canteen turned toward the entrance.

The doors burst open.

They came pouring in—bodies convulsing, mouths twisted in unnatural snarls, eyes wild with something vacant and wrong. Blood dripped from lips too red, hands too stiff, movements jerky and erratic—like puppets with broken strings.

The first one lunged, tearing into a boy’s shoulder with a sickening crunch, ripping flesh from bone. Blood spurted in an arc, painting the linoleum in thick crimson streaks. The boy’s scream curdled into a wet gurgle, his body twitching before collapsing. The creatures didn’t stop.

More of them poured in, a wave of teeth and gore. The canteen doors slammed open, students flooding out in blind desperation, but it wasn’t fast enough. The monsters were faster.

Fife’s pulse hammered.

A boy tripped beside him, scrambling on all fours to get up. Fife didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the kid by the collar and shoved him backward. The infected collided with him instantly, dragging him down in a blur of claws and snapping jaws.

The perfect distraction.

Fife moved quickly. The screams, the blood, the relentless, gnashing teeth—it all blurred into a frenzied mess.

“Fife!” Marina’s voice. Distant.

He turned, eyes scanning the crowd, but he couldn’t see her. The panic swallowed everything whole. She was gone.

A sharp movement to his right—

Another one lunging. Too close.

Fife’s hand shot out—grabbed the nearest body.

A girl. Small. Younger. Her eyes wide with terror.

He didn’t think. He acted.

With a ruthless yank, he pulled her in front of him just as the infected crashed into them, its jaws clamping down on her arm. Her shriek sliced through the noise, high and raw, but Fife was already moving, slipping away while she was being torn apart.

No hesitation. No guilt.

He darted toward the exit, nearly colliding with a panicked group trying to shove through the doorway. The infected were on them in seconds, screams choking into dying gurgles. Blood sprayed the walls, pooling under thrashing bodies. The doorway was lost—blocked, drowned in carnage.

No escape that way.

Fife’s head snapped around, scanning the chaos for something—someone—useful. His eyes locked on Wilding, stumbling near an overturned table, his face pale, blood smeared across his cheek.

Fife shoved past a panicked group of students, reaching Wilding in two strides. He grabbed his arm, yanking him upright. “Move! Now!”

Wilding barely had time to register before Fife dragged him forward, barrelling through the scrambling bodies. The canteen was collapsing into madness, the infected tearing through students with sickening ease. Fife didn’t slow—he shoved past the screaming, the bloodied hands reaching for help.

And when an opening wasn’t there, he made one.

A boy stumbled in front of him, terror frozen on his face. Fife grabbed him and threw him backward. The infected lunged instantly, dragging the kid down in a flurry of snapping teeth and flailing limbs. Fife didn’t look back.

He did it again. And again.

Survival. That was all that mattered.

Wilding clung to his arm, barely keeping pace, but Fife didn’t let go. He needed at least one person who wasn’t dead weight.

The kitchen doors loomed ahead, a narrow chance at safety. Staff inside were already moving, hands frantically reaching for the locks.

Fife threw himself forward, barrelling through the gap just as the heavy doors slammed shut behind them. Metal bolts clicked into place.

The kitchen was stark, sterile, the sharp scent of disinfectant and old grease mixing with the iron tang of blood still clinging to them.

Fife exhaled sharply, a fleeting moment of relief settling in his chest. But then—a low, guttural growl rumbled behind him, raw and inhuman.

His blood ran cold.

They weren’t alone.

A single infected had slipped through the doors with them.

It crashed into a cafeteria worker before she could even scream. The thing’s teeth tore into her neck with a sickening, wet crunch, flesh shredding beneath its jaws. Her body jerked violently, fingers clawing uselessly at the air as blood erupted in a thick, arterial spray, splattering across the steel counters and pooling on the tile floor.

The infected latched on tighter, gnawing, ripping, pulling away chunks of tissue like a rabid animal. A gurgling, strangled noise bubbled from the woman’s throat. The sound cut off as her legs gave out. The sickening sound of her body hitting the floor was almost drowned out by the relentless, wet slurping as the creature kept feasting.

Wilding grabbed Fife’s sleeve, yanking him backward. “Under the bench!”

Fife ducked low, shoving himself beneath the stainless steel worktable, Wilding cramming in beside him. Another student was already there, curled in on himself, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. His entire body shook, his wide, unblinking eyes locked on the gruesome scene playing out inches away.

Above them, heavy footsteps thudded against the tile. A chair scraped violently across the floor, sent skidding as the infected shifted its weight.

The creature's guttural snarls filled the cramped space, wet and animalistic, punctuated by the grotesque squelch of flesh being torn apart. The cafeteria worker gave one last, feeble twitch before going still, her body an unrecognisable mess of shredded tissue and pooling blood.

Wilding exhaled shakily, barely above a whisper. "We're fucked."

Chapter Text

They had been sitting in silence for hours now, waiting—listening. The zombies had faded into the background, drawn away by the absence of sound. The world outside was eerily still, as if holding its breath along with them.

Penelope sat on the cold floor, her back against the wall, knees drawn up. The phone they had used to call for help rested safely in her skirt pocket. Colin sat beside her, his hand wrapped firmly around hers. He hadn’t left her side since pulling her to safety, his thumb absently tracing slow circles against her skin. It was soothing, almost distracting. 

Almost.

She turned slightly, glancing at him. His face was tight with exhaustion, his brows drawn together in thought, but he caught her looking and offered a small, lopsided smile. "Still with me?"

Penelope let out a slow breath. "Barely."

Colin lightly squeezed her hand. "You’re doing good," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Just hold on a little longer."

For a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. Just him, warm and steady beside her, anchoring her in the world.

Then Cressida’s sharp voice shattered the quiet.

"We should call the police again," she blurted, pacing the room, her nails digging into her arms. "Maybe they’ll listen this time. Maybe—maybe they’ll send someone."

Penelope barely lifted her head, exhaustion pressing heavy on her limbs. "We’ve already called," she said, forcing her voice steady. "The fire department said they’d come. We just have to wait."

Cressida whirled around, frustration burning in her eyes. "You don’t know that! We can’t just sit here like waiting is a plan!"

"It’s the only plan we have!" Penelope shot back, her own nerves fraying.

"What if no one comes?" Cressida snapped. "What then? We just sit here and die? That’s your brilliant idea?"

"Shouting isn’t going to make them show up faster!" Eloise interjected.

Cressida scoffed. "Oh, of course you think this is fine. You always act like you know everything—"

"At least I know when to shut up!" Eloise snapped, eyes flashing.

A few of the others flinched, tension thickening like a storm ready to break.

Edwina sighed, rubbing her temples. "We all want help to get here faster, but arguing about it isn’t helping anyone."

Cressida let out a bitter laugh. "Right. So we just sit in silence and hope we don’t die. Great strategy."

"Enough!" Marina suddenly snapped, her voice cutting through the rising voices. "God, you’re all so loud!"

Too loud.

The realisation hit Penelope a second too late.

A low, wet growl.

The sound slithered through the air like a warning.

The room froze.

A shuffle of footsteps, slow and deliberate, moved outside. Then another. The soft scrape of nails dragged along the walls, a grotesque, unnatural sound. It grew, multiplying, a chorus of movement just beyond their sight.

The infected were waking up.

Then—

BANG.

The door shuddered violently on its hinges. A gasp ripped from one of the girls, a sharp, broken sound. Another impact followed, heavier, angrier.

BANG. BANG.

The windows rattled. Figures pressed against the glass, their distorted shapes barely visible through the cracks. Then—

A splintering snap.

Jagged lines fractured the windowpane, cracks webbing outward as fists slammed against the glass. Their breaths fogged up the surface, leaving behind a greasy smear of saliva and blood.

The door groaned, the wood bending under the pressure.

Penelope’s breath hitched. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.

The barricade wasn’t going to hold.

More infected joined the attack, their snarls filling the air, a horrible, hungry sound that vibrated through the walls.

The first crack echoed like a death sentence.

Panic erupted in the room.

"We’re going to die!" Cressida’s voice was shrill, shaking as she backed away from the door as if she could somehow outrun what was coming. "We’re all going to die in here!"

"Shut up!" Theo snapped, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Panicking isn’t going to help!"

"What else are we supposed to do?!" Marina spat, her voice sharp with hysteria. "Just sit here?!"

A furious slam rattled the barricade, sending a violent tremor through the room. The doorframe splintered further, deep cracks splintering through the wood. The infected clawed, shoved, their ravenous snarls growing louder, more desperate.

"We have to get out!" Francesca gasped, hands clenching into fists. "There has to be another way!"

Colin was already moving, eyes sweeping the room, searching—there. His gaze locked onto the back window. Small, but just big enough.

"The window!" he barked. "We can climb out!"

Penelope twisted toward it, her stomach lurching. Outside? They were on the upper floor. There was no ground to drop onto, only narrow ledges and panels running along the outer wall.

"That’s insane!" Cressida snapped. "We’ll fall!"

"Not if we move carefully!" Colin shot back. "It’s better than waiting for them to rip us apart!"

The barricade cracked again. They were out of time.

"Philip, go first!" Colin commanded. "Find us another room—somewhere we can barricade ourselves in!"

Philip hesitated for only a second before nodding. He scrambled onto the window ledge, gripping the brick carefully before sliding out, his feet balancing on the narrow strip of concrete that jutted out along the school’s exterior.

Colin turned back. "One at a time! Move fast but don’t rush it! If you slip, you’re gone!"

No one needed further convincing.

Theo was next, gripping the ledge with shaking fingers, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he edged along. Then Genevieve. Then Edwina, Cho, Marina, and Francesca. The wind howled against them, cold and sharp, the height making everything worse.

Inside, the barricade snapped.

Penelope flinched as the wooden door frame split apart. Cold, decayed fingers clawed through the widening gap, skin peeling, nails broken and jagged. A guttural screech tore through the air as the infected tried to shove their way inside.

"Go! Now!" Colin bellowed, shoving Michael toward the window. "Move, move!"

Michael scrambled through, then Eloise, then Cressida—everyone slipping into the open air, gripping the narrow ledge with terror.

Then, it was just Penelope and Colin.

"Pen, come on!" Colin turned, urgency burning in his eyes.

She hesitated. A second, maybe less. But he saw it.

"Don’t think," His voice was softer now, but firm. "I’ve got you."

Penelope swallowed hard, her throat tight, breath coming in ragged bursts. "Colin, I—"

"It’s ok. Just follow the others."

She didn't move. "I'm not leaving you."

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, unwavering. "You have to, Penelope. Keep moving. I'll be right behind you."

She hesitated, fear twisting in her gut. "Promise?"

His jaw tightened, his expression unreadable for a beat before he nodded once, firm and certain. "I promise."

Penelope swallowed hard, her chest tight. She didn't want to move, didn't want to leave him behind, but she forced herself to nod.

Slowly, she turned, stepping carefully onto the ledge. The cool air bit at her skin as she inched forward, following the others, her heart slamming against her ribs with every step.

Behind her, the last splinter of wood gave way with a deafening crack.

A horrifying screech tore through the air as the barricade finally collapsed, the door splintering apart into jagged shards. Penelope twisted her head back just in time to see the first infected shove its way through, its body lurching forward with unnatural speed.

Her stomach dropped. "Colin, hurry!" she screamed, panic seizing her chest as she pressed herself against the brick wall.

Colin was already moving, shoving himself fully out the window, his boots scraping against the narrow ledge just as the first infected lunged—

It missed.

Its momentum carried it straight through the open window, its decayed body tumbling into empty air. A second later, another one followed, screeching as it failed to stop itself. Then another. Bodies hit the pavement below with sickening, wet cracks.

But not all of them fell.

The remaining infected lurched to a stop, grasping wildly, their rotting hands stretching out, fingers clawing at the ledge, at Colin. At her.

Penelope sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her back flat against the wall.

Colin’s hand shot out, pressing against her shoulder. "Keep moving!" he barked, voice tight, urgent.

She forced her legs to move, inching forward along the ledge, her body trembling as she fought the overwhelming instinct to run or freeze.

The infected shrieked behind them, their fingers scraping violently against the brick, desperate to reach them.

Below, the ground was swarming with movement—dozens of them, their heads snapping up at the sound of bodies tumbling from above. The ones that had fallen weren’t even dead—could they even die?—their broken limbs twitching, bodies contorting unnaturally as they struggled to rise again. The others prowled the courtyard, their guttural moans twisting into something almost eager as they caught sight of the fresh prey scaling the school’s outer wall.

Penelope tried not to look, but the height was dizzying, the sight below threatening to unravel her. Her breaths came fast, too fast, each careful step along the ledge feeling more precarious than the last.

"We need to find somewhere now," Genevieve hissed, her voice shaking.

"Going down isn’t an option!" Theo gritted his teeth, glancing at the writhing horde below. "We’d be trapped!"

Philip’s voice rang out ahead. "I’m going up! There’s got to be a classroom we can get into. Hold on!"

He moved quickly, gripping the drainpipe with shaking fingers and pulling himself up, his feet searching for leverage against the brick. The metal groaned under his weight, but he didn’t hesitate, hauling himself up with sharp, efficient movements. His fingers clutched onto a window ledge on the fifth floor, and with one final push, he swung himself up and over, disappearing inside.

Seconds stretched, long and unbearable. Then—

"It’s clear! Come up! But be careful!"

Penelope swallowed hard, her throat bone-dry. The idea of climbing higher made her stomach churn, but the alternative was worse. One by one, the group began their ascent, hands gripping onto whatever they could—window frames, bricks jutting out, anything solid enough to hold their weight.

Eloise went first, her legs trembling as she pulled herself up. Then Michael. Then Cressida. Each movement was slow, calculated, the wind making everything feel even more unsteady.

Penelope’s fingers were slick with sweat as she reached for the drainpipe, her pulse hammering. Her feet scraped against the narrow ledge, searching for stability, but she forced herself to move. One grip, then another. Just like the others.

Then—

Her foot slipped.

The world tilted violently. Her stomach lurched as her fingers lost their hold, the cold air rushing past her ears.

From above the group watched in horror as Penelope’s body lurched downward. 

"PENELOPE!"

Eloise’s breath hitched, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the ledge. "No, no, no—"

A choked scream tore from Penelope’s throat—

And then she was caught.

Colin’s hands clamped onto her wrist with bruising force, his grip iron-tight. "I’ve got you!" His voice was raw, frantic.

Her other hand scrambled against the bricks, her feet dangling for a second too long. The ground swarmed with movement beneath her—infected bodies twisting unnaturally, heads snapping up at the sound of her scream. Fingers twitched, reaching, ready. Her heart slammed against her ribs, sheer terror choking her.

And then something slipped from her pocket.

The phone.

It tumbled downward, disappearing into the writhing mass of bodies below.

"Shit!" she gasped, panic flaring as she watched it vanish. "Shit, shit, shit—"

"Forget the phone!" Colin gritted his teeth, his fingers flexing against her wrist. "Hold onto me!"

Penelope forced her focus back up, her arms trembling as she reached for the ledge again. Colin shifted his weight, using every bit of his strength to keep her from falling. With one last desperate heave, he pulled her up, and she scrambled onto the ledge, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She clutched at the brick wall, her entire body shaking. The phone. Gone.

Their only connection to help. The only proof that someone was coming.

Colin crouched beside her, his breathing laboured. "Are you okay?"

She could only nod, her throat too tight to speak.

"Then we keep moving." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—a sharpness, a fear. "Come on."

Penelope swallowed hard and pushed forward, following the others up, her legs weak but moving. The snarls below grew louder, more frenzied.

When they finally reached the classroom, Philip was there helping the others climb inside one by one. As soon as Penelope's feet hit solid ground, she sagged against the nearest desk, her breaths coming in uneven gasps, her body trembling from the lingering fear.

Michael wasted no time rushing to the door, twisting the lock with a sharp click. "That should buy us time," he muttered, backing away, his hands shaking slightly. He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. "At least for now."

Penelope looked around, taking in their new sanctuary. The classroom was dimly lit by the weak daylight filtering through the outside windows. Desks were scattered haphazardly, some chairs knocked over as if students had left in a hurry. But the most important detail—there were no windows facing the hall. Only the door.

Eloise let out a breath, still catching it after the climb. "No windows.” She pointed out. “That’s probably for the best. No windows means less chance of something seeing us from the outside. It’s safer this way."

Philip nodded, still slightly breathless from his climb. "It’ll have to do for now. We just need to stay quiet. Unless you want them breaking that door down next."

No one spoke.

Chapter Text

Time passed in a strange, heavy silence. The air was thick with exhaustion, with the unspoken weight of everything that had just happened. Penelope sat on the floor near the back of the classroom, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. She watched the others, her mind distant, unfocused.

Philip paced near the door, his fingers twitching like he wanted to do something, anything, but there was nothing left to be done. Genevieve and Edwina sat on top of a desk together, murmuring in hushed voices, their heads tilted toward each other. Michael stood guard, ever the protector, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Eloise was sprawled across two chairs, pretending to be asleep, though Penelope could see her foot tapping restlessly. Cressida and Margaret were huddled together in a corner, whispering about something Penelope couldn't care less about.

Her head felt heavy, her limbs sluggish. She should’ve been relieved that they’d made it this far, that they were still breathing. But all she could think about was the fact that they might be the only ones left. The only ones still alive.

And that they were probably going to die soon.

A quiet shift of movement beside her broke through the haze.

Colin.

He slid down next to her, close but not too close. His presence was solid, grounding, a warmth in the cold uncertainty of their situation. He didn’t say anything at first, just nudged his knee against hers.

Penelope glanced at him, blinking away the fog in her mind. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You look like you're five seconds away from a full-blown existential crisis."

She let out a short, humourless breath. "I’m fine."

Colin gave her a look—one that told her he definitely didn’t believe her. "Right. And I’m the King of England."

Despite herself, Penelope huffed a small laugh. "Congratulations on your promotion."

He smirked but didn’t let it distract him. His gaze softened, just a fraction. "You’re quiet. Quieter than usual."

She swallowed, looking down at her hands. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous pastime."

"I’ll try to keep it to a minimum then."

His shoulder bumped lightly against hers. "Hey." His voice was softer now, more serious. "I know today has been… a lot. But we’re still here. You’re still here. That’s what matters."

Penelope’s fingers curled against her sleeves. "I dropped the phone."

Colin exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. And?"

Her head snapped toward him, incredulous. "And? It was our only way to call for help. I ruined that..."

"You almost fell to your death, Pen," he countered, his voice tight. "I think that takes priority."

She looked away, her throat tightening.

Colin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look, we’ll figure something out. We always do. But beating yourself up over something you couldn’t control? That’s not helping anyone."

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… there.

Penelope let out a slow breath, pressing her forehead against her knees. "You should get some rest."

"I’ll rest when you do."

She lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze. He meant it.

Something small and fragile curled in her chest, but she ignored it, just like she always did.

"Then I guess we’re both not resting.”

Colin just smiled, nudging her shoulder again, softer this time. "Looks like it."

A heavy silence settled over the room, the weight of everything pressing down on them like a thick fog. The occasional creak of the building and the distant, inhuman sounds beyond the walls were the only things reminding them that the world outside hadn’t stopped.

Theo suddenly shifted, his leg bouncing anxiously. "What if help isn't coming?" His voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the tension in the room. "What if whatever’s happening here is happening everywhere?"

The words hung in the air, sinking into them, their weight unbearable.

"Don’t say that," Edwina snapped, her tone harsher than she intended. She crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Help is coming. We just have to wait."

Theo let out a bitter laugh. "Wait? For what? More of them to show up? For us to get picked off one by one? We have no food, no water—"

"We know, Theo!" Genevieve cut in, her frustration cracking through. "But panicking isn’t going to fix it."

"Neither is sitting here pretending everything’s fine!" Theo shot back. "We need a plan! We need to do something—"

"Like what?" Cho snapped. "Run outside and hope for the best? See how long we last before one of them rips our throats out?"

"At least it’s better than waiting to starve to death in a damn classroom!"

"Enough!" Philip’s voice cut through the rising argument, firm and unyielding. "We are not turning on each other."

A heavy pause followed, tension still thick in the air, but no one spoke.

Cressida suddenly stood, her movements sharp, her face twisted in frustration. "I’m done waiting."

Everyone turned toward her as she crossed her arms tightly. "This is ridiculous. We don’t even know if anyone is actually coming. We’re wasting time sitting here when we should be figuring out how to get out of this mess ourselves."

She spun toward Penelope, her eyes narrowing. "Give me the phone. I’m calling my father."

Penelope’s stomach twisted. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Penelope!" Cressida snapped impatiently, holding out her hand. "Phone! Now!"

Penelope swallowed, her throat dry. "I... I don’t have it."

Cressida’s brows furrowed, then realisation dawned. Her expression twisted with fury. "What?"

Penelope forced herself to meet her gaze, her fingers curling into her sleeves. "I—I dropped it. When I slipped. It fell."

Cressida let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "You dropped it? You dropped our only way to call for help?!"

"I didn’t mean to!" Penelope snapped, heat rising to her face. "I was trying not to die!"

"Oh, well, that’s just brilliant, isn’t it?" Cressida’s voice was laced with venom. "You had one job, and you—"

"Cressida, shut up!" Colin growled, his tone sharp and low.

“Excuse me?” Cressida’s face burned with anger. “Are you seriously defending her right now? She just lost our only way to get help!"

Colin stood up, placing himself firmly between Penelope and Cressida, his expression dark. "Yeah, I am defending her. She was hanging off the side of the building, seconds away from falling to her death, and you're worried about a damn phone?"

Cressida scoffed, folding her arms tightly. "It’s not just about her! It’s about all of us. We needed that phone!"

"And what do you think we’d do with it now?" Colin shot back, his voice laced with frustration. "We already called. The fire department said they were coming. We did everything we could, and standing around arguing about a phone that’s already gone isn’t going to change anything."

Cressida opened her mouth as if to argue, but no words came out. The silence stretched, thick with tension.

Philip sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Colin’s right. We can’t do anything more with the phone. It was nearly dead anyway. We just have to trust that help is coming."

Before anyone could respond, the door suddenly swung open.

The entire room jolted, bodies tensing, a few gasps breaking the heavy silence. For a split second, fear crashed through Penelope like ice—this is it, they found us—

But then—

"Oh! Thank God!" A familiar voice filled the space, breathless and panicked.

Mr. Berbrooke.

The substitute teacher stumbled into the room, his shirt stained with sweat, his face pale and clammy. His eyes darted around wildly before settling on the students. His chest heaved, his breath uneven.

No one spoke. No one moved. They were still too stunned, too caught in the jarring shock of seeing another survivor—someone outside their group, someone alive.

"I barely made it… barely got away." Berbrooke finally broke the silence, his hands shaking as he ran them through his damp hair. "It’s madness out there. The halls, the stairwells—filled with them. I saw students, teachers—eating each other. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen."

"How did you escape?" Genevieve asked, her arms folded tight across her chest.

Berbrooke swallowed hard, his eyes shifting slightly before he forced a nervous chuckle. "Ran. Had to throw a few desks down the stairwell to slow them down. One of them grabbed me, but I wrestled it off. Punched it straight in the face. Kept running—kept fighting. Got lucky. Found an opening and took it."

Debling frowned. "No one else made it? Just you?"

Berbrooke hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding. "Yeah. Everyone else… they weren’t fast enough."

A thick silence fell over the room. Something about his words felt rehearsed, too clean, too easy.

Penelope’s pulse quickened. Something wasn’t right. She let her gaze drift lower, watching him carefully. His movements were twitchy, too jerky, his eyes darting to the door every few seconds. His shirt clung to him in damp patches, and—

Her breath caught.

A dark stain on his sleeve. Just beneath the rolled-up fabric.

A jagged, inflamed wound—red, swollen, and unmistakable.

Her stomach twisted. No.

"Mr Berbrooke… what’s that on your arm?" she asked, her voice soft.

Berbrooke stiffened. "What? Nothing."

"It looks like a bite mark." Penelope whispered, eyeing him nervously.

The entire room went still.

Berbrooke’s expression darkened in an instant. His eyes flashed with something sharp, something defensive. "It’s not," he snapped. "It’s just a scratch."

Penelope didn’t move, her pulse hammering in her ears. "If it’s just a scratch, why are you so defensive?" Her voice was steady, but fear curled tight in her chest.

Berbrooke’s hands clenched into fists. "Because you’re accusing me of something insane!" His voice rose, shaking slightly. "I am not infected!"

The others were backing away now. Their unease was palpable, thickening the air between them. Michael’s grip on the chair beside him tightened, his jaw locked. No one said a word, but the message was clear.

Colin hadn’t moved. He was standing behind Penelope, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back.

Penelope swallowed, forcing herself to hold Berbrooke’s gaze. "You need to leave."

Berbrooke’s nostrils flared. "I just got here! I barely made it—"

"And now you need to go." Her voice wavered, her breath unsteady. "Please."

His gaze darted from her to the others. Their widened eyes. Their stiff, recoiled postures. The invisible wall that had formed between him and them.

Berbrooke’s face twisted. "You’re scared of me," he realised, his voice dropping, thick with something ugly. "You think I’m—" He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously. "No. No, I’m not!"

No one spoke.

His breathing grew ragged, his shoulders rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. His fingers twitched at his sides. "You’re wrong," he muttered, his voice taking on a desperate edge. "I’m not one of them. I would know if I was! I feel fine!"

Penelope hesitated, voice softer now, almost pleading. "You're not fine. You need to go before—"

"Shut up!" Berbrooke snapped, his voice cracking as he turned on her, his face flushed with anger. "You don’t know anything, you stupid little girl! You think you’re so smart? So special? You have no idea what you’re talking about!"

Penelope’s breath hitched. The room was silent except for the erratic rise and fall of Berbrooke’s breathing. The hostility in his gaze sent ice through her veins.

She opened her mouth to speak, to reason with him—but then he lunged.

It was too fast, too sudden.

His hands clamped onto her shoulders, hard, fingers digging in with bruising force. Penelope stumbled back as he pushed her into the wall, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as his grip tightened. He was shaking, his nails biting into her skin through her clothes.

"I am not one of them!" he shouted, his spit hitting her cheek, his breath hot and ragged. "Say it! Say I’m not!"

Penelope struggled, her heart slamming against her ribs. His grip was crushing. She tried to wrench herself free, but he was stronger. Too strong. His nails dug in deeper, his breath laboured, his pupils blown wide. There was something feral in his eyes, something desperate and wrong.

Then—

Berbrooke was ripped away from her.

Colin’s hands were on him, shoving him back with full force. Berbrooke staggered, hitting the edge of a desk. He barely had time to regain his footing before Colin was on him again, shoving him harder, his entire body tense with fury.

"Don’t touch her!" Colin’s voice was like steel, low and sharp.

Berbrooke panted, his chest heaving, his eyes darting wildly. "I’m not—"

"You need to leave. Now." Colin’s voice was steady, dangerous, his body firmly between Berbrooke and Penelope.

Berbrooke’s fingers twitched. He looked past Colin, locking onto Penelope again, his face contorted with something between fury and desperation. "I am not going back out there again!"

Then, his body convulsed.

A sickening crack echoed through the room as his spine twisted at an unnatural angle. A choked gurgle escaped his throat, his fingers clawing at his own skin as if trying to tear something from within. His legs buckled, but instead of collapsing, he lurched forward. His body twitched violently, spasming as his veins darkened beneath his skin, thick and pulsing. His jaw opened, an unnatural, guttural sound escaping his lips as blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth.

Bones snapped—loud and brutal—as his arms jerked at grotesque angles. His shoulders dislocated with wet, meaty pops, his fingers twitching, curling into claws. His neck twisted so far to the side it looked broken, but his body still moved, his breath rattling in his chest. Then his eyes—once wild with anger—clouded over, turning milky white. His lips pulled back, revealing jagged teeth, blood dribbling down his chin in thick, sluggish rivulets.

A monster stood in Berbrooke’s place.

Margret barely had time to scream before he was on her.

He lunged, his jaw unhinging wider than humanly possible, a primal snarl ripping from his throat as he sank his teeth into her face.

The sound was sickening—flesh tearing, bone crunching beneath the force of his bite. Blood sprayed, hot and wet, as Margret’s screams turned into a gurgled, choked sob. Her fingers scrambled at his arms, trying to push him off, but Berbrooke was ripping at her, shaking his head like a rabid animal. The wet, sloppy sound of meat being torn filled the air as he bit deeper, his teeth sinking into the soft tissue of her cheek, pulling away a strip of flesh.

The room erupted into chaos—screams, chairs scraping against the floor as people stumbled back, some too stunned to move.

Philip and Cho didn’t hesitate.

Philip grabbed a long wooden ruler from one of the desks, snapping it over his knee with a sharp crack, splintering it into a jagged point. Cho seized the other half. They moved fast.

With a guttural yell, Philip drove the sharpened wood straight into the side of Berbrooke’s skull.

The thing that had once been Berbrooke jerked, a wet choking sound spilling from its throat. But it wasn’t enough. It turned on Philip, its mouth dripping with blood and torn flesh, a horrific, rattling snarl escaping it—

Cho struck next, ramming his splintered weapon up through the base of its jaw.

The sharpened wood pierced through the soft tissue, driving deep, puncturing the skull. Berbrooke's body spasmed violently—once, twice—before it suddenly collapsed, the dead weight of it crashing onto the blood-slicked floor.

Silence.

Only Margret’s ragged, wet gasps remained, her hands clutching at her ruined face, blood pouring between her fingers.

Everyone’s eyes were on her—on the deep, grotesque wound torn across her cheek, on the dark, pulsing veins that had already begun to spread from the bite, creeping like ink beneath her skin.

Margret’s breath hitched, a sob breaking free. "I—I don’t want to die." Her voice was small, broken, barely above a whisper. Then it came again, more desperate. "Please. I don’t want to die."

Penelope felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. Her stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up her throat. This can’t be happening.

Margret’s bloodied fingers reached out, trembling, searching for comfort—for something, anything—

Cressida stumbled backward, her eyes wide with horror. "Don’t—don’t touch me," she breathed, her voice shaking. She backed away farther, pressing herself against the opposite wall as if she could somehow disappear into it. Her face twisted with something between fear and disgust. "Just—stay over there."

Margret let out a choked sob, her outstretched hand falling limply to her lap. Her body shook violently, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Tears mixed with the blood on her face, streaking down her cheeks in messy, dark trails.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Penelope’s hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to say something, to tell Margret it would be okay—even though it wouldn’t. Even though they all knew what was coming.

She took a step forward.

Colin’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. "Pen, don’t—"

"She’s not a zombie yet," Penelope whispered, her voice trembling but firm.

Colin’s grip tightened, his other hand coming up as if to hold her back. "That doesn’t mean it’s safe."

Penelope didn’t listen. She gently pulled free from his grasp and knelt before Margret. The other girl was shaking violently, her breaths coming in wet, uneven gasps. The black veins beneath her skin were spreading fast, dark tendrils crawling outward like rot.

Penelope didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around Margret and held her.

Margret let out a broken sob, her body collapsing into Penelope’s. Her fingers clung weakly to the fabric of Penelope’s jumper, desperate and trembling. The warmth of Penelope’s skin was a stark contrast to the unnatural chill sinking into Margret’s body. She was freezing. Ice-cold.

She already felt like the dead.

No one spoke. No one moved. The quiet stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, a hand pressed gently against Penelope’s shoulder.

Eloise.

Penelope felt the warmth of her best friend before she even looked up. The silent message in Eloise’s touch was clear.

It’s time.

Penelope’s arms loosened. Slowly, carefully, she pulled back, her hands lingering just a second longer before she let go entirely.

Margret’s head hung low, her sobs quieting into something softer, something hollow.

Between sharp, uneven breaths, she whispered, "I’ll go… I’ll leave on my own."

No one answered.

Margret pushed herself up on shaky legs, her body swaying slightly. She took a step toward the door, her balance unsteady, her movements sluggish. Penelope watched as she reached for the handle, fingers trembling, blood smearing against the metal.

Then—she froze.

A tremor ran through her body, sharp and unnatural. A violent shudder wracked her frame, her fingers spasming, her head jerking to the side with a sickening crack. The veins beneath her skin darkened, twisting like creeping roots, spreading rapidly across her face. Her breath hitched—then stopped entirely.

A long, deathly silence.

Then—

Margret’s body convulsed.

Her spine arched backward at an impossible angle, her jaw snapping open in a silent scream. A grotesque, wet gurgling sound erupted from deep within her throat. Bones shifted beneath her skin, her lips peeling back to reveal bloodied teeth.

Her head snapped upward, her eyes—once filled with fear—now void of humanity. Clouded. Hungry.

Then, she moved.

Fast.

Her gaze locked onto Edwina, a guttural snarl ripping from her throat as she lunged forward with terrifying speed.

Edwina barely had time to react. She gasped, instinctively throwing herself aside, her shoulder slamming into a desk as she dodged the attack.

Margret’s momentum carried her forward—

Straight through the window.

The glass exploded outward, shards catching the dull daylight as they spun through the air. Margret’s body followed, her arms outstretched, her snarl cut short as she plunged into the open air.

For a long, stretched second, no one moved.

Then—

A sickening thud echoed from below.