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Chapter Text

It’s a cloudy day at the end of September when students of Parsons Secondary School have settled into their friend groups and reluctantly resumed their studies. For some, this means the ever-looming university applications are upon them. For others, this means the prime time to celebrate their youth and freedom.

Namely, through partying.

”Naib.”

Naib Subedar slams his locker door shut and turns to face a girl with waist-length locs. His insomnia has been chiseling away at his patience recently, and now even exchanging pleasantries with his friends feels beyond his ability. 

“Patty,” he says, then lurches forward when a wayward elbow slams into his back. His friend straightens him up, eyebrow raised, and he heaves a sigh. 

“Call me Patty and I’ll call you Subby,” Patricia Dorval says. Naib snorts despite himself. 

They start walking to their next class—physics, with Ms. Kobayashi—and she hands him her phone. The screen is cracked and brightness set to two percent, as usual, so Naib squints to make out the words.

“You’re invited to Vera and Chloe’s seventeenth,” he says aloud, after deciphering the sparkling black cursive font. “Seriously? The twins?”

”Correct,” Patricia says dryly, waving at one of her other friends as they enter the classroom. Once they sit down, she continues. “Vera and Chloe are turning seventeen and it’s the whole school’s business, apparently. At least in our year. You saw the address she put?”

“... Their house?”

"No, you dolt. It’s the Manor."

Naib blinks, his insomnia fog fading just slightly with his surprise.

There’s only one Manor Patricia could be referring to—the vacant, abandoned one standing lonesome in Secord Woods, grandiose and boastful, but with a pride faded by decades of the bare and weary twentieth century. Despite being a local monument, there are no weekly exhibitions or paid tour visits. Because, like a typical cliche, it is a haunted residence.

"Vera’s a weirdo, so I guess that was her idea,” Naib mutters. “Don’t know why you’re friends with her. Chloe’s pretty cool though.”

"It’s not like she’s the first to party in there,” Patricia says. She pulls out her tattered tablet and starts scribbling down notes. “It’s a popular place for people to get away from their parents or whatever. And I’m not friends with her—Demi is.” 

“Now I get why they’re friends,” Naib says. “Every party fanatic needs an alcohol dealer.”

Patricia opens her mouth to retort, but Ms. Kobayashi finally arrives, and first period begins.

"Today’s lesson will be on Newton’s Third Law,” she says. Her smooth voice is overlaid with the droning vents, and the dimmed light of their classroom weighs on Naib’s eyelids. He dozes off just as his cheek hits his notebook.

Lately, whenever he sleeps, Naib dreams. 

It must have begun about a month ago, just as summer break came to an end. He was out camping with his mother and sister and had single-handedly wrangled their tent into submission, so he was tired and irritable. He retreated into his sleeping bag for a quick nap—but woke up four hours later drenched in cold, feverish sweat, covering his mouth as a scream echoed in his throat. 

“Naib?”

He woke his little sister with his sudden jolt upright. Rani reached for him, smacking his leg amicably.

“I’m good,” Naib croaked, voice hoarse like he really had screamed. “Go back to sleep.”

“There’s some food in the car if you need to eat something,” Rani muttered, dozing off again. “Aama was worried when you just knocked out like that. She didn’t wanna wake you.”

“I’m good,” Naib repeated. His hand moved mechanically to tuck his sister back into her sleeping bag. He didn’t even notice when she fell back asleep.

Alone in the darkness of their tent again, Naib pressed a hand to his chest and tried to slow his heartbeat down. He breathed in deeply, forcing air into his lungs, and closed his eyes to try and recall just what he had been dreaming of.

Throbbing in his arms. A flash of red. Taste of blood. A body next to him. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, putting his sweaty face in his hands. He sat in the silence, listening to the sounds of his mother and sister sleeping, finally feeling the adrenaline recede. 

He eventually collapsed back into slumber again and woke hours later to the sun on his face and the smell of breakfast. 

Those nightmares, as Naib had reluctantly decided to call them, visited him on a nearly nightly basis, making the start of his senior year messy with in-class napping and careless, missed test points. Once, when his mother ran into his room after he screamed in his sleep, she had gently suggested therapy. 

Naib had opposed it vehemently, but nearly a month later with the nightmares showing no sign of slowing down, he’s close to accepting it. He had always been a top student in his classes, but not naturally. His lack of sleep now is due to something out of his control—not all-nighters where he can study, but nightmares that refuse to let him sleep more than three hours a night before his alarm calls him up for the next day of school.

“Naib.”

Patricia’s sharp nudge makes him bang his knee under the desk when he jolts back to alertness. His head throbs with a headache and he winces—especially when he hears the giggling of his classmates.

“Naib,” says Ms. Kobayashi, “do your best to stay awake during the lesson.”

Her voice is firm as usual, but her dark eyes convey something more worried.

“Sorry,” he mutters. he rubs his knee under the desk, ignoring the look Patricia is giving him. When he glances up again, Ms. Kobayashi is still staring at him, and the class is awkwardly silent. 

“See me at lunch.”

Someone breaks the silence with an obligatory “Oooohhhh”, followed by more giggles and a “Not necessary, Norton” from Ms. Kobayashi, allowing Naib to slump in his chair and sigh through his embarrassment. Patricia flicks his hand and gestures to his phone. When he opens it, he finds a notification from her—a copy of her notes.

“Thanks,” he says. He rubs his face and takes a deep gulp of his water, keeping himself alert enough to stay awake for the rest of the period. 

When the bell rings, he bids Patricia a quick goodbye and rushes out of the class before Ms. Kobayashi can call out to him again. Norton and his band of hooligans shove at him playfully before he can escape.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eli Clark pulls him aside to ask, catching Naib as he tries to speed-walk to chemistry. “You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine,” Naib says. Eli is one of the few tolerable people who's friends with Norton—academically-focused, part of some environmental movement outside of school, and infamous for his pet owl—so much so that Naib wonders why he even hangs out with Norton. 

“You can have my chem notes if you need them,” Eli offers, patting Naib consolingly on the back. “Sorry, I know Norton can be an idiot.” 

“I took today’s notes last night,” Naib says, fighting off a yawn. “And why do you hang out with that guy again? ‘Cause he saved your girlfriend or something?”

“Gertrude likes him, and so do I,” Eli says evenly. “He’s really not a bad person, Naib. You two just clash. For whatever reason.”

Naib does not like the pause between Eli’s last few words.

“Why do you take notes ahead of time?” Eli continues. “You used to tell me you didn’t learn anything that way.”

“Well, now I can sleep in class.” 

“We have a lab today.” All thoughts of sneaking a nap under Mr. Diruse’s nose disappear. “But instead of sleeping last night, you took notes?”

Naib winces, reminded of the nightmare he had. 

He’s saved from responding when their cranky Chemistry teacher appears in the doorway to the classroom. He looks like he wants to snap at them for being late when they walk in—while most of their classmates are already in lab gear—but when he looks at Naib, he blinks once, and his expression mellows.

“Get into your groups, boys,” is all Mr. Diruse says before walking back to his desk.

“Do I look that terrible?” Naib says, groaning. “To think Mr. Diruse, of all people, would feel sympathy—”

“Can you two hurry up?” 

Vera Nair’s snappy voice cuts over Naib’s complaining. Eli pats his back again before rushing over to their station, already set up for a titration. 

“Why are you so cranky this morning? Didn’t sleep?” Demi Bourbon asks. “I see all that concealer on your face. Plus, titration is easy as hell. You guys can sit back and relax.”

“Thanks, Demi,” Eli says. He and Demi start chatting about the lab and get to work, leaving Naib and Vera to stare at each other. 

“Heard you’re coming to my party,” Vera says casually. 

“How the hell did you find out so fast?” Naib wonders, flabbergasted. Was his nap in Physics last period hours long and he didn’t realize?

“Tricia told Chloe, and Chloe just texted me,” she explains. “I’m surprised. I didn’t take you for the type to party.”

“I never said I’d actually go,” Naib grouses. “Why did you choose the Manor? Of all places.”

“It’s a cool place to party,” Vera says, eyebrows furrowed. “Not like I’m the only one who uses it. But I’ve told everyone I’m using it next week, so no one will be there but people who’re invited.”

“How much did you pay them?” Naib mutters under his breath. When he stares at the neutralizing base swirling in Demi’s flask, his headache grows worse. 

“Excuse me,” Vera snaps, crossing her arms. Naib glances at her again—she looks genuinely offended. “I know I’ve got money, but that doesn’t mean people don’t respect me if I don’t use it. Though I’m sure you couldn’t tell the difference.”

Even half-dozing and in mild pain, Naib recognizes her implication. 

That he’s poor. Working class.

“Shut up,” Naib says, straightening up and glaring. “Don’t go there.”

“Guys, come on,” Eli cuts in quickly, “We have to—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Mr. Diruse has made his way over to them, staring not at the nearly-neutralized acid in Demi’s hand but at Naib and Vera, who undoubtedly make a displeasing scene. 

“No, we’re fine,” Vera says, turning away from Naib. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Diruse.”

Naib grunts out something similar before heading to Eli’s side. 

“Not a bad attempt,” Mr. Diruse says, moving onto Demi and Eli. He takes the flask from Demi and raises a piece of white paper behind it, tilting his head. “Well done. The pink is barely visible. I’d say you’d make a brilliant mixologist, Demi.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Diruse,” Demi says, grinning. At least someone isn’t stressed. 

Then Mr. Diruse turns to Naib. 

“Let’s see you try, Naib,” he says, even though Eli is the one already refilling their base solution and Vera is closer. “You received one of my top marks for that acids and bases assessment, and your explanation of the applications of titration was well done.”

Naib wants to protest, but he knows it wouldn’t be reasonable. Mr. Diruse has a habit of being more lenient on the girls in their class than the boys, at least in terms of regular interactions, and Naib has no energy to correct his teacher’s sexism at the moment. 

So he makes an attempt. Eli wordlessly acts as his partner, securing the buret and flask in place. 

Naib dumps in three drops of phenolphthalein and starts adjusting the stopcock, willing his eyes to focus. His other hand grasps the flask, swirling it with much less grace than Demi.

Another drop from the buret. Two more. The splashes of pink appear and fade, over and over, so Naib keeps the base going. Another drop. When it lands in the acid, the splash is pink once more—

Stay back, Mercenary.

—but this time, it deepens to red. Red, like the copper taste in his mouth, like the shuddering body under his hand, like the red on the white hand in her chest—

“Woah! Naib, what—”

The flask falls from his hand, the following crash loud enough to douse the classroom in sudden silence. 

Eli has a hand outstretched, looking to Mr. Diruse and back to Naib. Vera and Demi both look shocked. 

“Sorry,” Naib gasps out, trying to fight off the adrenaline—or maybe it’s panic, fear, shock—surging through him. “Sorry, Mr. Diruse, it was an accident.”

“Get back to work,” Mr. Diruse barks to the rest of their classmates. Slowly, chatter starts up again, this time tenser. Then he crouches down to Naib’s level. 

When had he fallen to the ground?

“Naib, can you breathe with me?”

“I’m fine,” Naib says, trying not to snap. He recognizes Mr. Diruse’s attempt to diffuse a panic attack, but Naib isn’t having one. The elevated heartbeat, the unstable breathing—it’s all symptoms of whatever his nightmares are feeding him. He’s not panicking. 

“Naib,” Mr. Diruse says again. He looks stern, but his expression is calm. “Take one deep breath.”

Reluctantly, Naib follows his instructions, breathing in slowly. The embarrassment trickles through as soon as his lungs manage to expand without making him cough. 

“Sorry,” he mutters again, standing up quickly. He stares at the ground. “Um—I’ll—can I use the washroom?”

“...Of course.”

Under the relentless stares of his classmates, Naib runs out of the classroom.

—

pat.tricia.dorval

tricia

i think i’m going insane

Lol

About time 

i’m srs

Oh shit

What’s up?

had a breakdown in mr diruse’s class

in the middle of titrating

So that’s what Vera’s story is abt

what?

the fuck?

Shit

Sorry, ignore that

Ganji’s done his work I can get him to check on you

I’m guessing you’re in the washroom?

yeah

3rd floor

Got it, he’s on his way

so is this what they call social suicide

Dude…

Naib closes his phone and lets his head fall back, thudding gently against the grimy stall. He probably needs to wash his hair three times through to clean out god-knows-what is on the walls of the boys' washroom, but his mortification is much too intense for him to even think about that.

“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself, “is wrong with me?”

He should have taken up his mother’s offer for therapy long before it got to this point. Falling asleep in class, getting called out by teachers, and now having panic attacks in front of his entire class—what the hell is going on in his head that he’s been pushed to this point? Is he secretly insane? And why did it have to happen in senior year, of all times?

Naib’s rapid downward spiral is paused momentarily when he hears the door to the washroom creak open, followed by a tentative, “Naib? Are you in here?”

Ganji’s familiar voice reminds Naib that he’s still in the middle of his school day, in the boys washroom, breaking down about his breakdown. He sighs and stands, brushing his hair back to try and look a little more put-together.

“In here,” he says. 

“Oh. Hey, man. You alright?”

“Definitely not,” Naib says with a mirthless laugh. “I just… sorry. Could you stay with me for a bit?”

“Sure thing,” Ganji answers easily, ever-perceptive. “Could we go somewhere else though? Don’t want to catch an STD.”

Naib laughs, this time more genuinely, and unlocks the stall. 

Ganji, despite his easy-going tone, wears a similar expression of worry as Mr. Diruse did. He claps Naib on the back and grins. 

“You don’t look too hot.”

“Thanks. Martha said the same when we broke up.”

Ganji laughs and the tightness in Naib’s chest loosens just a little. They chat aimlessly as they head outside, the late morning dim with watery sunlight. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Ganji asks when they settle into their lunch spot—a wide shaded area under an oak tree. Naib picks up a leaf and starts shredding it slowly. 

“I don’t even know what it is,” Naib says, then buries his face into his hands, leaf forgotten. “And I’m never recovering from that.”

“...You mean what Vera posted on her story?”

“What the fuck did she post?” Naib snaps, his broiling frustration tilting into anger. “Did I do something to embarrass her? Like, have we interacted for more than a few minutes at a time ever? What even—”

“Dude, sometimes people just suck,” Ganji says gently. “Unfortunately, Vera’s one of those kids who need attention or they’ll starve to death. Must be the daddy issues.”

Naib snorts, but his anger is barely abated. 

“She was all worked up about me going to her party too,” he says. “And she basically called me poor. What the hell is her problem? It’s not like Margaretha—”

“Oh, aren't they pretty close?”

“—is rich either! We’re literally Loblaws coworkers! And Vera knows that!”

“Well, Margie’s pretty cool,” Ganji says. “And they’ve known each other since, like, middle school. Kinda like you and Eli.”

“Right, but neither of us are rich! Or assholes for no reason!”

“Don’t get too upset, man,” Ganji says. Despite Naib’s anger, Ganji has remained amiable, and the sight of his friend’s calm is enough to make Naib think more clearly. His sleep-deprivation fog creeps up again, replacing his anger and reminding him of his headache.

“Vera didn’t do anything really bad. She just took a picture of her titration setup and wrote something about a group member abandoning the lab. You... you've been tense lately, so—”

“What, you’re on her side?” Naib says. His head hurts, his breaths are fast again, and all his fatigue and frustration fuels his tunnel vision toward Ganji’s confused face.  “Seriously?”

“No, that’s not—”

“Hey.”

Naib blinks, and he’s standing over Ganji, the sun casting a shadow over his friend’s face. 

Someone places their hand on Naib’s shoulder. He turns to see Eli, his blue eyes concerned, and Patricia behind him. 

“Are you guys fighting?” Patricia asks, disapproving. She has Ganji’s bag and drops it on the ground before crossing her arms. 

“I told Vera to delete her story, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Eli says, setting Naib’s bag down more gently. “Also, I ran into Ms. Kobayashi. She says she’s looking for you.”

“Lunch hasn’t started yet,” Naib says. He sits back down, avoiding Ganji’s eyes. “I’ll leave in a bit. Why are you guys here?”

“Told Mr. Fan that I have club stuff,” Patricia says. “When he asked why I was bringing Ganji’s stuff, I told him he’s helping out as well.”

“I’m part of the prestigious STEM club now?” Ganji jokes. 

“Y’know, applications haven’t closed yet,” Patricia says, turning to the rest of them. “You can still apply. I know you two want some more extracurriculars.”

“No thanks,” Naib says, sighing. Patricia has been trying to recruit him into STEM for the past two years now, ever since she became an executive member. “Track and band are good enough for me.”

“I’ve already got a full-ride,” Ganji adds, grinning proudly. “I got one from Brown, Western, and—”

“And McGill, but you’ve already committed to Western, because you’re secretly a science nerd and want to stay in the province,” Patricia finishes for him, making Eli laugh. “Come on! Don’t you want to build robots and make exploding solutions?”

“Congratulations on that, by the way,” Eli offers Ganji. “I saw your post over the summer but I didn’t know you’d already made your decision.”

“Thanks, man,” Ganji says, pleased. “So how come Diruse let you leave early?”

“Oh. Well…” Naib feels Eli’s side glance. “I told him Naib wasn’t feeling well and probably went to the nurse, and he let me go.”

Their conversation is halted when the lunch bell rings. 

“See you later,” Naib says, and books it before his friends can ask one more time if he’s okay. 

Naib knows he shouldn’t have yelled at Ganji. He shouldn’t have run out of the classroom either. And he knows he shouldn’t be angered by his friends’ concern—it’s him that needs help. He’s been needing it since middle school. But all he does is run away, ignore it, then bite on the hands that reach out for him. 

The truth is, the insomnia isn’t new. Neither are the nightmares. But it’s been three merciful years since he’s had them last, and Naib thought he was fixed. 

Clearly, he was wrong.

Chapter Text

“Naib,” Ms. Kobayashi starts, in that tone of wary concern all high school teachers reserve for difficult students, “how are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine,” Naib answers. He shifts uncomfortably on the stool she’d pulled out for him. The science office is deserted, save for Mr. Fan in the far corner. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” she replies after a pause. She adjusts her glasses, then meets Naib’s gaze. “Naib. You are one of the top students in your year. Many of your teachers were pleased by your performance last year, in not just academics, but in your cross country team as well. Do you plan on joining the school band again this year?”

“I… suppose so,” Naib answers. He has a vague idea of where this conversation is going—reach out to her if he needs help, that he isn’t alone, that senior year is important, and on and on—but all he can focus on is how he could be napping right now. 

“Frederick is your friend, yes?” 

Naib thinks of the light-haired, snobby band kid, subject to many school crushes from both genders. Another rich kid whose future is planned out perfectly, surrounded by shallow friends who do little more than obsess about pop culture and ponder about their teachers’ romantic lives. Naib has probably talked to him twice in his life—once in tenth grade for a group project in history, and again in concert band rehearsal when Frederick borrowed Naib’s phone to tune his French horn.

“I’ve talked to him,” Naib says. Ms. Kobayashi doesn’t seem deterred by his unhelpful answer.

“He’s started recruiting players for the band this year, since many lead players have graduated,” she says, smiling. “I was wondering about your commitments this year. You’ve already got enough volunteer hours, and your activity points are quite impressive, but I know many of your peers are focusing more on their academics only now. Senior year gets quite stressful.”

Ms. Kobayashi is one of the most likable teachers—overqualified for the measly high school teaching salary she gets, but never condescending, and rumored to have a legendary background as a Japanese idol dancer. While Naib likes her too, she has a tendency to embellish her words, building up to her point in conversations like a page-long crescendo. He knows this from last year—she taught physics at the grade eleven level, and Naib also took up her after-school tutoring opportunity, discovering that she can take thirty minutes to thoroughly explain a simple calculation. She was the only reason Naib was able to achieve a near-perfect score in physics with barely any studying. 

Helpful—but not always.

“Look, I think I know what you’re trying to say,” Naib says. His tone probably sounds a little rude, so he straightens up and looks her in the eyes. “I know it’s my last year or whatever. I’m still working on scholarship stuff, and I do want to join band again, but I promise I’m not neglecting my studying. I, uh… sorry I fell asleep in your class today. I know it’s been happening a lot, but I’m—I’m working on it.”

“Thank you for your apology,” she says kindly, “but I’m not offended by your napping. I actually did the same as you when I was your age.”

Naib grins with her, but something in her eyes makes him stop short. 

“I just wanted to ask if you know the cause behind your fatigue. Do you have insomnia? Is it stress?”

“Um…” Naib thinks about the vivid, heart-racing nightmares he gets nearly everyday, and waking up unable to recall anything. “Insomnia, I guess. I’ve… had it since middle school. It just got bad recently.”

“I see,” Ms. Kobayashi says. The black of her eyes suddenly seems intense, swimming like blots of ink. Naib blinks quickly and looks away. “I’m sorry to hear that. Doctor Dyer actually specializes in treating patients with sleep-related issues. Or, if you don’t want to talk with a professional right away, you can always speak to me or your other teachers. Mr. Diruse has been quite concerned for you as well. He’s actually eavesdropping on our conversation right now.”

“If you’re gonna tattle on me, Michiko, you better tattle on Wujiu too,” comes the perpetually annoyed voice of Naib’s chemistry teacher. Mr. Diruse must have wandered in a while ago, judging by his half-finished lunch. He looks at Naib. “Hey, Naib. Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine,” Naib says, suddenly the object of three teachers’ attention. “Sorry about breaking your flask. I can pay for it.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Mr. Diruse says, waving his fork around. A piece of lettuce flies off. “I steal them off my friends anyway. God knows I don’t get paid enough to buy all that myself.”

“As if it’s not funded by the board,” Mr. Fan pipes up from his corner, swiveling around with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. “You’re too scared to leech off Alva and his colleagues.”

“Anyway,” Ms. Kobayashi says forcefully, waving Mr. Diruse away. “I just wanted you to know that there’s help if you need it, Naib. All your teachers are happy to support you and your peers. We know it’s stressful, and sometimes sleep gets affected. And I really do recommend Doctor Dyer—she’s helped many of us.”

Naib senses a double entendre behind her words—what does she mean by us? —but can’t make the connection. 

He hears the unsaid dismissal and stands. 

“Thank you, Ms. Kobayashi.”

She smiles again and lets him go. 

—

“I think you should have been a bit more pushy on getting him checked out by Dyer, Michiko.”

Michiko sighs before picking up her own mug of tea, downing it like a shot. When she sets it down, both Wujiu and Luchino laugh at her.

“Let’s get drinks tonight,” Wujiu decides, flipping his black hair over his shoulder. “Bian’s off work, and Keigan definitely needs a break. Have you seen the amount of timetable changes guidance had to make this year?”

“I’m so glad I majored in STEM,” Luchino says grimly. “Quitting med school doesn’t seem like the end of the world when I see what they go through.”

“Anyway,” Michiko says while Wujiu chortles, “you know how kids are at Naib’s age. They’re sensitive to being bossed around, especially by teachers. He’d probably avoid us and Emily and worsen his state.”

Wujiu and Luchino glance at each other.

“Is he the first to show signs?” Wujiu asks. “His behavior could be mistaken as simply lack of sleep, but…”

“Half of us had the same symptoms at his age,” Luchino finishes. “If it weren’t for Dyer, I would have probably ended up a giant lizard again.”

—

The night of the Nair twins’ party arrives too fast for Naib’s liking, especially since he’s been adamant on not going since the titration incident. 

Patricia and Eli both insist that none of their classmates really cared. In fact, some thought Vera had overstepped. 

“Y’know your friend from ninth grade? That cracked varsity athlete?” Patricia asks, appearing in Naib’s doorway exactly one hour before the party is set to begin. Eli and Ganji trail in after her. “She came up to me after our STEM meeting and asked if you were okay.” 

“You mean Lily?” Ganji pipes up. He’s shamelessly flipping through Naib’s closet and tossing various clothing items onto the bed. “I thought she was a cheerleader though. For the soccer team or something.”

“Lily’s in eleventh grade,” Eli says, settled into Naib’s desk chair. He has the decency to look sheepish for barging into Naib’s room. “Shiyi was friends with Naib a few years ago.”

“First of all, Shiyi and I are still friends,” Naib starts. He heads over to Ganji and snatches his old BTS T-shirt out of his hands. “Second. Get out of my room.”

“Your mom let us in,” Patricia dismisses. “She told us she’s scared you’ve been returning to your delinquent days.”

“You’re mixing up Eli with me. ”

“For real?” Ganji asks, staring between them. "Knew you were a badass!”

“No way,” Eli says, sighing. “My parents would have sent me to boot camp if I ever tried fighting. But sorry about coming without letting you know, Naib. We just didn’t want you to—”

“Flake out of a fun night because Vera’s being slightly insufferable,” Patricia cuts in, taking over Ganji’s job of digging through Naib’s closet. “You’ve been real uptight lately, and we thought you could destress with this. Maybe drink a bit. Demi said she’ll reserve a whole bottle just for you as an apology on Vera’s behalf.”

“Thanks,” Naib grouses, “but no thanks. I’d rather take a nap and get some stuff done over the weekend.”

He throws himself on his bed, ignoring the clothes pressed to his face.

“C‘mon, man,” Ganji says, his tone joking but distant. Naib supposes he still feels a little awkward from their one-sided argument last week, for which Naib has yet to apologize. The thought makes him wince. “You might have fun. The swim team’s gonna be there, so you might be able to catch up with Shiyi. She texted me the other day and said something about Waterloo. Aren’t you planning to go there too?”

Ganji has always been the overcompensating type—sensitive and perceptive, but easily hurt, and hates getting into arguments with anyone. Norton had once dramatically complained about bad teammates on their baseball team immediately after a practice set loss, during which Ganji had fumbled two plays. Assuming Norton was being passive-aggressive, Ganji apologized with his head down, until Norton noticed and immediately backtracked his words. Naib had heard about the incident through Eli—yet another reason to never interact with Norton Campbell. 

Hurting Ganji feels like hurting younger siblings when they’re too small to understand things. It makes Naib feel guilty, but like he deals with all his problems, he tries to avoid it for as long as he can.

“Yeah,” he says, rather lamely. He can almost feel Patricia and Eli’s pointed looks when Ganji shifts awkwardly in the following silence. “I mean—sounds great. Catching up would be pretty cool.”

“So you’re coming?” Ganji asks, mood changing quickly to excitement. 

“Uh…”

“Hey, I found your fuck boy tank top!” Patricia exclaims, snickering. She holds up a black, worn shirt, sleeveless and too tight for Naib after the brunt of puberty has left him. “I brought some makeup. Put on some eyeliner and Martha will come running back to you. Or Nor—“

“Wonderful idea,” Eli interrupts, his smile genial. Naib gets the distinct feeling of having been left out of something important. “You should bring a jacket though. The weather's getting pretty cold.”

Naib groans, burying his face into his bed again.

“Are you feeling sick or something?” Ganji asks. “I know you’ve been sleeping more recently—” Only in school. “—but no pressure if you don’t feel up to it.”

“I’ll come,” Naib says, defeated. “You’re going to need a driver, right? I really don’t want the Eli Incident repeated.”

That breaks any remaining caution in the room, and Ganji laughs with Patricia. 

“Really, Naib?” Eli says, exasperated and flushed with mild embarrassment. “I was still practicing then. I passed the test first try, you know. I don’t know how safe I feel with a driver who needed to take it twice.”

The friendly jabbing continues as Patricia and Eli forcibly shove Naib into a rather indecent outfit, but one that’s supposedly fit for a party of the Nair twins’ variety. Patricia and Ganji both wear a typical goth-type look—with Ganji in a pair of shorts Naib is certain Patricia had to bribe him into—and even Eli has gone for something more revealing than what his faith approves of.

“Eli, your Victorian ankles are visible,” Naib snarks as they head to his beat-up Honda. “Shall I open the door for you, good sir?”

“Just drive,” Eli says, climbing into the backseat with Ganji. “We’re already past fashionably late.”

“Did you guys bring gifts?” Ganji pipes up over the sound of Patricia’s playlist. “I got them some stationery.”

“Ganji, I regret to inform you that we are well past the age of actually bringing something respectable to birthday parties,” Naib says. He catches Ganji’s disappointed look in his mirror. “Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s in character for you.”

“I did get them some gift cards,” Eli says. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

“I got them each a dress I thrifted a while ago,” Patricia adds. “That rule only applies if you’re a wannabe nonchalant lone wolf like Naib. Or Norton.”

“Norton’s gonna be there?” Naib demands, pulling out of the driveway just a little too hard. Eli, ever-dramatic, clutches the handle above the window and grabs Ganji’s shoulders in the rearseat. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“We didn’t think it’d be important?” Eli says, and Naib can sense the side-eye he shares with Ganji without even looking at them. “Did you two argue or something?”

“No,” Naib snaps, clutching the steering wheel tighter. He suddenly wants to wash off the eyeliner on his face and make a U-turn back home. “He’s just… annoying.”

The Norton Campbell problem is more than just “annoying,” but Naib hasn’t told anybody about it—not even Patricia.

“Okay…” Patricia says, dragging out the syllable. Naib can almost hear the thoughts in her head, all centered around some form of homosexuality. “Well, he’ll probably be hanging out with Shiyi’s group, or his baseball pals. We can stay with Demi and Margie if you prefer.”

“Will Anne be there?” Ganji asks, graciously changing the subject. 

“I think she’s going as Martha’s plus one,” Eli says. “Naib, you took a wrong turn.”

“Oh,” Ganji says, clearly dejected. “They hang out together a lot.”

“I can guarantee that Martha and Anne are very good best friends,” Naib says, ignoring Eli. “They’ve known each other since elementary school. I would know, because Anne has been cold-shouldering me since Martha and I broke up.”

“Didn’t you know Martha since elementary as well?”

“I arrived in Canada halfway through fifth grade, so I can’t say we were as well acquainted,” Naib says dryly. “Is the Manor after that intersection?”

“Yup,” Patricia says, glancing up from her phone. “Ganji, Naib’s right. They’re just friends.”

“I wasn’t thinking they’re—!” Ganji says, red-faced, “I mean, I know Martha had a thing with Margie before, but I thought they broke up, and now she’s always with Anne…”

“Martha isn’t the type to enter relationships immediately after one ends,” Eli says kindly. “Naib would know.”

“Despite our extreme incompatibility—” 

“So extreme I wonder how you two even managed to get together at all.” 

“—Martha is pretty big on relationship code,” Naib says. “Like, she’d make me drive three hours to the mall opening and abandon me in the parking lot to actually hang out with her friends, but she wouldn’t get with Anne right after we break up.”

“So I have a chance?” Ganji asks, hopeful. 

“Judging by Anne’s Instagram notes these past few days, I’d say you definitely have a chance,” Eli says. 

Naib tunes out the conversation as they arrive in front of the rusting, metal gates of the Manor, peeling with black paint and slightly ajar. The forested path beyond shows the faint outline of the massive property, and in the dawning evening, flashing lights from inside are visible. 

He sighs at the haphazard orientation of cars parked by teenagers on the open field next to the path. Driving slowly, he parallel parks behind a red pickup truck recognizable as Norton’s. 

“We’re here,” Naib announces, grabbing his keys as he steps out of the car. Even this far from the Manor, he can make out the faint scent of weed. “Eli, you might need to bring two inhalers for the amount of smoking that you’ll be subjected to.”

“Thanks, Naib,” comes Eli’s dry reply.

—

It’s Chloe who welcomes them at the door, looking only partly high and wearing a red dress short enough to be mistaken as a long tank top. Her basketball-hardened muscles are on full display, which Naib watches Patricia take full appreciation of. He politely turns away and stares at a collection of cobwebs on the high-arched wooden ceiling as the rest of his friends exchange pleasantries and gifts. 

“Naib, right?” Chloe addresses him after a minute, making him jump. “I’m so glad you made it! Also, I really just wanted to apologize for Vera. I heard about what happened in Diruse’s class.”

Everyone and their grandparents have heard about it, apparently, Naib bemoans, but gathers the remainder of his courtesy to reply. 

“Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

“Senior year’s been stressful, hasn’t it?” Chloe continues, missing Naib’s silent request to be left alone. But through her slightly bloodshot eyes and his own drowsiness, Naib can tell she’s being sincere. Chloe isn’t like her twin—she knows her wealth and privilege, but navigates public school life with more sensitivity about it. She’s far from stingy yet generous with charity. Not condescending, like Vera can be at times. 

“I think senioritis is hitting me already,” Eli jokes, saving Naib’s incognizant silence from turning awkward, “A lab in chem and a seminar in bio, and three volunteer shifts this week… I swear, the year just started.”

“Right?” Chloe says, giggling. “I’m gonna head back, but I hope you enjoy! Stay as long as you want and do whatever. Just don’t call the cops!”

“You got it,” Patricia replies, and Chloe leaves with a wave. “Damn. Is she still with Frederick?”

“Pretty sure Frederick is dating that kid in your STEM club,” Ganji says as they head toward a group of empty chairs. “Luca, right? Or is it Edgar now?”

“Luckily for Tricia, Frederick is single for once,” Eli reports with a dutiful air. “And I haven’t seen Luca with anyone but Tracy all year.”

“Cool, cool,” Patricia says, eyes shining with delight. “I’ll get you guys some drinks. Naib, you just want water?”

“Some pop would be fine,” he responds. He’d forgotten his headphones in his room, so he’s leveling out the loud volume of the party by closing his eyes, slouched over on Eli’s shoulder.

“She’s not coming back with those drinks,” Ganji says with a snicker. “Look, she’s already found Chloe.”

“Hey, mind if I join you guys?”

The new voice makes Naib open his eyes, blinking at the sight of Anne and her group of friends, all looking especially attractive in the Manor’s shadowed lighting.

“That’d be great,” Eli says before Ganji can embarrass himself. 

“Hey there, Naib.”

Unfortunately, even someone as pleasant as Anne can be surrounded by absolute morons. Such as Norton Campbell.

“Sup,” Naib responds in monotone. Eli nudges him gently, easing him off his shoulder—a silent encouragement to actually socialize. Naib straightens up with a sigh, making direct eye contact with Norton. As usual, there’s an uneasy thump in his heart and a faint thrum of unexplainable adrenaline as soon as he recognizes the bright hazel of his eyes, the dip in brows. When he stares too long without saying anything, the red lights from the dance floor make the angles of his face gaunt and haunted. Naib looks away quickly.

“How’s it going.”

“Y’know, that paper for bio has more expression than you,” he says, taking the chair next to Naib. “It’s going great, just sayin’. The team’s tryouts start on Monday. Are you going?”

He must be referring to the swim team—the only sports team that runs all year long at Parsons because of their local pool.

“No, track is starting Monday too,” Naib says. Distantly, someone yells, “Kiss him again!” followed by raucous cheers. He’s mildly surprised Norton isn’t in the middle of that. “And band.”

“I was actually thinking of joining band,” Norton says thoughtfully, surprising Naib enough for him to look at him again. “Senior year, y’know. Wanna try as many new things as I can.”

“What instrument would you play?” Naib asks, curious despite himself. His guess is a low brass—strong, stable, reliable, but just this side of obnoxious. “Also, Frederick helps with the auditions, so you’d either have to have a neutral or good relationship with him to get in.”

“Isn't that unfair?” Norton exclaims, his eyes catching the lights, making his face flash to that haunted look again. Naib blinks, rubs his eyes forcefully, and keeps his gaze focused on the sweaty crowd of dancing teenagers. “Not that I have a bad rep with him, but I’m pretty sure that’s nepotism. Or some other legal term.”

“Didn’t you date him last year?” Naib wonders aloud, realizing too late he’s speaking instead of judging silently. Norton’s shocked silence makes Naib look at him again, trying to repair the awkwardness, but Norton only laughs.

“I just asked him to be my partner to the semi-formal, nothing serious,” Norton says. “Margie actually dared me to, and I did it ‘cause I didn’t think he’d say yes, but the night was pretty fun.”

“I dared you as a joke,” comes the voice of Naib’s fellow minimum wage co-worker, Margaretha Zelle. “Only actual jerks would do it.”

“You wound me, Margie,” Norton says, grinning as he swipes through his phone. “Look, Kevin even got a photo of us kissing!”

He holds up his phone, the screen showing a slightly blurry, terribly shadowed picture of Norton sweeping a shorter guy into a clumsy dip, their faces pressed together in what is unmistakably a kiss. But when Norton tilts the phone to show Ganji, the angle of their tangle looks sharper, more jagged, as if Norton was catching Frederick as he fell. 

Naib has to shut his eyes from the wave of coldness that washes over him, once again unexplainable but uneasy. 

“If you’re practicing for band auditions, I’d stop right now, because Frederick most definitely hates your guts and will not be giving you a spot,” Margaretha tells him dryly. “Also, we already have too many flute players. I doubt Mr. Xie would accept you unless you give a Rihanna-level audition.”

So he plays the flute, Naib wonders. It’s surprising, but somehow, it feels just right. 

“Don’t underestimate me,” Norton says with that cocky swim-team-co-captain air of his. “I bet I’d sweep Naib off his feet if I played right now.”

“Not happening,” Naib says, but he’s interested despite himself. “I didn’t think you played flute.”

Norton perks up, as if excited that Naib has said anything about it at all.

“I’ve played since I was in middle school,” he says. “It was actually my first choice instrument. I coulda been a tuba player, but there were already too many guys playing big brass instruments, so I got the flute.”

“‘Cause you were tiny back then and your teacher didn’t want to make you carry a thirty-pound instrument to school every week,” Margaretha snickers. Naib grins half heartedly with her—unsure if his and Norton’s dynamic is strong enough for him to laugh along, but also because a wave of fatigue has him slouching back into his seat. 

“You okay?” Eli asks in his ear. 

“Fine,” Naib says even as he rubs at a brimming migraine. “Just tired. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Eli says, and like the kind Christian Samaritan he is, drapes his own sweater over Naib’s bare shoulders. “You could probably nap a bit right now, unless you want to head back.”

“No, I’ll stay. I said I’d drive you guys back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Eli says, his deep blue eyes flashing strangely under the disco lights. His expression is worried. “I’ll stay here if you wanna sleep, or I'm sure there’s some free rooms you could crash in.”

“Here’s fine,” Naib says, before throwing Eli’s sweater over his face and closing his eyes.

Unlike every time he actually wants to fall asleep, Naib drifts off almost immediately, not even hearing Norton and Eli’s murmuring voices.

“Is he okay? He just, like, knocked out.”

“Just tired.”

“Does he need a ride home?”

“I can drive him, don’t worry.”

“He seems really exhausted recently…”

—

There’s blood on his hands, as there so often is.

“Subedar.”

Norton stands in front of him—but there’s a jagged scar marring the left side of his face, a permanent grayness to his aging face, an emptied gauntness to his whole presence that seeps into Naib. 

“Campbell?” Naib tries to say. He tries to reach out, but his hands are dripping in red, his arms bleeding under black bandages. It hurts to breathe—his back is searing with pain, as if driven through by shards of glass. 

“Subedar,” Norton says again, and his face—scarred and gaunt and horribly familiar—cracks a smile. “I got you this time.”

Then he falls into a pool of blood, even more spurting from his back like tiny fountains—two gaping, fleshy wounds, and sinks right through. 

Naib thinks he’s screaming. He must have lunged forward, bloodied hands holding Norton like he can drag him back—

“Naib!”

But he slips through his fingers too—

Two hands grip his shoulders and Naib surges forward, heartbeat thumping in his ears and panic thrumming through him like blood flowing through his veins—just like the blood, the blood on his hands, and the blood on Campbell—

But Campbell is solid under his hands. His face is young, dotted with acne, unscarred—his expression confused rather than that hopeless, horrible acceptance. 

“… Naib? What are you—”

Naib yanks up Campbell’s shirt, almost tearing it in his frenzy, feeling for those wounds. They were bleeding so profusely, but there aren’t even bandages around his toned, tan torso. 

“Holy—”

“Uh, should we be here right now?”

“Why is he—”

“Naib, it’s okay!”

That voice—it’s familiar in that same, awful way—makes Naib jolt, coming face to face with—

“Clark,” he breathes, then blinks away some of the fog, “Clark, you’re—you’re… Eli?”

Eli’s eyes are uncovered, the blue of them jarring enough for Naib to rear back. 

“Naib,” Eli says, blocking the glaring colorful lights behind them. “Do you know where we are?”

“Campbell,” is all Naib can say, and he turns back to the man—but he’s so young, his body and bearing healthy, and all the blood is gone. Hurriedly, Naib’s hands grope along the warm expanse of Campbell’s torso, feeling for those spurting wounds just beside his spine—

“N-Naib,” Campbell says, and his voice, why is it so much smoother than what it should be? “You’re—are you okay?”

“Norton, tell him you’re okay,” Clark says, his voice calm. “Actually—let’s take this somewhere else.”

Naib stands with Campbell, his hands reaching for Norton’s arm to put around his shoulder, supporting his weight as they walk. 

“Naib—“ Norton says, trying to pull away, but Naib grips him tighter.

“You’re injured.”

“I’m… I’m really not. I’m okay.”

“You’re not.”

The blood—so much blood—drenches Naib’s fingers, but when Norton pulls back, Naib’s hands come away dry and clean.

“Dude… Naib,” Norton says, placing a tentative hand on Naib’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

They’re in a dark corner, standing next to creaking, wooden walls. The slight lean of the floor, the rounded doorways—they all feel so familiar. But when Naib blinks and turns around, looking for something, the familiarity dissipates like fog in the night.

“Norton,” Naib starts, and then takes a step back. “I… sorry. I didn’t…”

“No worries,” Norton says, but he sounds worried. He’s trying to subtly straighten out his shirt, and all of a sudden, Naib’s actions come rushing back to him.

“Shit,” he says eloquently. “Did I—?”

“Yeah…” Norton says, taking a step back to leave an awkward distance between them. “You…um. I’m not mad or anything, but, like, could you explain why you… did that?”

There was blood. You were wounded. I couldn’t save you.

Naib looks down at his hands, and for some reason, his bare arms feel much too cold even in the cold autumn night, in an uninsulated building. As if there should be something covering them. 

“I’m sorry,” Naib says, clenching his hands and lowering them to his side. He tries not to look at Norton, instead focusing on the deep boosted bass of some hip-hop remix in the background. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did. Are you… are you okay?”

He feels like he has to ask. A thread tugged by his anxiety. 

“Naib, are you okay?” is Norton’s response. When Naib looks at him, his face is tight and his hands are up, creeping close to Naib’s shoulders. As if to comfort him. “That wasn’t normal. You… look, the whole stripping me naked thing isn’t that big of a deal, but you did it like you were… dying. Or something. And you’ve been so tired recently—every class I have with you you’re either asleep or falling asleep.”

“I’m fine,” Naib says, ears burning with embarrassment. He does not want to have anything remotely close to this conversation right now. “Just—I’m going to head home. Do you know where Eli is?”

“He’s with Ganji,” Norton answers, still looking uncertain. “I… I could give you a ride home if you need it.”

Naib is walking away before he’s even finished speaking. 

He rubs his hands along his arms, suddenly feeling piercingly cold. Goosebumps erect under his finger and he shivers, and he sluggishly dodges between his various under-dressed classmates as they laugh and chat and dance. 

“Naib, wait—”

Naib mutters a curse as he hears Norton close behind him.

“Go back to Anne,” Naib says, not sparing Norton a glance as they both escape a throng of intoxicated band kids. “I told you I’m fine.”

“Wait, I just wanna talk,” Norton says, insistent. He darts in front of Naib, so Naib turns away, pretending he’s looking around for Eli. “Naib, when you touched me—”

Naib’s patience rapidly evaporates. 

“I already apologized,” he snaps, ducking under Norton’s arm, almost running straight into some other broad-chested jock. “I’m sorry, okay? If you’re going to mock me, do it at school, I’ll apologize in front of a teacher if you want—”

“Dude, wait, seriously,” Norton says, “I’m not gonna do that, I swear!”

Naib inhales deeply in an attempt to ground himself amidst his anger, but instead only gets a noseful of weed and sweat. Someone slams into him from behind and Naib pitches straight toward the table of drinks. 

“Watch it,” a distinctly familiar voice snaps, and Naib glances down to see Vera, sporting a similarly long tank top to Chloe, but in black. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Nice to see you,” Naib says sarcastically. When Vera steps away from him, he sees a dark wet spot from her spilled drink and opens his mouth to apologize—

“Stay back, Mercenary.”

A bone-white hand shoved through her chest, dark with wet blood, her face pained but just as horribly resigned, mouth forming around the words—

But the hand—no, the claw, sharp and cracked—pulls out just as suddenly, and she drops to her knees, dead before her face hits the earth. 

Naib takes a step forward, then another, his fists raised in preparation—

“What the hell, man?” 

A hand clutches his shoulder and shakes insistently, and Naib stumbles back, hitting yet another person. 

“Naib?” Vera—her mouth bloody, but cracking a final smile, and her eyes brimming with— “What’s wrong with you?”

“You—” Naib says, “you’re—”

His chest is tight with a lack of air, and his gaze darts around, landing on a bright red cup. He lurches forward and grabs it, downing the water in one gulp. 

“Seriously?” Vera continues, but her voice sounds murkier and her small figure wavers in front of him. He grabs her shoulder—it’s warm and solid, but that’s because bodies don’t cool immediately, and she’d only just fallen. “What is your deal? First you spill my drink, then you drink the rest of it?”

“Naib,” another voice joins, just as murky, deeper and more panicked. “Hey, what’d you say to him?”

“Me? Norton, get your boyfriend out of here before I throw him out, because this is just ridiculous—”

“He’s not my—what'd he even do?”

It’s Campbell. Solid, warm, and alive, clutching onto Naib’s arm and shoulder, holding him steady. 

“You gave him a drink?!”

“I did not—”

“He’s Muslim, he can’t drink!”

“I don’t drink either! He drank my damn punch! Spilled it on me then drank it! Don’t pin this on me, you weren’t even here!”

Naib blinks at the lights—red, blue, then flashing green—as they swirl in his vision, suddenly feeling light on his feet and very, very sick. 

“Campbell,” he tries to say, but the prickling coolness in his throat chokes him, dragging his eyes shut and him toward the ground. 

“Naib?”

The sting of the water pushes him into darkness. 

—

It’s been a week since everything began falling apart. 

Dyer hasn’t been out of the infirmary for more than an hour, that Balsa kid and the little Mechanic have been tinkering with some project day and night, and the unmistakable truth has settled like snow over a cemetery—the guests of the Manor have become prisoners of a slaughterhouse.

Patricia’s ankle cast hasn’t been removed yet, but when Naib steps into the Main Hall for a spare bite of sustenance, she’s standing with Gupta, murmuring in a low voice. 

“Subedar,” Gupta says in greeting, nodding his head. Patricia does the same, unsmiling. “I don’t know if you have heard. The Acrobat—Morton—he did not make it.”

“I heard,” Naib says grimly. “What about the others? Riley and Helena?”

“Helena was unharmed,” Patricia says, but there’s barely any relief in her voice. “She was lucky. Hell Ember still won’t hunt the girls.”

“And Riley—”

“Unlikely,” interrupts Dyer’s voice, making all but Naib jump. “He’s in a coma, essentially. Blunt force trauma to the head is not a hopeful fate.” 

“Doctor,” Gupta says, “have you been well?”

Dyer massages the bridge of her nose, a rare show of exhaustion. 

“Not very,” she says dryly. “They’re picking us off slowly. Morton is already gone, Riley is barely there, and neither Balsa nor Kreiburg can walk without a cane anymore. If either of them are in the next match, I doubt they’ll make it.” 

“That’s quite a dark pronouncement,” Patricia comments. The bags under her eyes have never looked so sharp. “Geisha is the next hunter. I might be fine against her, but Balsa and Valden…” 

“Ayuso is strong,” Gupta says. “He will support you.” 

“He’s one of our strongest,” Naib agrees, “but that makes it worse. He and Balsa—and you—are all the worst for hunters to deal with. Putting you three in one match means they’re not just picking us off, but starting with the most bothersome. So later matches might be faster.” 

Silence follows his words. No one has the energy to argue against it, despite how hopelessly it was said. 

“I will try to strengthen Balsa’s braces,” Dyer finally says. “Putting him in another match so soon… they must know he exhausts easily. The cane will slow his decoding as well.”

When she leaves, the faces of his comrades swirl and mix, washing away into the dark. 

Chapter Text

The smell of antiseptic drags Naib to consciousness.

Then it takes him more than a minute of staring to realize the figures next to his bed comprise of his mother, sister, Eli, and—

“Naib, you’re awake!”

Naib winces at the volume, automatically attempting to sit up. When his eyes have properly adjusted, he squints at the IV drip on the inside of his left forearm. He looks around, noting the muted white tones and voices of the local hospital’s ER. 

“You passed out, darling,” his mother says, quieter than Norton’s panicked tone. She holds his hand. “What do you remember?”

“Uh…” Naib starts, his throat hoarse. Norton hands him a cup of water, and Naib gives him a glance before taking a gulp. “Thanks.”

“Naib, I’m sorry, I was looking for you,” Eli says, coming up to the bed next to his mother. He looks even more harried than Norton. 

“I didn’t drink anything,” Naib says slowly, putting the water down to rub at the pounding in his head. “I think… I was arguing with Vera? And Norton was…”

“I’m really sorry,” Norton blurts out, his expression torn. “I should have left you alone. You needed some space, but I kept… I kept following you.”

Naib’s brows furrow as he tries to remember anything before he had passed out. Vaguely, he recalls Norton, following him through the crowds at the party, then Vera, glaring at him with a spilled drink in her hand. 

“Not your fault,” Naib says shortly, not wanting to bring up what had happened before all that in front of his mom and sister. “What time is it?”

“It’s two AM,” Rani answers him. At thirteen, she should have been asleep hours ago, but it looks like she had rolled out of bed to come to the hospital. Her pajamas consist of shorts and a tank top, covered up hastily by his mother’s jacket. “Naib-dai, I thought you got arrested.”

“What?”

“I, uh… I called the ambulance,” Norton says, glancing at Naib’s mom and sister quickly. Eli raises his eyebrows meaningfully, and Naib realizes—the alcohol. “They took you away then called the police, ‘cause y’know, we’re not supposed to be using the Manor.”

“Right,” Naib says, then takes another deep gulp of water. He can tell his mother already knows what Norton is not saying, and Rani just seems smug. “Thanks, man. I… for calling the ambulance. Am I free to go?”

“Not so fast, young man.”

Doctor Dyer steps into view, her voice brisk over the gentle bustling of the ER. Naib feels his breath catch in his throat for a single, short moment, before he feels his mother’s hand on his, Rani’s curious gaze, and blinks the feeling away.

“Doctor Dyer,” he says. “I, uh… didn’t know you worked at the hospital too.”

“With the paycheck high schools give me, I’m more of a volunteer for you kids,” she says bluntly, but her grip is gentle as she removes the IV from Naib’s forearm and quickly bandages it over. “Rohypnol stays in the system for up to twenty-four hours after ingestion even with the little dosage you had. You slept off most of it, but I would suggest lots of water and more greens in your diet for a week.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Naib’s mother says. “Is he able to go home now?”

“Yes.”

With a short parting glance, Doctor Dyer sweeps away to manage another patient, leaving Naib to deal with the ensuing awkwardness.

“Naib…” Eli starts, his tone soft in a way that makes Naib want to immediately jump off the bed and drive home.

“I’ll see you guys Monday,” is all Naib can muster up the energy to say. Neither Norton nor Eli say anything in response, but both of their expressions are tight, holding back words and questions that Naib has no idea how to sustain. 

Just then, Rani yawns, and his mother takes that to politely make their quick goodbyes.

—

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When Naib scrolls another few times to see yet another missed call from Ganji or Eli, he closes his phone and slumps back into the car seat. 

“Chorra, are you sure you’re alright?” his mother asks, voice soft to avoid waking up Rani, who had just fallen back asleep. “The doctor said you didn’t ingest that much, but you seem…”

“Just tired, Aama,” he says, voice muffled by his palm. He rubs his eyes then moves to his temples, still pounding mutedly with a headache. “Sorry for making you come all the way out here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d pick you up even if you did get arrested.”

Naib snorts, then pauses.

“My car’s still at the Manor.”

“Patricia drove it to Shiyi’s house. She says you owe her a ride on Monday.”

Naib sighs, but he’s grateful.

“Sounds like her.”

His mother is quiet as she pulls into the driveway and stops the engine. Naib shifts in his seat, vaguely guilty. 

“I’m… I’m worried, Naib,” she begins, switching to their native tongue. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and school must be getting stressful too. I let you go to this party because I wanted you to relax.”

“I didn’t think I’d get roofied,” Naib mutters. He thinks he should probably be a little more concerned about the fact that he’d ingested an illegal drug at a high school party, but the exhaustion is getting to him. His mother pats his shoulder and sighs.

“What about the people who hosted the party? You were telling me about a pair of twins, right?”

“Vera and Chloe.”

“Yes. They seem like nice girls.”

Naib thinks of Vera and rolls his eyes. 

“Partly, I guess. But it was their birthday party, and neither of them are that crazy. I can’t think of anyone who would genuinely try to do something like this. Parsons isn’t that kinda place.”

“I believe you, chhora,” his mother says, her eyes shining with worry. “Just be careful. The police… they told me they will need you for questioning tomorrow.”

Naib’s ill-at-ease sensation flares. Great—dealing with thinly-veiled racism is an awesome way to have a productive weekend. 

After bidding his mother goodnight, he carries Rani on his back despite their conversation having already woken her.

“Dai, you sure you’re okay?” she says in his ear. Naib thinks about the question as he heads up the stairs. Once he’s dropped Rani on her bed and she’s dozing off again, he says, “I’ll probably need to think about it for a while.”

“Okay. If someone was really trying to hurt you, I’d beat them up.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m the strongest in my class.”

“I know,” Naib says, grinning for the first time in hours. “Go to sleep.”

His sister is asleep before he’s even out the door.

—

Predictably, Naib himself doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies wide awake, changed out of his deplorable outfit and into something fit for a weekend of crisis spiraling. After ten minutes, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his unread notifications, does a quick Google search of what to do during police questioning to rather useless results, before shoving in his Airpods and putting on his workout playlist. 

After his arms give out from his thirtieth set of pushups, Naib pulls out his phone again and taps the least stressful message. 

qishiyi

Yesterday, 11:04PM

hey, i saw you leaving in the ambulance. are you ok?

3:17AM

hey

i’m good, thx for checking in

He stares at the message for a moment before his fingers start moving again. 

do you think there’s anyone at the party who would spike a drink

He swipes away before he can think more on it. Since ninth grade, Naib has known Shiyi to be the one person amongst his friends who actually has a respectable sleep schedule, so he can avoid texting her again until at least eight in the morning. 

yaboyganji

Yesterday, 10:51PM

bhai where are you?!

3:19AM

hey man

sorry, something happened and i went to the hospital

i’m fine now 

Naib gives the same text to Patricia, whose five messages are all some variation of asking for his location. He skips Eli’s messages—likely some worried probing on what actually happened—and opens Demi’s chat. 

bourbondemi

Yesterday, 11:56PM

Dude, I’m so sorry that happened to you, Norton told me what happened 

I totally get it if you’re pissed at me it was my responsibility to make sure the drinks were safe 

I swear I didn’t have anything to do with this and no one I know would do that either 

Are you okay? 

3:23AM

hey demi, dw about it

i don’t think you’re the type to pull something like that

i’m okay, doc didn’t say anything was worrying 

heard the police showed up… everything alright on your end? 

Naib is about to close his phone for another round of pushups when Demi responds. 

bourbondemi

Glad to hear you’re ok 🤞🏻

Do you have any time this weekend? I think we should meet up to talk irl

Naib is surprised enough to open the chat again and type out a message.

yeah that sounds fair

i’m free tmr evening

Message liked

Me too

How ab the boba place across the school, 7pm?

sounds good

With that, Naib closes his phone, rolls onto his side, and promptly falls asleep.

—

The police questioning goes as well as it can. 

Both are white, relatively fit, and neither are overtly racist. It’s the best Naib could ask for when he considers the stories Ganji had told him about being dark-skinned in his neighbourhood.

“Could you pinpoint anyone at the party—any of your classmates—that might do something like this?” asks the middle-aged officer, named Johnson. He’d smiled when Naib’s mother gave them tea, but the assam sits untouched next to his notepad. 

Naib stares at Johnson for a moment, trying to discern whether he should be incredulous by that question or not. For him to name his classmates would be essentially providing a suspect list. 

“Well,” he starts, then doesn’t continue. 

“This is confidential information,” Johnson’s partner says, then opens his tablet to show Naib a picture of a brown-haired girl, “but it might help you answer.”

Emma Woods, reads the caption underneath. The girl has grass-green eyes, with freckles and a benign smile. The backdrop is the typical white-blue color of annual school pictures. It takes Naib too long to realize that Emma Woods is one of his underclassmen—the president of some gardening club, another one of Eli’s friends. Always hanging around the infirmary. 

“She’s been pronounced missing,” Johnson says, and Naib looks up, shocked. 

“What?”

“She was also at Vera and Chloe Nair’s party and was seen near the drinks table at the same time as you.” 

“I… I didn’t know,” is all Naib can say. “Was she also roofied? I mean—“

“We investigated the drinks at that party, both alcoholic and not,” Johnson says. “There were traces of Rohypnol in the fruit punch and the Heineken. Did you consume either of these?”

“I don’t know.”

After that, Naib only half-listens to the police, staring all the while at Emma Woods’s face and feeling dread pools rapidly in his chest. 

“Naib, you sure you’re okay?” his mother asks after the officers leave, a full hour later. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’m okay, amma,” Naib says, but his head still feels afloat, spinning between Emma Woods’ face and the delirious visions of Norton and Vera the night before. “A friend wanted to hang out today, so I’m gonna head out.”

“Are they from last night's party?” 

The question is harmless, but his mother is clearly worried.

“We’re just gonna be at that boba cafe,” Naib says. 

“I’ll drop you off.”

“It’s fine, I can—“

“Naib,” his mother says, voice stern. “I’ll drive you there. Let me worry, okay?”

Naib doesn’t argue, but feels guilty anyway.

—

Demi already has her drink ready when Naib arrives.

“Hey, Naib,” she greets, but her usual cheer is lacking. He notes the dark shadows under her eyes. Her fingers drum the table with a frantic tremble. 

“Demi,” he says. “You, uh… are you okay?” 

“No, I’m good,” she replies, then takes a large sip of her drink. “Sorry, got here a bit early.”

“No worries.”

Naib orders the original and waits in the seat across Demi, who stares out the window with a frown.

“Hey,” Naib prompts. “What’s up?”

Demi looks at him, her gaze far away. 

“Last night,” she starts. “I just want to apologize again. It had to be my fault that the drinks were spiked. I didn’t think anyone would do something like that, but I’m sorry you had to experience it. Are you alright? I heard you… went to the hospital.”

“I’m fine, the doctor cleared me,” Naib brushes off. “And I know you wouldn’t have brought drinks if you knew getting roofied was a possibility. Bad timing, I guess?”

He tries to joke, but Demi shakes her head, looking serious. 

“I don't think the timing was by coincidence,” she says. “Have you heard about the kid who went missing? Emma Woods?”

Naib nods, feeling uneasy. 

“From what I saw, you two were the only ones drinking right after we took out that new batch.”

“What are you saying? You think this was targeted?”

“Maybe,” Demi says, worrying her lip. “But why you two? Or maybe it was just students in general?”

“I dunno,” Naib says. “Emma… any news on her?”

“No,” Demi says, expression frustrated. “My parents have been communicating with the police—because, y’know, I got the alcohol—and that’s why I even know about it at all. How’d you know?”

“Got questioned.”

“Oh, shit. Was it intense?”

“It was alright,” Naib says, thinking of his mother’s anxious hands. “So… what now?” 

“I don’t know, Naib,” Demi says with an aggravated sigh. She returns her gaze to the window, eyes destitute. The following silence gives Naib a chance to pick up his drink. When he returns, Demi is staring at the same spot outside. 

“Do you know who’d spike a drink?” Naib asks quietly. 

“Honest to god, I couldn’t tell you,” Demi says after a moment. “The officer asked me the same question. He pulled out a few pictures and pointed straight at Ganji, then William, then Kevin. He didn’t even try to hide… y’know, his partner even asked if I thought you did it, then mixed up the drinks.”

Despite everything, Naib laughs. 

“Now that’s fucked up.”

After some more back and forth, Naib thinks of gently suggesting Demi to call a ride home, noticing his classmate’s deteriorating state from an evident lack of sleep. But then Demi shakes her head and says, “Do you think Emma’s still alive?”

Naib stops short. His friend seems dead serious, voicing a thought not even the police officers could. 

“It’s been less than twenty four hours, hasn’t it?” Naib says quietly. “Let the police do the investigating. There’s a chance she’s…” Naib pauses. He glances at Demi’s tense expression, trying to re-order his wording. “Nothing’s certain yet, Demi.”

Demi looks suddenly close to tears, her face closing off as she reaches for her drink, grasping it like it’s a wine glass—and Naib feels a sudden chill down his spine, reminiscent of those dreams with Norton. She pauses as well, staring at the dripping condensation on the side of her untouched mango slush blankly. 

“Sorry,” she says, voice low. “I just haven’t been feeling myself lately.”

Naib wants to reach out, settle his hand on her shoulder, but even the thought of doing that makes him stop. 

Why does it feel like he’s done this before?

“I think I’m gonna head home,” Demi says abruptly. She stands, setting down her drink. “Give that to your little sister, ‘kay? Been a while since I’ve seen her.”

She manages to crack a smile, so Naib does the same.

“Get home safe,” he says, and with a wave, she’s gone.

If he had known this was the last time he'd talk to her in months, Naib would have done something to hold her back—reassure her more, offer her a ride home, chat aimlessly about school. But he doesn’t. He only watches her enter her car and place her head in hands, staying like that for a long, long time. 

—

With four survivors dead, the Manor’s brimming tension spills over to chaos.

Naib is assigned four matches in two days. Patricia hasn’t been able to move her left arm since her match against Gamekeeper, his hook now leaving permanent indents on mortal bodies. Ayuso is on probation for punching Ripper after he made another unsavory comment toward Lily, or Helena, or whichever poor girl he had his eyes on during the match. Physically, the survivors are losing, and their mental states are not so far behind.

“Ready for the match, Subedar?”

Naib slides his gaze to Campbell, leaning on the wall next to him as they await their match. During the several months Naib had known him, the younger man seems to have a tendency of ignoring pre-made plans and heading straight toward the hunter during matches. Naib’s military upbringing clashed with that at first, until Campbell began consistently achieving three-cipher-long kites against most hunters, and he couldn’t argue against his usefulness.

“Are you?” Naib tosses back. Well-backed arrogance aside, Campbell is a rather broody man to interact with unless he seeks you out first. Naib, alongside stronger survivors like Patricia, seem to make the list.

“With the state of things,” Campbell says, with a sigh bordering on a cough, “don’t think even you could maintain total calm.”

“The atmosphere has been severely dampened,” Naib says dryly, but barely backed by any humour. They both stare silently at the long, splintered cut in the wooden wall blocking them from the match—Balsa and Reznik’s latest attempt to engineer an escape. “We may be lucky today. Their strategy seems to consist of compiling the most bothersome abilities in the initial matches to narrow us down to the weaker ones, but that can work against them.”

“I can kite as long as I want, but that doesn’t help us escape this prison.”

“Every minute counts,” Naib says seriously. “Keep the hunters busy during matches. Drag on those chases.”

“Are we making a game plan?”

Balsa and Qi Shiyi have shown up, both in their respective levels of despair. For the two of them, it seems to be no different from an average day. 

“I’d like to second Subedar’s words,” Qi Shiyi says, unshakably calm as always. “We need all the time we can get. With these stronger teams, we can buy time.”

“Time for what?” Campbell says, his tone exasperated. “We’re stuck. Technology can’t tear through those—those prison walls.”

“Maybe it can,” Balsa says shrewdly. His eyes are alight with mischief—fit for his youth, but more jaded. “You know the hunters have been intensifying their aggression against certain survivors, yes?”

“You mean Dorval and Gilman?” Campbell asks.

“Them, but also Mr. Clark. What do they all have in common?”

“They’re all… particularly annoying to deal with,” Naib says slowly, but frowns. There must be more behind it. “But there’s many of us like that. Campbell, for one, and you. Ms. Shiyi is also rather notorious.”

Balsa nods. 

“But even with all our abilities, we’re still ordinary, aren’t we?” he says. Balsa’s academic background peeks through even with his perpetual prisoner’s garb—he speaks as if giving a lecture. “My contraptions are based on real, tangible things. Physics and electricity. You, Mr Subedar, are built to be fast. You’re small and slim, but your muscular power is undeniable. Ms Shiyi and Mr Campbell both use physical objects.”

If Naib wasn’t already used to Balsa’s blunt way of speaking, he probably would have been mildly offended. But Balsa only pauses, like a professor waiting for his students to answer. 

Naib opens his mouth to answer again, but a familiar freezing fog seeps into the room, sinking into their skin, dragging them away to another match.

—

qishiyi

Today, 3:17AM

do you know anyone who would spike a drink 

Today, 6:07AM

so that’s what happened?

i can’t say i can name anyone immediately. but i do believe that neither the nair twins nor demi would tamper with them. perhaps there were some locals who crashed? 

parsons doesn’t have that many smokers or drinkers or druggies. the ones i know aren’t friendly with the twins, so i don’t see why they‘d be there.

are you okay? i’m assuming you ingested something. 

Naib reads the messages from Shiyi a few times, rubbing a hand over his faintly throbbing headache. It’s the middle of the day, after Naib passed out right on top of his English essay, and his heart still pounds in his ears from the chill he can feel through his skin.

The essay sits unfinished in front of him. Naib sighs and stands, hoping some movement will circulate some energy to his brain.

Today, 2:43PM

yea i’m good, thanks 

nothing major, but it was that roofie substance 

rohypnol?

apparently there were traces of it in the punch and heineken

To his surprise, his friend replies almost immediately. Not that she doesn’t wake early, as an intensive athlete—but the fact that she too is shaken enough to reply to a text message rather than study first thing in the morning. Unless she didn’t sleep.

i see. i’m glad you’re alright 

patricia slept over at my house

Naib blinks for a moment. Since when were they so close? Both of their parents are strict—disallowing any form of hangouts with friends unless there’s a three-day notice beforehand or if r hey approve of the friend in question. He’s surprised that they were even at the Nairs’ party, knowing the reputation high school parties have. 

When there’s no follow up, Naib texts back. 

is she okay?

i don’t know. she seemed to have difficulty sleeping. do you know if she has a history with nightmares?

Naib sits back down, frowning. 

He’s known Patricia since fifth grade. It’s always been him struggling with the insomnia and restless nights. Has he been such an inattentive friend to not notice how she was going through the same?

i don’t know 

she never had them before i think

can i come over?

sure. my dad’s home by the way. so bring some work over as a cover

Naib heads out of the house with his laptop slid hastily into his bag and a quick text to his mother. One bus ride later, he walks up to a modest suburban house, decorated with neat petunias lining the yard. 

“Hey,” greets Shiyi at the door. She’s already dressed and looks ready to go for a jog, but lets him in with the door shutting quietly. Naib follows her upstairs to her room, half glancing over his shoulder to see if Mr. Qi would appear in the hallways, demanding why he’s back. 

“My dad’s sleeping right now,” Shiyi says, her tone wry. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t actually hate you.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” Naib mutters. He thinks back to when he and Shiyi first became close, always seen together at school with their respective athletic friends, hanging out at the mall and working out. They shared a strong, reliable bond—one between two similar people. Neither of their parents allowed sleepovers between opposite genders, which ruined many of their game nights. 

But that day, Shiyi collapsed.

Naib had carried her to his house, only able to notify her parents once she regained consciousness. Mr. Qi had arrived at the Subedar residence to the unfortunately-timed scene of Naib losing balance and colliding horizontally atop his daughter, who looked pale and fearful. 

With Naib’s mother still at work, ten-year-old Rani had to defend her older brother’s virtue. Shiyi nearly had to drag her father out of the house so Naib could escape.

Somehow, Mr. Qi has managed to warm up to Naib over the years. 

“So what’s up with Patricia?” Naib asks, entering Shiyi’s room with some hesitance. It’s organized and smartly-decorated, blue walls covered in various franchise posters. “Did something happen to her at the party as well?”

“No, I don’t think it’s something like that,” Shiyi says. She leans against her bed, where Patricia sleeps soundly, and gestures for Naib to sit. “Naib… do you remember what happened a few years ago?”

Naib only has to think for a moment.

“You mean when your dad almost throttled me for tainting your innocence?”

“Yes,” Shiyi says, grinning. “Still the funniest thing ever, by the way. But no. What happened before that?”

“When you fell after our jog?” Naib asks. “We were training for the junior track team. I thought it was just ’cause you overexerted yourself. Then I carried you home and your dad—“

“Okay, yeah,” Shiyi says, waving a hand. “But do you remember… what did I look like? Did I say anything strange?”

Naib takes in her serious tone, thinks of Demi, and listens to Patricia’s soft snores. 

“You got super pale,” he starts, “and your hands were cold even though we’d been exercising. I don’t remember if you really said anything, but—“

Blood. A fallen body. Her flute, broken, forlorn in the snow. 

Naib is screaming again. 

“Naib?”

Shiyi is closer than before, a frown on her face. Naib has grabbed her hand, but he lets go quickly, remembering suddenly where he is. 

“Sorry,” he says, blinking hard. “Uh… no, I don’t remember you saying anything. You just looked pretty scared.”

Shiyi only stares at him. Her black eyes are probing and narrowed, and Naib has the sudden impression that his friend is much older than seventeen. 

“Naib Subedar.”

He freezes.

“Do you really not remember?”

She clutches his hand this time, and Naib falls. 

—

The snowfall stops the day Qi Shiyi dies.

It’s her, Patricia, Balsa, and Naib up against Wu Chang, and the survivors are losing badly. Both Balsa and Shiyi have been chaired twice.

But at this point, chairing is a mercy.

“Shit,” Naib swears in native tongue as the Black Guard’s umbrella hits through Naib and lands on Balsa, who crumples immediately. Naib launches an armful of snow at the Hunter, his forearm freezing without his other elbow pad—a quick distraction before scooping Balsa onto his back and sprinting away. 

“Mr Subedar,” Balsa coughs out. “Just—just leave me…”

“No chance,” Naib says immediately. “I’ll get you to Patricia.”

Wu Chang is hot on their trail, and when Naib glances back after a sharp turn, it’s the White Guard staring pitifully back. 

“The Prisoner is not the one I would worry about,” he says softly.

Naib’s instincts scream in his ears, louder than Baksa’s labored breaths. He sees a shadow by a wall, one that shouldn’t be there, because Naib knows this map too well for even a single shadow to be out of place—

“She does not have much time left,” the White Guard continues. His accented English barely makes it past the ringing in Naib’s ears. “The Prisoner will not die. We have made a pact with Alva Lorenz.”

Naib pulls Balsa out of the Hunter’s reach automatically, jostling him enough to let out a pained groan. 

“What will you do with him?” Naib demands. “Where is Enchantress?”

“She is decoding and recuperating. The Prisoner’s injuries shall be stated by the chair. He will return to the Manor alive.”

“Let me go, Mr Subedar,” Balsa says in his hoarse voice. “I’ll live a little longer.” 

Only the sight of Qi Shiyi’s broken flute strikes Naib enough for him to let Balsa go, pulled into the Hunter’s carry and led away to a chair. Barely any sound is heard when Balsa—unconscious—shoots into the snowing night sky. 

“Qi Shiyi,” Naib says, next to his comrade in an instant. The woman has her eyes half-lidded, body limp and broken against the wall. “Hey, can you hear me?”

“Tang…Si?” she murmurs, the syllables faintly familiar—something she has said before in her native tongue. Naib wracks his brain to remember. Is she seeing someone from her past? “Tang Si…”

“Qi Shiyi,” Naib says again, more urgently this time. He tilts her head to feel her pulse. “Damn it. Damn it!”

He grabs the radio at his waist.

“Patricia! Forget the cipher, Qi’s about to die!”

“Subed—Hunter—away from me—“

Wu Chang must have found her, his presence muffling the radio waves. Naib curses and drops the radio in the snow. 

“Tang Si,” Qi Shiyi says again. When Naib turns to her, helpless, he’s struck by the sight of tears. 

She smiles. The snow stops. 

Her hand reaches up shakily, clutching Naib’s. 

“I’m finally home.”

—

“Naib?”

He comes to with a throb in his head, swaying on the spot. 

“Shiyi, he’s gonna—“

A pair of arms support him, leading him toward the blurry infirmary bed—but Dyer only allows white bedding, how could the blankets be that bright of a blue—

“Naib.”

Qi Shiyi’s voice. He reaches for her, still warm with fading life but heart long since silent—and she catches his hands.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him. But shouldn’t it be Naib apologizing—to yet another ghost he failed to save? 

Her hands are warm on his. He squeezes them, praying to his long-neglected God that he won’t wake up from this dream.

“I’m alive.”

Naib stares into her face. He can almost feel the cold of that map, snow soaking through his pants. He leaves her hands’ warmth to feel for her injuries, tug the collar of her shirt to check blood loss, puncture size through the shoulder, amount of salve needed to cover the area—

“Shiyi, I’ve seen him like this before—“

“No, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t’ve—“

It’s only when he sees the smooth, bare skin under her collarbone—unbroken and whole—that Naib pulls back, blinking hard. 

“Is he…”

“Naib.”

Patricia? some part of him says, disbelieving, but why should he be? His friend was just sleeping, tired from the party last night—

“Oh,” he breathes. 

“Naib, you with us?”

Patricia is in front of him, dark eyes wide and concerned. Shiyi holds his hands, gently putting them down, but Naib pulls away. He stands and backs away from the girls. 

“Am I going crazy?” Naib whispers. He doesn’t register his voice cracking until he tries to speak through the lump in his throat. “Fuck—am I—I don’t get what’s happening.”

There’s fifty different things that he can breakdown about, but the most pressing one—

“I’m sorry, Shiyi,” he says. He can only stare at her messy collar for a second before the shame makes him turn away. “I’m really… I’ve never…”

“Naib,” Shiyi cuts him off firmly. “This isn’t normal.”

“I know, I’m—”

“No, she means—” Patricia stands as well, hands coming up slowly as if approaching a spooked animal. “Naib. Can you tell us what you remembered?”

At once, all the sensations from that vision—the snow soaking his clothes, the shards of that bamboo flute, Tang Si, I’m finally home —rush through him again, and Naib stumbles back another step. 

“It was really cold,” he blurts out, squeezing his forearm. He stares at his black sweater sleeve. “There was snow, and this—this flute on the ground.”

He looks at Shiyi. 

“That flute was yours, wasn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Since meeting Naib in ninth grade Geography class, Vera has never liked him.

At first, it was because she assumed he was one of those slackers—yet another undedicated boy who leeched off others, stayed glued to his phone all day, and cracked unfunny jokes at every chance—since he was consistently late to school and spent most of his time with the rowdy, wannabe-jocks.

Ganji Gupta, Kevin Ayuso, William Ellis, the like. Norton Campbell too—arguably the most obnoxious of the bunch. All sweaty teenage boys who tried too hard with their hair yet turned around and mocked girls for catfishing with makeup. They pushed each other around, frequently disrupting class, but never were reprimanded seriously simply from the privilege of being boys. 

But she disliked Naib in particular. 

She was a fourteen and a newly-awakened feminist—so she cared too much and did too much, quickly becoming one of the girls that they avoided out of annoyance and condescension. That only fired her up more, leading to a heated debate in English (where she and Naib, to Mr. Diruse’s chagrin, also shared a class) on the topic of pro-life versus pro-choice, where Naib and her argued their respective points for a half a period. 

“It’s just not right to kill another person,” Naib had said, his stupid acne-filled face deeply unconvinced, which was his only point for the past ten minutes. Perhaps that was why Vera’s vision flashed red, a bone-deep hatred rushing through her blood, the dam broken by a spark of impatience. 

“Bold of you to say, bastard!”

The class, already silent and rapt on their back-and-forth debate, seemed to blink in shock as one entity. 

“What the hell?” Naib broke the silence, his voice rising in volume like Vera’s. His expression was more hurt than confused, and Vera—for a split-second—was apologetic, but his next words drove past the vitriol of the moment. “You’re freaking delusional.”

“I am not —” Vera snapped, only then realizing she had stood up. 

“Kids,” sighed Mr. Diruse. English was his other teachable course, but it was clear why he’d listed it as secondary to Chemistry. “I think that’s enough. Let’s regroup and note down some main points so we can continue.”

Naib had rolled his eyes, expression smug, all the hurt from before wiped away. Vera wanted to punch him in the face as he sat back down with Ganji, who patted him on the back, adding insult to the wound. 

As Vera fumed through the rest of the day, the sharp words she had shouted rattled through her head like a dissonant chord, following her into sleep. 

They didn’t interact all too often, though their friend groups tended to overlap. But that dislike remained, mutual—tinged with something too confusing for either to confront.

Because when she looked at Naib, she saw flashes of someone else— something else. 

His pubescent face sometimes looked too sharp, too old. She saw flashes of something metal in his hands, but in the next second, she’d realize he was only holding a pen. Her chest would pound with a sharp pain, sudden and intense, and her mind would race with fear during these brief moments. When he wore a deep green cloak to school for their annual Halloween catwalk, Vera had stared at him for so long that he’d stared right back, wordless but annoyed, waiting for her snarky comment. She doesn’t even remember what he was dressed as—just the deep green of his cloak. 

And that dream—one that chased her night after night, but she never could remember the details once she awoke. All she knows is that Naib Subedar is in it. 

Then the party happened, and she saw Naib pass out right in front of her. 

She felt something shift—as his eyes widened before going hazy, as he lurched forward like he was hit—then as he fell to the ground, Vera remembers thinking how could you go down with just one hit? before feeling adrenaline explode from her chest, heart pounding, and reeling with the urgency to run away. 

Vera and Chloe manage to leave before the cops get to them. The adrenaline recedes, Chloe pats her on the back in wordless if confused consolation, and they head to their respective bedrooms without discussing anything. 

But when Vera sleeps, she dreams—and she remembers.

—

The gong sounds across the grounds, but Vera can’t hear. 

One second passes. Then two. 

“A beautiful death for you, darling.”

She barely hears those words either—only the ringing in her ears, the reverberating soundwaves of that artificial sound. 

“Very tragic. Poetic, even. The Baron will like it.”

Then her chest is pulled inside out—a pain so excruciating her vision whites out, all her nerve endings self-immolating, self-destructing, attempting to block out the sensation. 

“Perhaps… his next novel will be about you.”

When she opens her eyes next, she’s on her back, body arranged like a rag doll. Two shadows loom over her. She almost says Vera , blood dripping down her mouth, and her eyes, and oh god, her chest, it hurts—

“Stay back, Mercenary.”

Who’s speaking? She can’t tell. Her vision fades rapidly. 

The last thing she sees is this: Naib Subedar, the feared Mercenary, leaping toward that voice with a curved, glinting blade in his hand—

And the last thing she feels is this: two warm hands, one on her gaping chest, one on her cheek. Hands that are the exact same as her own. Hands she would recognize even if she were blind and numb and dying. 

Vera , she thinks, and the pain is all but forgotten, flooding instead with the gentle rush of grief, relief, and love. 

The last thing she thinks is this: 

Vera, will you forgive me? 

—

“Earth to Vera?”

Vera snaps back to the present with a blink. The piece of pasta speared on her fork has gone cold, but she mechanically puts it in her mouth, barely tasting anything. 

“Sorry,” Vera says.

“Don’t apologize,” Chloe says, pointing her own fork at Vera like a stern teacher. “We know you’ve been stressed.”

Because of Emma Woods, is what her twin refers to. The girl who went missing at their own birthday party. 

Both of them had been questioned already—and their parents, upon hearing they had taken up the Manor instead of their own house like they had planned, immediately forbade them from stepping foot on the property again. They were lucky to not be grounded, Vera thinks. Chloe hadn’t reacted at the scolding at all, her eyes instead clouded and gaze far away, until Vera persisted in asking what was wrong. 

“Nothing,” her twin had said, but clearly there was something. Vera felt it when the police approached her with Emma’s missing picture, when the Manor became off limits, when she’d gone to sleep and dreamt that same dream with Naib Subedar in it. 

“The party got pretty crazy,” Anne remarks. She sits next to Ganji, who sits next to Naib. Margaretha and Demi both sit in silence; Margaretha with a furrow in her brow as she stares at her unfinished coding project and Demi with blank, glazed eyes. “Poor Norton. Can’t imagine how he must feel getting blamed for calling the ambulance.”

“How’re you feeling, Naib?” Margaretha directs at Naib after shutting her laptop work a decisive thump. 

“Huh?” Naib says with a slow blink. Vera frowns at him—he looks as sleep-deprived as she feels. She also notices Patricia’s vaguely guilty expression and tries to connect the dots. “Uh… I’m fine. Just tired.” He clears his throat, clearly trying to think of something else to say, and cracks a grin. “Stuck on that lab for Mr. Diruse. I’m not sure what Eli did, but our results don’t make sense.”

“Don’t even mention the lab,” Anne groans, exaggerating her slump into Ganji, who looks away with a blush. Vera meets Chloe’s eyes and they both grin. “Why’d Diruse have to start with organic chemistry of all units? Making those molecule diagrams is giving me a migraine.”

“There’s—there’s this site you can use to make them pretty quick,” Ganji says, taking the chance to extract himself from their closeness and pull out his chromebook. “Um, you just select the length of the carbon chain, then the hydrogens add themselves…”

The slightly stilted lunch period dissolves into discussions about Mr. Diruse and their lab report. Vera glances at Naib again—despite being one of the top chemistry students in their year, his gaze is distant as he listens to Ganji explain something to him, as if a lab report worth a substantial part of their unit mark is far from his thoughts. 

“Vera, what’s up?” Chloe pulls her aside to ask as they walk to Computer Science a few minutes later, after the lunch bell has rung. “You can talk to me. Is it about Emma?”

Vera sighs, but not out of annoyance. Chloe has always been blunt—something Vera appreciates over the around-the-bush beating that most people would adopt regarding a situation as worrying as theirs. A girl went missing at their birthday party; Vera doesn’t understand how their peers can proceed as if everything’s normal. But Chloe understands Vera, who’s so easily knocked off-kilter from change. And a missing student is definitely a change. 

“What else?” she mutters. “Chloe, I’m… I feel guilty. I feel like it’s our fault she’s gone.”

Chloe’s expression doesn’t change, but Vera senses something off anyway. 

“It’s weird,” Chloe agrees with a frown. “I remember seeing her at the table, same time as you. Then Naib faints, the police come… I don’t know. You think she got lost in all that chaos? I don’t know her that well, but Lily tells me she can be spontaneous.”

“What, so she spontaneously decided to disappear at our party?” Vera says. They lower their voices as they enter the classroom, sitting in their usual seats close to the front. “I thought I saw Lily there too. They’re pretty close—why was Emma alone?”

“Maybe Lily already went home at that point,” Chloe thinks aloud, staring blankly at her unfinished project. “She’s got strict parents.”

“Yeah,” Vera says, staring at her twin for a moment before turning to her own equally unfinished project. “Chloe, d’you think we could…go back and figure some things out?”

At that, Chloe jolts, facing Vera fully with something sharp in her eyes. 

“No,” she says vehemently. “Vera, we are not going back to the Manor. It’s been sealed off, first of all, and probably under surveillance from the freakin’ police—and what do you think we’d find?”

Vera shifts uneasily, sighing. She knows Chloe’s right. But the guilt persists.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right. Dumb idea.”

Their teacher, Mr. Gatley, begins class, announcing the start of their final project for their first unit. Or something along those lines—Vera has tuned him out, even though she usually clings onto everything he says. 

Mr. Gatley is widely agreed to be one of Parson Secondary School’s most beloved figures. Known for his handsome, actor-worthy face and genuine interactions with students, he even has a pseudo-fanclub under the name of the CS Committee, which Patricia frustratedly clarifies is an unofficial branch of the STEM club that “only exists so people who have nothing better to do have an excuse to ogle Mr. Gatley”. Blessedly or not, Mr. Gatley doesn’t seem to understand that the club he sponsors only exists to entertain student crushes, and diligently sacrifices every Thursday lunch to plan mini-events with overly-enthusiastic students. 

Vera respects him a great deal—but not to the degree of a crush, no matter what she felt in tenth grade—though Chloe has always taken a more indifferent tone toward him. Computer science is more of Vera's subject, so it makes sense that Vera puts in more effort to build a solid connection with their teacher.

Vera’s still musing over her feelings on Emma’s missing case and Mr. Gatley’s new assignment, only half-listening to Chloe’s chatter, when a sudden pull of her shoulder nearly makes her stumble.

“What the—”

“Vera,” comes Demi’s voice. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Vera and Chloe both stare at Demi for a moment, just short enough to not be awkward. But Demi at glance looks deeply exhausted. Even her voice sounds hoarser than usual. And during the period, Vera saw her friend sleeping behind her computer, head pillowed on her arms.

“Sure thing,” Vera agrees, more out of worry than anything. “Uh… Chloe, I’ll meet you in English.”

Chloe clearly wants to stay, staring oddly at Demi, but one glance at Vera says Vera will tell her everything anyway, so she leaves without a word. 

“Everything alright?” Vera says, patting Demi’s shoulder. “You look really tired, Demi.”

“I’m fine,” Demi says shortly, not at all with her usual energy. “Vera, I heard you and Chloe in class. You wanna go check out the Manor, right?”

Vera blinks in surprise.

“Yeah,” she says anyway. “I know it’s dumb, and we might get caught, but… I don't know. I feel like I have to check. Just in case Emma…”

She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. 

“Me too,” Demi says, a thin thread of desperation in her voice. “I… this feels wrong. But I need to go back—I was the one with the alcohol. I don’t care what my parents say, even if they’re mad at me. I must’ve done something wrong.”

“Demi,” Vera starts, frowning. Her friend has always had a bleeding heart. Seeing it affect her in such a tense situation makes Vera swallow back pity. “It’s not your fault. You’re so careful with the drinks—you didn’t bring that much anyway, right? That’s you being responsible. No way you did something wrong.”

Demi’s lip trembles before she rubs at her eyes with a sigh. 

“Still my responsibility,” she says quietly. “If Naib got roofied, who knows what happened to Emma?”

Vera is silent. She thinks on the moment Naib had fallen, eyes hazy, and the shockingly intense panic Norton had exhibited. The two boys weren’t exactly close, so why did Norton lunge forward to catch Naib so dramatically? Why did Vera freeze, her chest pounding with that ache again? Why did she dream that same dream and now remember every detail?

“You sure you wanna do it?” Vera asks lowly. “I’m in if you are. Chloe won’t come, though. I’ll do it without letting her know.”

“That’s alright,” Demi says, eyes resolute. “Today at ten PM?”

“How about tomorrow?” Vera asks. “Maybe get some sleep tonight.”

“No, I’d rather do it today,” Demi insists. Considering Vera’s parents aren’t home tonight but are tomorrow, combined with her friend’s shaking shoulder, Vera acquiesces. 

“Are you girls alright?”

They both jump when Mr. Gatley emerges from the classroom, expression confused. The bell for last period has long since rang—he must have come out after hearing them talk, distracting his students. 

“We’re fine, Mr. Gatley,” Vera says, smiling. “Sorry if we were loud. We’ll head to class now.”

Mr. Gatley waves away the apology.

“You both look exhausted,” he says sympathetically. “Get some rest. Senior year only just started.”

—

It doesn’t take long for Chloe to sense that Vera is hiding something from her. The twins have never kept anything from each other—though Vera hasn’t yet told her about the dreams—so Vera doesn’t exactly try to lie her way through it anyway. 

“Vera, you—it’s dangerous!” Chloe sputters, turning in the shotgun to face Vera. Vera uses the excuse of driving to not meet her eyes. “Why would you go back? What would you find? Why’re you so insistent on this?”

“There’s just—I don’t know, like—a feeling,” Vera says. It sounds weak, but her chest pounds with phantom pain and her grip on the steering wheel goes tight. “I have to go back. I know the police are on it, whatever—but I need to see it for myself. I have to. Emma… she might still be—”

“If Emma was still in the Manor, the police would have found something by now,” Chloe says. 

“Not like they’re giving us live updates.”

“They reached out to nearly everyone at the party and Emma’s neighbours. Didn’t you get the email? They’re asking the community for help, there’s volunteer search parties ongoing—is that why you guys are going tonight instead of yesterday?”

Vera did get the email, and so did half her classmates. Just that morning, a location change for the search was announced, shifting from the Manor to the forest and park the next street over. Demi likely saw it too—that’s why she suggested tonight. Vera still has some misgivings; there will still be police there, right? Even if they already searched the Manor, there must be some sort of surveillance of the area. But Demi seems confident, or just uncaring. And Vera just wants to see it for herself. 

“Why don’t we volunteer for the search tonight?” Chloe suggests, bordering on stern. “It’d help more than going back to that place.”

“We’re gonna do that too. But we’re checking out the Manor after.”

Chloe sighs, frustrated. 

“Fine. I’m going with you guys.”

Vera doesn’t argue.

That night, after a tense and rushed dinner, Chloe drives the two of them to the Manor. She parks a ways away, but from that distance they can see that Demi is already there, pacing just beside her car with obvious restlessness. 

“Hey, Demi,” Vera greets when the twins join her. “How’re you feeling?”

“Hey,” she says, then glances at Chloe. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Demi’s tone isn’t unfriendly, but Chloe bristles anyway. 

“Well, since you two really just wanted to lose sleep over something like this, someone has to keep you alive.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Vera says. Demi says nothing and begins walking toward the forming crowd of volunteers. “Just—we’ll do this for a few hours then leave. I’m not optimistic we’ll find anything. But Demi clearly needs it, okay?”

Chloe is silent for a long moment, staring at Vera. 

“Alright. But I think you’re using Demi as an excuse.”

—

The search brings up nothing. Demi pulls them away just before the party disperses and the three of them make it back to the Manor, looking like weary high school students heading home late to sneak past the supervising police officers. 

“How are we gonna do this?” Chloe asks as they shut the massive Manor door behind them. To their surprise, there are no police officers standing around the guard the property—most of them are busy with the actual search party and investigation. Demi illuminates the way with a flashlight, passing another to Vera. 

In the dark, void of dancing teenagers and party lights, the Manor is eerily still. 

“We stick together,” Demi says quietly. “We’ll focus on the main floor. That’s where we last saw Emma.”

They make their way through the floor, bumping into furniture and jumping at every little creak of wood under their feet. There’s times when Chloe moves closer to Vera, her expression tense, holding hands tightly. Sometimes, Demi stops walking, her flashlight zipping left and right as if she’d catch something in the dark if she did it fast enough. As time passes, Vera feels a level of fear thrumming in her veins, making her heart pound harder and harder.

But, as Chloe suspected, they find nothing notable. 

“Vera, what’s wrong?” she asks when Vera has to lean against a table for support. Her breathing is heavier now, her chest tight and her heartbeat in her ears, and she’s gripped by an unexplainable urge to run away. 

“We should leave,” Chloe says when Vera can’t respond. She feels Chloe pull her up, supporting her on her side. “Demi, let’s go.”

Silence.

Vera looks up, meeting her twin’s eyes. The urge grows stronger. Sweat beads her forehead and the sound of her heartbeat grows and grows in volume—

“Demi?” Chloe calls out, her footsteps hurried as she pulls Vera with her. The flashlight beam flicks from where they had just seen their friend, to the stairwell, then a sudden creak from behind them—

“Chloe, we gotta—we have to leave,” Vera pants, trying to draw in steadying breaths, but all she can think about is running away, as fast as possible, or she’ll be—

“Demi!” Chloe yells again, but there’s no answer. It’s as if Demi just disappeared. “Fuck—okay, the police might still be there, we have to tell them—”

The urge to run flares up like a flame, Vera’s heartbeat pounding like drums in her ears, and she becomes the one dragging them away. She has to run. If she looks back—

“Vera!” Chloe starts calling for her instead. “Oh my god—Vera, c’mon, we’re gonna go back to my car—”

Vera’s hearing fades in and out. All she can do is run, drag her teammate with her, push open the Manor doors and keep running until Chloe’s car is in front of them. 

“Vera, come on, breathe,” Chloe’s voice breaks through the fog, pleading and panicked. “Shit. Okay. Vera, I’m gonna drive to the search party, I think I still see some lights—”

“ No, ” Vera says, hand shooting out to grab Chloe’s. It grounds her somewhat, and she manages to draw in a shuddering breath. “Chloe—”

“We have to find Demi!” Chloe hisses. Her eyes are shining in the dark. “Vera, you stay here—I’ll tell the police, we find Demi, and we go home. Okay?”

Vera doesn’t have enough strength to argue. Chloe squeezes her hand once, gives her a quick hug, then in a blink, she’s rushed off. 

Vera can’t seem to get her breathing back in order. She’s heard about these symptoms—heart pounding, chest aching, panic flooding her mind—but it’s the first time she has ever experienced a panic attack. Chloe’s presence helped, but now she’s gone, and Vera has to press her hands to her face to try and ground herself. 

Run. He’s coming. Don’t look back. Keep running. 

In the next breath, Vera’s vision fades, and she dreams again.

—

margaritazelle

Yesterday, 11:48PM

marg

help

vera won’t wake up

i can’t find demi

11:54PM

where r u?

i’ll pick u guys up

wdym u can’t find demi? 

i just

sorry

i drove us home

u and vera? 

yes

i can’t find demi

marg i don’t know where she went

chloe, stay calm, i’m right here

[Voice call—Duration: 0:38:09] 

Today, 12:34PM

it’s my fault marg

it’s not. 

it was dumb of u to go to the manor 

but u were trying to keep them safe, i can tell 

are u sure vera’s okay?

she’s just asleep

sorry i panicked

sorry

i don’t know why i thought she was

you know

i don’t know

all good. don’t apologize. 

u told the police about demi, they’re gonna find her. vera is asleep next to you. everything is ok.

if u don’t feel up to school tmr, i’ll bring u guys notes for ur classes

thank you marg ily

ily2

now let me sleep 

Seen

—

“So, if we assume this is a frictionless surface, what forces can we indicate in our free body diagram?”

Naib stares at Ms. Kobayashi’s neat strokes, depicting some sort of question with a toboggan on a hill. He tries to focus on her, but the moment he does, the fog in his brain seems to thicken.

Like it has been for the past month, staying awake in class after a sleepless night of senseless nightmares is like fighting back a flood. Overwhelmingly difficult but just as desperate, and always a lost battle in the end.

Naib blinks awake one second and hears a classmate drone out an answer. The next, Patricia is hiding a grin with her phone camera facing him, clearly snapping a picture. When he opens his eyes fully again, his cheek is planted on his notebook while the bell for second period rings with its irritating C major triad. 

“Mind waking me next time instead of taking a picture?” Naib mutters as he gathers his things with an air of defeat. That’s another hour tonight trying to understand Patricia’s generously-given but illegible notes after track and field, which is just over an hour, and if he makes it home before 6PM, he’ll eat some dinner, finish his English essay, study for that Chemistry test, and just maybe manage to make it to bed before midnight. 

Just thinking about it makes Naib want to curl back up and sleep the entire week away. 

“You always fall back asleep anyway,” Patricia says, unrepentant. “Ganji says you should get some concealer, by the way. I agree with him. Eli says you should get some more sleep.”

“You also sent it to the group chat?” 

“We all send stuff in the group chat. You just never check.”

Naib sighs and bids her farewell as she leaves for her Biology class. Things are normal with Patricia after the disastrous conversation at Shiyi’s house last week, but neither of them have brought it up. He’s been avoiding Shiyi as well, which thankfully isn’t too obvious with their lack of shared classes. 

Chemistry passes by the same as Physics, with Naib giving up on staying awake and instead half-heartedly hiding behind his open laptop to avoid Mr. Diruse’s wrath. Eli sits next to him, diligently alternating between taking notes and shooting Naib worried glances. 

“Alright, I’ve posted a worksheet as practice,” Naib is lucid enough to register Mr. Diruse saying halfway through the period. “You have the rest of the period to study for tomorrow’s test. Try not to look too surprised, Mike.” Vague laughter. “Remember, we’re following IUPAC naming rules, so make sure you count those carbons correctly. And no organic reactions—I’ll assess that on your labs.”

Naib drags himself into an upright position, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his water bottle. After some hydration, he can open his eyes fully, just to see Mr. Diruse staring straight at him. 

“Want me to go over anything from the lesson?” is all his teacher asks, tactfully ignoring the fact that Naib had just used his entire class as naptime. As he has been for the past month of school. “Gibbs free energy can be hard to understand at first.”

“It’s fine,” Naib mumbles. He barely has enough energy to feel embarrassed. “Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Diruse says.  “Just, uh… remember what we talked about a couple weeks ago. Help is always here.”

Naib nods, both of them awkward. The moment ends when Mr. Diruse leaves to answer someone’s question. 

“I don’t get why he cares so much,” Naib says to Eli, somewhat embarrassed now. “I’m not the only one who naps during class. At least I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Naib, I don’t think you know, but you look really exhausted, like all the time,” Eli tells him. His friend is frowning, even putting down his pen to face Naib. “I…I know something happened at the party. I’m not pushing you, but… talk to me. Patricia. Or even Doctor Dyer.”

“Me being tired is not the end of the world,” Naib mutters. He’s not one to snap when help is offered—his mother raised him right—but it’s getting increasingly difficult to balance between his insomnia and hiding it. Not that he’s doing a great job, evidently. 

“Are you having nightmares?”

Naib sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

“Guess so.”

Eli, oddly, stares at something just over Naib’s shoulder. 

“Same as middle school?” Eli asks, a furrow in his brow. 

“A little worse, I think,” Naib says. “I can’t sleep most nights.”

Eli returns to his work with a hum.

“You should sleepover tonight,” he says offhandedly. “Just like we did in middle school.”

Naib stares at him quizzically at the subject change, but agrees easily. 

“Sure. Sorry in advance if I keep you up.”

—

There’s a persistent grasp around her wrists, like a lobster’s curious pincers have found their way to her and are refusing to let go. She tries to look at it, turn around and scold the lobster for keeping her stuck, but her body feels like it’s made of rubber—sagging against the bristling wall behind her—and she opens her eyes to find not the bright red lobster she was expecting, but great swirling hues of yellows and greens and dancing spots of blue. Stars in a fiery sky. But she blinks—a long, heavy close-open of her eyes—and the colors begin soaring across the spectrum. She laughs, but an ache stemming from her pinched wrists to the bottom of her skull makes her stop, and for a moment all she can do is try to keep breathing. 

She blinks again. The colors fade and the lobster disappears. 

Her name is Emma Woods.

The room around her is wooden. The pincers around her wrists are rings of rope. 

She blinks once more. The colors return, but so does the pain, and then the colors aren’t so bright. Emma turns her aching head from side to side, trying to make out something in the pitch darkness, and when she opens her mouth to call out—

“You’re not supposed to be awake just yet.”

A sickly-sweet cloth goes over her mouth, her nose—she struggles with all her might, the first trickle of fear finally making it through the buzzing fog in her brain—but she sees the colors again. 

Yellows, greens, dancing blue spots. The lobster seems to snap its pincers, squeezing her wrists, and she leans back against the wooden wall, eyes slipping closed. 

Chapter Text

Naib wakes up with his head on Eli’s lap.

“What—“ he startles, still groggy as he shoots up and stumbles back on all fours. “Eli?”

“Good morning,” his friend says, unbothered. He looks like he’s been awake for hours—already dressed for the day, eyes alert and laptop open next to him. “You fell off the bed a few hours ago. I didn’t want to wake you, and you were thrashing a bit.”

“Oh…” Naib winces. “Sorry, man. I knew this would happen. How long have you been awake?”

Eli looks up from his work, eyebrows furrowed.

“No, it’s…” Eli sighs, crossing his legs. “Did you have any nightmares?”

Naib wracks his brain, but to his surprise, he comes up blank. Even his usual insomnia headache has receded, leaving him more clear-headed than he’s been in weeks. 

“No.”

Eli looks relieved, cracking a small grin.

“It worked,” he mutters to himself. 

“What worked?” Naib asks, nonplussed. Eli has been acting a little distant since the party, and Naib had been worried that it was his fault, but there seems to be something else going—

“Gave you a head massage.”

“…What?”

“Joking,” Eli says, not meeting Naib’s eyes, but looking relieved nonetheless. His smile drops after a moment. “Naib… I know you’ve already been stressed lately, but—“ He stares at his laptop for a moment, eyes worried, before turning it around. “I think you should know about this.”

Naib is about to joke back, say something about their upcoming organic chemistry test, until he sees—

MISSING: DEMI BOURBON, 17

Last seen: Oletus Manor, Secord St 1762, 11PM

If you have any information regarding the whereabouts and/or status, please contact the Parsons PD… 

His ears ring, resonating like a bomb had gone off right next to him. 

Demi? Missing? But just a week ago, he’d talked to her, had bubble tea with her right across the school, and worried about Emma’s missing case. 

And now she’s gone too?

“Naib, calm down,” he hears Eli’s voice distantly. “It’s been less than forty-eight hours. The police have issued a search to almost everyone in the Parsons neighbourhood—”

“That’s what I told her too,” Naib says, still staring at the screen, and Demi’s cheery, grinning picture stares right back. “She was worried about Emma, and I said the police were on it, and now she’s…”

“Naib,” Eli says again, grabbing his hand this time. Naib turns to his friend and meets his steady blue eyes. “It happened. We don’t know where she is right now. But it’s not your fault.”

Naib looks away with a flinch. 

“Chloe texted me,” Eli continues, quieter. “She says she and Vera went with Demi to investigate the Manor just last night. That’s where she disappeared. The twins are being questioned, Demi’s brother joined the case—we’re gonna find them, okay? Nothing’s certain yet. No sign of struggle or… injury or anything else. We have to believe they’re alive.”

If Naib was less shocked, he would be wondering why Eli was so steadfastly comforting Naib, as if Naib is a second away from crumbling. Maybe he is. But he looks at Demi’s picture again—grainy, horribly unsaturated, not real—and can only nod. 

“I got it,” he says, then stands to get ready for school. “Sorry about waking you.”

Eli’s worried gaze follows Naib as he shuts the door to his bathroom.

—

To all students, staff, and guardians of the Parsons Secondary School community, 

This message is to address the recent missing cases of two Parsons Secondary students: Emma Woods in grade 11 and Demi Bourbon in grade 12. These girls are both beloved friends and diligent students at Parsons. The police have been working tirelessly to secure any evidence of where they may be. Please rest assured that we, as the school of these students, are doing everything we can to help with the investigation. 

We urge that everyone does the same. Details about search parties can be found on the Parsons Police information page . Any information regarding Emma Woods and Demi Bourbon should be communicated promptly to the police via phone +3 (219)-899-9076 or email using the Email Form. 

Thank you for your attention. 

Sincerely,

Maria Barnes 

Principal of Parsons Secondary School 

she/her/hers 

+3 (219)-122-3451 ext. 16 | [email protected]

“This is so fucked up.”

Naib, having been lost in his fifth zone-out of the day after reading the email, blinks slowly back to the present when he hears Shiyi swear right next to him. 

“Yeah,” Naib says, setting his phone down and finishing his half-laced shoes. “Guess the school has to say something now. They’re both from Parsons.”

Shiyi and he have long since finished their final lap around the track. Coach Jackson is busy scolding another teammate who’d arrived late, so Shiyi had pulled Naib to the side under the guise of getting some water just as the email was sent out. Unlike Naib, Shiyi looks restless, standing up and stretching her long legs with a deep frown on her face. 

“There’s something going on,” Shiyi says seriously, dropping into a hamstring stretch to face Naib. “Naib. I know the conversation we had last time was unsettling, and you probably still feel misplaced guilt about pulling my shirt off—”

Naib chokes on his water.

“—but we have to face it. Don’t you feel like it’s weird?” she continues as Naib wipes his mouth. 

“Um…” Naib tries to piece together her words—she doesn’t sound wrong, but it feels as if he doesn’t know enough to come to the same conclusion as her. “They disappeared within two weeks of each other, and I guess with Emma, it was after the party in the Manor…”

Shiyi shakes her head. 

“We knew both of them before. Don’t you remember?”

Naib goes still, slowly realizing her meaning.

“I… I don’t remember them,” he says, but he can’t shake the familiarity of their names. 

Emma Woods. Demi Bourbon. Both echoes of the past held only in the memories in his head. 

“I do,” Shiyi says. “I realized this last time, but I think those nightmares we’re having—they’re all the memories from before.”

“So you really did die?” Naib blurts out before his post-practice fatigued brain catches up. “I mean—”

Shiyi, to her credit, only nods solemnly. 

“I assumed that’s what you dreamed about. I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure I remember more than you. I remember dying. And… Patricia was there. I think Luca was as well. Mr. Fan was the one who stabbed me.”

“Geez, you really aren’t affected by this,” Naib says, rubbing at an incoming headache. “Then… can you explain what the hell was happening in those dreams? Why was I getting chased by albino Mr. Fan?” 

“That was Mr. Xie,” she says, finally settling down and sitting next to Naib. Their shadows cast long, dark blobs in the evening. “Him and Mr. Fan—they were one Hunter. I don’t know how it works, but—”

“ Hunter ?”

“Yeah, I think that’s what we called them,” Shiyi says quietly. “Look. I remember a lot, but a lot of it doesn’t make sense. Like it’s all fragmented. I’m trying to piece it all together, but there’s one thing that doesn’t sit right with me.”

“What?”

“It’s not just about Emma and Demi,” Shiyi says, now sitting next to Naib. “It’s everyone. Patricia, Eli, Norton—half of our classmates are people we’ve known before. Even the teachers. So, why exactly are we all here?”

“Wait, hold up, just—” Naib clutches his head, brow furrowed. “Could you go a little slower? The people we knew before—they’re the ones appearing in our nightmares slash memories?”

“Yes.”

“And everyone who was in that—that ‘before’ is all here? Including our friends?”

“Not exactly.”

Naib stares at her.

“I haven’t seen everyone here, specifically at Parsons,” Shiyi says. By now, the rest of their teammates have long since left the track, and only Coach Jackson remains. “But don’t you find it weird? That so many of us are here—same time, same place, same faces and names?”

“... You’re right, I definitely don’t remember as much as you,” Naib mutters. He stands, shivering from the fall coolness, and helps his friend up. “But yeah. I have a feeling you’re right. But—Emma and Demi could just be… y’know, a coincidence. That they were both people we knew.”

“Three would establish a pattern,” Shiyi muses. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m not saying we should wait for another person to disappear—” Naib starts, alarmed, but Shiyi shakes her head.

“No, I get what you mean,” she says. Her eyes are understanding. For the first time in this conversation, she actually looks at Naib, and whatever she sees must be pitiful enough that she pats him on the back and says, “let’s go home. Sorry, this was a lot to spring at once, right?”

“No, I… I think it helped a bit,” Naib says, though his head spins with the new names and information. “If anything, it explains a lot.”

“The hell are you kids still doing here?”

Coach Jackson’s gruff voice startles both of them. 

“Sorry coach, we were just about to leave…” Naib says. He’s always been vaguely intimidated by his track coach—scarily tall at six foot four, heavily-muscled, and with a resting disapproving expression, Coach Jackson trains the co-ed track and field team like a special ops drill sergeant. Though rather egalitarian, he calls boys by their surnames but tacks on a “miss” for the girls, like some badly-written book character. 

Somehow, Naib and Shiyi are on his good side—but neither of them are spared from his brutal practices. 

“Get home safe,” Coach Jackson says, his massive figure casting a shadow over them both. “Subedar. Make sure you walk Ms. Qi home.”

He must be alluding to the email. 

“Yes, coach.”

They’re saved from an awkward silence when Shiyi’s phone rings. 

“Hey, Tang Si,” Shiyi answers as they head to Naib’s car. Naib pauses long enough at the name that Shiyi raises and eyebrow. “Yeah, practice finished a while ago. I’m heading home. Want me to pick you up?”

“Dude, you’re in my car—“

“Front entrance? Got it, see you soon.”

Shiyi’s mood is noticeably brightened. Naib doesn’t bother feigning annoyance.

“So, she’s your girlfriend in this life?”

“You put that together quickly,” Shiyi says, plugging in her playlist. Some sort of bass-boosted phonk music starts violating Naib’s ears. “Not like we’ve been dating since last year.”

“Isn’t Tang Si—“

“ Tang, like gong.”

“—isn’t she a Catholic?”

“Actually, most Catholic school kids are pretty deep on queer spectrum. It’s just hidden away.”

Naib laughs as he pulls into Tang Si’s school parking lot. 

After a moment, he clears his throat and asks, “your parents are okay with it?”

Shiyi stares. “… Is this about Norton?” 

“What?” Naib startles so badly that he almost hits the curb. “No! What? Why would I be talking about Norton ?”

“Well, you guys were getting a little handsy at the twins’ party, and in the past, you used to—“

Naib brakes hard enough that they both lurch forward.

“Geez—“

“We used to? ” Naib demands. He hasn’t felt this worked up since Norton was chasing him during the party. “You—you saw that?”

“Yeah, you two got pretty popular on Instagram,” Shiyi says slowly. “Just among Parsons students. Mostly.”

“Oh my god…”

Naib’s breakdown is interrupted by two gentle taps on Shiyi’s window.

“Hey, Shiyi,” Tang Si says, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Naib! Thanks for the ride. I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. His mind is still on you used to— you as in Naib and Norton ? As in the messy ‘before’ they were just discussing? “Mind tapping in your address?”

“Oh, I’m spending the night with Shiyi,” Tang Si says from the back. When Naib looks up, he sees that Shiyi had followed her, leaving their backpacks on the passenger seat. 

—

The next couple weeks pass by with less heart-racing nightmares, though Naib’s nights remain fitfully sleepless. He naps in class, stresses over his middling grades, helps a search party with Ganji and Patricia, tries to keep up with the news about his missing classmates. After a heated argument with Rani, his mother agrees to have Naib pick up his sister after school if his mother can’t make it, and his study times are cut even shorter. Even the combined forces of Patricia, Eli, and Shiyi’s notes are just barely enough for Naib to keep up with his classes.  

He’s begun noting down anything he remembers from his nightly terrors, sometimes texting Shiyi in the middle of the night, who diligently replies with as much detail as she can the following morning. Neither of them have broached the topic to anyone else, though Shiyi has a list of people at Parsons who she remembers from their dreams. 

qishiyi

Yesterday, 2:04AM

i just realized 

how come tang si is also here 

i never saw her 

or am i missing something 

6:57AM

i’m not completely sure, but i have a theory. the people from before that we *collectively* know are people who were actually in the manor. but some other people connected to our past selves could have also come to the present because of that connection. 

like parents, siblings, friends outside of the manor. 

4:43PM

manor?

what manor

i think it makes sense what ur saying

are you talking about THE manor? like from the twins bday? 

6:09PM

oh did we not talk about that last time?

yes i think it’s the same manor. but there’s something off about it, i’m not sure exactly what yet. 

quick rundown of what i think is true:

there was a manor with hunters and survivors. we were doing something that could result in serious injuries and/or death (ie me). everyone who was *in the manor* is also here. that includes people like you, patricia, norton, mr diruse, etc. people like tang si were not in the manor but were in *that past*, and are also *here*.

Today, 4:38AM

that blind kid in gr 10

why is she also in my head

and frederick? nonchalant music kid?

why was he sprinting so fast 

he was bleeding

6:55AM

i think we had certain skills in the manor. i guess his was related to running. but i thought he had something to do with music. that part isn’t really clear to me yet. 

he was likely bleeding because he was running from a hunter

ms kobayashi was the hunter

right. i remember that now. 

did you sleep at all last night?

why was she evil

i suppose it has to do with the fact that she was a hunter and you were the survivor

that blind kid

helena adams?

she died in front of me

she was bleeding out 

on my arms

the blood was really hot

i see.

naib did you sleep?

fell asleep while doing that physics hw

woke up at 4

from that dream

want to meet up before school?

she said something but i don’t remember 

she was really small

about my sister’s height

i just kept saying sorry

Seen

Unfortunately for Shiyi, being the one person who remembers that Manor-past-situation also means she’s become some sort of therapist to Naib.

Band rehearsals begin as September draws to a close. Unexpectedly, Norton makes it through Frederick’s auditions, and Naib is greeted at the first rehearsal with him sitting in the flute section right beside Ganji, who’s assigned beside Naib. 

“Hey, Naib,” Norton says, showing none of the awkwardness from their last interaction weeks ago. “Told you I play the flute.”

“... Nice,” is all Naib can think to reply with. From the corner of his eye, he can see Norton slump slightly. Ganji stares between them.

“That’s awesome, man,” Ganji says. “How long have you played for?”

“Middle school,” Naib responds for him, hyper-focused on putting his flute together. “He wanted tuba at first.”

Norton visibly brightens. Naib feels a combination of guilt and wariness. 

You guys used to, Shiyi had said, and he hasn’t had a moment of peace since. His dreams are discordant and jarring, and Norton’s appearances in them are sparse. Naib has no clue why his specific aversion to Norton began when so many of his classmates were also apparently there in that past. But he knows it’s not fair to be so curt with Norton when he hasn’t done anything wrong, other than being occasionally as obnoxious as any other teenage boy. 

“I could imagine you with the brass,” Ganji says, his stare boring into the side of Naib’s face, practically burning with the question do you want to talk to this guy or not. “Mr. Xie says we don’t need more low brass players though. Or else we could just be a marching band.”

As if summoned, Mr. Xie walks into the room, and the chatter fades. Norton sits quickly and puts his flute together like he’s being timed. 

Albino Mr. Fan, Naib had called him. He was partly right—Mr. Xie has two white streaks in his otherwise pitch-black hair, and his eyes are a light grey. For the two years he’s been Parsons’ band director, Naib has never once seen him without his thick-lensed sunglasses. Though he doesn’t look like Mr. Fan, they’re both well over six feet in height and have long, waist-length hair. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mr. Xie says. He has a soft-spoken tone, but he doesn’t need to raise his voice to maintain their attention. “We’ll get started with some warm up fundamentals. Once that’s done, we can discuss some repertoire. On my count…”

His baton had materialized into his hand at some point. Everyone rushes to lift their instruments, and their first rehearsal begins. 

The more Naib looks at Mr. Xie, the more he struggles to liken him to the figure he’d seen in that dream. In fact, with all the so-called hunters Shiyi has claimed to be at Parsons, Naib can’t find himself linking the looming “hunters” from his dreams to the normal-sized, coffee-addicted, sometimes overly-concerned adults he encounters on a daily basis at school. How could the terrifying deer-headed man with human-sized bear traps be the same as Mr. Perez, who excused Naib’s many tardy slips during his rebellious ninth grade phase? How could the demon-masked woman who licked his blood from her iron fan be the same Ms. Kobayashi who patiently talked him through a panic attack over a bombed physics test? Even Coach Jackson is supposed to be a seven-foot-tall monster who wielded a massive sword, so strong that it shakes the ground with a single slam, but the closest thing to that he’s ever done is clap students on the back hard enough that they stumble. 

Naib just can’t equate the two personas, no matter how hard he tries. 

But when it comes to his peers—the survivors, Shiyi always reminds him, as if it’s not an incredibly tacky title—Naib constantly feels those ghosts overlapping their faces, even those who haven’t been in his dreams so frequently. 

During a pause when Mr. Xie singles out the clarinets, Naib eyes Ganji, as if staring hard enough will make his friend blink and remember everything like he and Shiyi—mostly—have. He looks at Anne in the clarinet section, Frederick with his shining French horn, Luca zoning out as his fingers fiddle with the alto sax. Naib remembers. Maybe Patricia does, after that stilted conversation at Shiyi’s house. He can no longer deny how identical their faces are to those in his dreams. Even being near certain classmates makes him suddenly remember the incomprehensible skills they showed or the blood that coated their bodies as their lives faded away. So why are they blissfully unaware? Does it even matter if they don’t remember?

Did Demi remember? Did Emma? 

Band rehearsal ends with Mr. Xie’s light but hard-hitting scolding to the flute section, likely due to Naib’s many mistakes. He mumbles an apology and avoids Ganji and Norton’s gazes as he packs up and heads to his car. 

“Hey, Naib,” Norton calls from behind him, just as he’s about to slump into the driver’s seat. He’s followed by Ganji and Anne. “Uh—you got a sec?”

“Sure,” Naib says, bracing himself for a wave of vague flashbacks as he listens to Norton’s voice. With Norton, everything seems to intensify. 

“Um…”

“... What’s up?” Naib prompts. He’s been feeling guilty for the way he’d essentially cold-shouldered Norton since the party despite the awkward situation being Naib’s fault. 

“Could I get a ride?” Norton blurts out. He’s tapping out the rhythm from their band piece on his flute case, his eyes meeting Naib’s then flicking away again. 

Naib considers him. He obviously feels guilty over something. For a brief moment, Norton’s sheepish stance is overshadowed by a taller figure—more muscled, more resigned. Naib blinks and he disappears. 

“I’m giving Ganji and Anne a ride,” Naib starts, ignoring the repeated glances from Ganji.

“Oh—that’s totally fine, I can bus home—”

“We can head home on our own,” Ganji calls from behind them. Anne cheerily adds, “Don’t worry about it!”

With another glance from Ganji—this time more smug—the two head off, leaving Naib alone with Norton. 

“Get in,” Naib says. “Drop your stuff in the back if you want.”

He does. When he gets in the passenger seat, the inevitable awkward silence sets in, so Naib turns to Norton with a prompt on the tip of his tongue until Norton says—

“Did I do something to you?”

Naib’s hand hovers over his keys.

“... What do you mean?”

“I just meant…” Norton fiddles with the baseball cap in his hands. “I feel like… you really don’t like me, right?”

Again, Shiyi’s voice echoes in his mind— you guys used to…

“Uh,” Naib says, his hand still aloft. He has no idea how to respond.

“All our friends are friends with each other, and we’ve shared a bunch of classes, but you—” Norton’s fiddling settles into clenched fists. Naib watches with growing apprehension. “You always avoid me.”

“Um,” Naib says, when Norton stops talking. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to feel like that. You’re just… uh…” 

You’re the only one from my dreams I remember so clearly, and every time you get too close, I feel like I need to run or throw up or cry. 

You’re the one who should be avoiding me. But you don’t remember, do you?

I think you died in my arms. 

“... you’re annoying.”

Naib wants to smack himself.

“Oh,” is all Norton says. His hands fall still, and the flash of hurt in his eyes is evident. He grabs the car handle, face turned away, his entire posture wilted like a neglected flower. “I—I know I was an ass last year, but I thought we… I thought we were good after I apologized.”

“No, wait,” Naib blurts, his hand shooting out to grab Norton’s forearm. Norton doesn’t even turn back to look at him. “I don’t care about that. I told you I accept your apology, and it wasn’t even that serious, and I—“

“It’s fine,” Norton interrupts. His voice is tight, like he’d expected Naib to say something so rude, but still feels hurt. He gently pulls away from Naib’s grip. “Have a good weekend.”

With that, he’s gone. 

—

“You wanna talk about it?”

Norton buries his face in his arms, letting a single tear slip dramatically down the side of his cheek as he turns to stare up at Kevin.

“He hates me,” Norton says quietly. “He straight up told me I’m annoying. I’m so… I can’t even…” He grabs Kevin’s half-empty Monster can and downs two mouthfuls.

“Is that actually what he said?” Jose asks, sounding doubtful. He pats Norton consolingly on the back regardless. “Naib’s not a rude person.”

“I can’t even make it sound better,” Norton mutters. The cafe is almost deserted, the only sound filling the background being the buzzing fluorescent lights. “I asked him, hey, why’ve you been treating me like I—I texted your little sister or something, and he said it’s not my fault, but he finds me annoying.”

“Then what?” Kevin asks, grabbing his Monster drink back from Norton. “You just left?”

“He grabbed my arm,” Norton says, looking down at his hands, “but I was about to either cry or punch something, so I didn’t… I didn’t really hear what else he said. Then I left.”

“Well, maybe that was the crucial part,” Jose muses. “That’s rough, man. I know you’ve liked him for a while now.”

“I never told you that,” Norton says, sitting up straight. “Did Demi tell—“

At the mention of their friend, all three of them turn to stare at the spot Demi should be sitting. The empty seat seems to stare back, as if it knows Demi would be joking and laughing if she were here. 

“…Nah, we could all tell,” Kevin says playfully. His grin is dimmer than usual. “You’ve literally kissed guys before. Remember Frederick?”

“Plus, the way to talk about him, it’s like you’re already in a relationship,” Jose adds. “It’s always I wonder if Naib slept well last night, or I’m gonna try and understand this chapter so I can explain it to Naib later, or—“

”Okay, sure—“

”—Or he was napping again, he looks so tired, and when he’s walking with Shiyi on the track, you’re always staring—” Kevin continues.

” Okay, got it,” Norton grumbles, only slightly red from embarrassment. “Fine. Call it a crush. But nothing’s gonna happen. I even joined band to impress him, but he’s… he’s just not interested.”

“Norty, you are terrible at sending signals,” Kevin snorts. “I’ve known Naib since middle school. He might seem all cool and nonchalant and knowledgeable, but he’s really just an awkward guy who’s doing his best. He has a hard time getting social cues.”

“Plus, you really were annoying last year,” Jose edges, sharing a glance with Kevin. “To Naib, I mean. I’d call it pulling pigtails if you gave any hint that it was all unserious. Honestly, even I thought you were being too much..”

Norton groans, burying his face back in his arms. 

Between his sweaty, alpha-male self from ninth grade and himself from eleventh grade, Norton has always thought the way he acted last year is ten times more insufferable. Sure, fourteen-year-old Norton could have gone more days without listening to Andrew Tate podcast clips, but every guy his age used to do that. At least he pulled his head out of his ass and stopped after getting chewed out by his mom one too many times.

But a few months into eleventh grade, Norton started having dreams.

He’s not one of those nerds who keep their notes from previous years for later reference. But after startling awake one night, his entire body sweaty and heart racing like he had run a marathon, Norton dove into the pile of binders from grade nine Health and Physical Education and flipped frantically until he found the Sex Ed. section titled Wet Dreams and Why They Happen.

His hands shook as he read through his careless scrawl, eyes focusing on typical and common for adolescents and not due to sexual frustration and can be frequent during puberty, especially for people with penises. 

At that time, he and Naib were still quite close, along with their old friend group from ninth grade. He liked spending time with Naib the most out of his friends and didn’t question why until much later. Naib was cool, studious, and cared deeply for his family. He went about school with a quiet purpose, as if he could always feel a weight of responsibility as an older brother and son. 

Norton knew they’d all matured a bit from their fourteen-year-old selves (at least enough to be able to have normal conversations with Vera Nair despite their antagonistic pasts), but he couldn’t bring himself to ask any of them for advice. And he would have rather died than talk to any of his teachers or even his parents.

How was he supposed to even verbalize the fact that he had a dream—a wet dream— with Naib Subedar in it? 

To this day, he still remembers every detail clearly, from the way Naib called him Campbell in a dangerously sultry voice to his grip on the worn, lint-dotted bedsheets as Naib pushed him down on the bed and stroked his dick with a hand more calloused than Norton realized. Dream-Naib had been scarred, body tightly-muscled, with badly-healed stitches at the ends of his mouth—ridiculously sexy, but Norton had to wonder how exactly his brain had conjured such an image of his friend. 

And the dreams didn’t seem to stop. 

Sometimes Naib was the one going down on Norton, sometimes it was Norton giving head, sometimes Naib was dripping with blood and sweat and Dream-Norton tried to hold him gently only to be pushed back by Naib’s unfiltered frustration. Sometimes they weren’t even on a bed—Norton remembers the hard edge of a shelf digging into his back while holding Naib upright, hands covering each other’s mouths as their bodies moved in tandem. 

It was a sexual awakening, that’s for certain. But having to see his friend every day after those nights was absolute torture. 

So Norton started pushing him away, out of both fear and desperation. He tried to tone up his obnoxiousness while pushing Naib’s buttons as much as possible. He hounded Naib for homework answers he’d already finished, made fun of his stagnant height at every opportunity, cracked unfunny sex jokes that only William was nice enough to laugh at. 

Norton knew Naib was patient, no doubt borne from his experience as the oldest child of his family. But when Kevin started giving Norton raised eyebrows at some comments, when Jose had to comfort Naib who’d stormed off, when William pulled Norton aside to ask what was wrong—Naib really did start providing the distance that Norton had tried so hard to create.

Only then did Norton admit to himself he liked his friend a little more than a friend should.

“I was such a piece of shit,” Norton murmurs, blinking back to the present like a sobering drunkard. “I can’t believe he even tolerated me for so long.”

“Because, Norty,” Kevin sighs, “Naib is a nice guy.”

“Or he thinks you really did just dislike him,” Jose muses. “But that doesn’t explain why he took your shirt off at the party.”

“Can we not talk about that,” Norton says, ears burning as he remembers the boner he’d popped when Naib’s hands skittered over his bare chest despite the obvious distress his friend was in. “The search is starting soon. We should head out.”

“Will’s almost here,” Kevin says, graciously allowing the subject change. “Let's go.”

—

yaboyganji

Today, 10:34PM

Hey Ganji

11:02PM

hey nort

how was the talk with naib 🕶️

Um

…

did you guys yell at each other again 🙂🙂

i thought you guys were gud after you apologized 

I thought so too

Think he just doesn’t rly like me anymore

Like as a friend

right…

don’t worry naib probably isn’t mad or anything

it’s just his mood these days, he’s super tired and cranky and stuff 😐

Yeah ig you’re right

what did you want to talk about

?

I was just wondering

Does Naib have any scars

umm not that i know of

i mean we’ve gone to the beach before and i don’t remember anything noticeable 

why do you ask

What about on his face

??

i know you guys don’t talk often these days but you’ve seen his face 

skin clearer than my future 

Lol

But like

What about from when he was younger

Like did he have any accidents or anything that resulted in stitches 

like stitches by his mouth?

Yeah

Wait so he did have an accident b4??

no

just a guess 

but nah, none that i remember 

Ok

Thx man

no prob

also how did the search go

Nothing important

We went around the park area again 

Apparently the police found some of Emma’s hair

oh wow

i guess that’s something

Yeah

Seen

Chapter Text

Naib personally thinks that working an eight-hour shift after an almost fully sleepless night should constitute as child abuse.

“Are you sure you want to work today, chorra?” his mother had asked him worriedly over the phone that morning while Naib mechanically fed himself the puri tarkari she’d prepared. “I know you haven’t been sleeping. Your light was on all night.”

“I’ll be fine, aama,” Naib answered, even though he felt like he was about to faceplant in the chiya at any moment. “I won’t drive. I’ll take the bus.”

He despises commuting on his city’s ridiculous public transit system, but he’s responsible enough to recognize that driving while extremely sleep-deprived is a perfect equation for an accident. He doesn’t want to worry his mother any more than he already has—what with his grades and nightmares. 

Unfortunately, the sleeplessness from the previous night was due to something he could potentially fix if he weren’t so used to evading confrontation. Namely, Norton. 

His nightmares were filled with Norton’s shadows, his hoarse voice, his muscled hand as he shoved Naib away—whether it was from himself or a threat, Naib couldn’t tell. All the while, Naib was taunted with the sick feeling of guilt, pounding in his chest until he shot awake and spent ten minutes trying to remember where and who he was. 

As such, Naib clocks in and arrives at his assigned lane purely on muscle memory. He blinks and sees the conveyor belt full of groceries. Another blink and he’s punching in the PLU for a sticky bunch of bananas. 

“Do you have points with us?” Naib says, not even looking at the customer when they answer with an irate yes, my card’s right here . He scans, bags the last few items, pulls out the receipt and hands it off to the customer. 

Mornings are always slower. Only responsible moms and kindly elderly people wake up this early on a Saturday to run errands, so Naib is able to slowly rouse himself into a more alert state during the first couple hours. But whenever there’s a brief pause in customers, he somehow manages to doze off while standing. 

Margaretha had clocked in around the same time as Naib, but he hadn’t even noticed until it was almost noon. She has an eyebrow raised when they finally make eye contact. 

When Naib almost dozes off for the nth time, the phone for announcement communication in his booth rings, startling him to alertness. 

“Hey Naib,” comes Amy’s voice, the head of customer service. “Take that last customer then go on break. You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Thanks,” Naib says, hoping he sounds at least passably polite as he sets the phone down, turning to face the next customer. “Hi, how are you?”

“Fine,” says the middle-aged man, his voice stiff and unfriendly. Naib takes the hint and reaches for the groceries, but pauses, seeing only packs of alcohol on the belt. 

“Please give me a moment,” Naib says, picking up the phone again to ring customer service. With his eighteenth birthday still many months away, the province’s policies dictate he’s not allowed to handle any transactions including alcohol despite Loblaws having an entire aisle dedicated to it. His mother had been displeased when she realized her moderately pious Hindu son would occasionally be in contact with alcohol—as if scanning a beer bottle was the same as chugging its contents. 

“Be there in a moment,” Amy answers, though when Naib glances over at the front desk, he sees only her at the counter, placating an irritated old lady. 

“What’s the hold up?” the man asks, not bothering to hide his impatience. “You need my ID?”

“No, sir, it’s just that I can’t handle this transaction. I’m seventeen.”

“What, is drinking a crime?” the man snaps, waving his points card around. “Just scan them, kid. You’re not gonna get arrested.”

Naib silently curses his luck. His last customer before his break and it has to be some old loser who drinks during the day. 

“As I said,” Naib says, too tired to put on an apologetic smile, “it’s just the policy. Customer service will be here momentarily to help. Sorry for the delay.”

“Kids these days,” the man mutters audibly. “I’ve got places to be. Why should I be late ‘cause you’re too shit at your job?”

“...I’m sorry for the delay,” Naib repeats. If he were even a little bit more awake, maybe he would at least feel annoyed. “My supervisor will be here soon.”

Needless to say, when Amy finally gets here and permits the alcohol to be scanned and bagged, Naib feels ready to fall asleep right there in his booth. Loblaws, for whatever cursed reason, does not allow cashiers to sit while working, so his legs ache more than the aftermath of one of Coach Jackson’s track practices as he steps out of his booth. 

“You okay there?” Margaretha asks him. They’re both sitting at a bench in the far corner of the massive storefront, shaded from the afternoon sun. “That guy sounded like an asshole.”

“He was,” Naib mutters. It’s only then that he’d realized he hadn’t even brought his lunch. Margaretha, noticing this, pushes her other sandwich toward him. “Thanks, Margie.”

“No worries,” she says. “At least eat something before you fall asleep. I’ll wake you up.”

“Nah. If I sleep now, I’ll be even worse off for the rest of the shift. I’ll just black out when I get home.”

Margaretha stares at him as she chews her food. 

“Have you been talking to Shiyi recently?”

“Huh?”

“Shiyi,” Margarehta says patiently. “You guys are pretty close, right? Has she talked to you about… anything in particular?”

The hesitant lilt in her voice catches Naib’s attention, enough that he lifts his lolling head off of his palm. 

“Wait,” Naib says, piecing something together slowly. “Do you… remember anything?”

Margaretha blinks. She puts her sandwich down. 

“So you remember?” she asks. “Is that why you’ve been looking like death the past few weeks?”

“Hold on, just to be clear, you’re saying—” 

“Yes, I remember,” Margaretha says, voice hushed. Her doe eyes look even larger with her smoky eye makeup, widened in surprise. “Wow. I was just making a guess, but… you’re sure?”

“I have nightmares every night,” Naib admits. “It’s been rough. What about you?”

“I started getting them in tenth grade,” she says, absentmindedly taking another bite of her sandwich. “I dunno if I’d call them nightmares. More like… unsettling dreams. I started journaling pretty early on, and at some point, they started to feel like regular dreams. If dreams were really detailed and filled with people you knew in real life running around and getting killed in a fucked-up game.”

“Have you talked to Shiyi too then?” Naib asks. His mind is spinning, and not from sleep-deprivation—Margaretha is another piece of proof that the mess inside his head isn’t just because he’s going insane. “I think she remembers the most. Between the two of us, at least. After we talked, I think it triggered a shitton of things, and I started actually remembering those dreams pretty clearly.”

“Yeah, but it was more coincidence than anything. She asked me about this music box I brought to class for culture day and if two different melodies could be played from it.”

Naib pauses, wracking his head to make sense of the reference. 

“Music box… oh.” He remembers—a gentle red circle of light, overlapping a blue one, with a tiny wooden-carved music box at each center, and two distinct melodies twisting together like an incomplete fugue. When he’d stepped into that red circle, a sudden boost of stamina rushed through him, and he leapt over that fallen pallet without difficulty. “So that was you.”

“Yeah, the Hunters hated my boxes,” Margaretha says wryly. “You do know about the Hunters, right? The factions and the matches and how it all went to shit?”

“... Very, very vaguely,” Naib says. He can’t help but feel a little put out—how come both Shiyi and Margaretha have such clear understandings of these visions while he’s reduced to a sleep-deprived mess with a minimal grasp on anything except blood and fallen bodies?

“I’ll send you what Shiyi and I have put together,” Margaretha says. “Pretty sure Vera knows a bit too, seeing how she’s been missing school. She tells me she’s an insomniac, but I know for a fact she used to sleep at nine PM everyday in middle school. And—” She scans him up and down. “Seriously. You look like you’re not even closing your eyes longer than to blink each day.” 

“Yeah,” Naib mutters. It’s not like he can defend himself. “Shiyi mentioned this yesterday, but we were thinking… does the us from these visions being here connect to why Emma and Demi are missing?” 

Margaretha stops chewing, her face several shades sadder.

“It’s possible,” she murmurs. “Demi went missing at the Manor. So did Emma. Dunno if you knew, but the twins were there with her, doing their own little search party. Dumb idea, but they couldn’t have anticipated Demi…” 

“So we should stay away from the Manor,” Naib says. “Why’d none of us think that going there for those parties was a bad idea?”

“My theory is that the more people there are, the less influence it has,” Margaretha answers. She finishes her sandwich and looks pointedly at the one she’d given to him. “Most of the kids there were people not related to the visions.”

“Are they actually visions of the past?” 

“Y’know, that was my question too,” she says. “If we say past , it means it actually happened to us. But that doesn’t make sense—why are all of us, or at least most of us living in the present now?”

She pulls out her phone, her nails clacking as she taps the screen, then turns to show Naib. The document is titled manor past with a string of confused emojis. Margaretha had scrolled to a section titled theory—reincarnation??

Naib stares at the word for a long moment. Margaretha tilts her head to look at him.

In the deeper recesses of his memory, when he still went to the temple in his village and listened to his village elder murmur scriptures, Naib faintly remembers his mother holding his hand, combing his hair, as she said the soul will live on, Naib. Don’t worry about me.

He tries to remember what exactly he’d asked for his mother to give that answer. His eyes trace the word reincarnation again. A silent, cavernous part of him seems to resonate—a conflict too buried for him to understand. 

“Naib?”

Margaretha has put her phone down, her hand tapping his shoulder gently. 

“Sorry,” Naib says, blinking. “Uh… yeah. Reincarnation does make sense.”

“Right, but it also means we’re living proof that all those religions and theories were right, which is crazy,” she says. After a pause, she asks, “You’re muslim, right?”

He shakes his head. 

“Hindu. Kinda.”

“Sorry. But isn’t reincarnation a big part of Hindu beliefs?” 

Naib feels distinctly uncomfortable and shrugs. 

“I guess.”

Margaretha tactfully changes the topic. By the time their half-hour break ends, Naib’s headache has grown with the amount of information and theories discussed in the document, from lists of people who were in the past and here, who were in the past but not here, who were not part of the past but are here—to reasons why this “reincarnation” occurred in the first place. 

At this point, he doesn’t think he can go to school without side-eyeing every teacher and classmate he encounters. 

But, at the very least, Naib can face his nightmares with a slightly stronger peace of mind.

—

Another week of school passes, draping Parsons Secondary School with the cooling temperatures of October and dimming hope for the missing cases of Emma Woods and Demi Bourbon. 

Volunteer search parties fizzle out. The police investigation intensifies internally. Families with high school kids all around the community begin whispering more and more about the missing girls, suspecting everything from kidnappings to school bullying gone out of hand. 

Naib, braving his intolerance to caffeine, suffers through his school days with bitter Tim Horton’s coffee in order to get himself together. Although his nightmares have become slightly more manageable, he still panic-texts Shiyi in the middle of the night and the little journaling he accomplishes reveals nothing that Shiyi and Margaretha haven’t already pieced together in the manor document. He starts declining his friends’ offers for their notes and tackles homework with the air of a returning veteran. 

“Tang Si told me there’s rumors going around St. Joan’s,” Shiyi tells him one day in the middle of their cool-down lap with Coach Jackson. 

St. Joan’s is the name of Tang Si’s Catholic school. It’s only a street away from Parsons and filled with academic try-hards, constantly at war—through various clubs and social media drama—with the try-hards at Parsons. 

“Apparently, they think some of the smokers at our school blackmailed both Emma and Demi, so they had to run away from home.”

“Wow, Catholic kids must be bored as shit,” Naib replies. The high of his caffeine boost has rapidly dropped, leaving him at the end of his rope before track practice even began. Shiyi has even slowed down to match his pace. “Demi would never smoke. She barely even drinks. And I’ve never seen Emma with that crowd.”

“Yeah, Tang Si doesn’t believe it either,” Shiyi says, only slightly out of breath. Naib throws his bangs out of his face for the fifteenth time of the hour. “They’re getting some social media activity, though. There was a TikTok that kinda went viral about them on the weekend.”

“Maybe the police have given up,” Naib says. As they finally finish their lap, he puts his hands on his knees and pants, more winded than he’s ever been from one of Coach Jackson’s practices. Shiyi silently hands him his waterbottle, whose contents he downs before he mutters, “Thanks.”

“I think they’re trying to be more strategic,” Shiyi muses. “Think about it. You can only go so far with search parties after a week of them missing. From then on, there’s really no point to it, other than intensifying panic in the community. Didn’t you hear what Emma’s dad did last week?”

Naib shakes his head. 

“He went to the police and almost started a riot. Apparently, only Demi’s brother was able to calm him down.”

“You mean Sam?” Naib vaguely remembers Eli telling him Demi’s brother is working on the missing cases. “Guess that makes sense. They’re both relatives of the victims. Can’t imagine how Sam’s feeling right now.”

They talk a little more about their missing classmates until Naib feels too sick to keep remembering the last time he saw Demi and picturing what she might be going through now. They stretch, bid their Coach farewell, and he gives her a ride to St. Joan’s before he has to head to Loblaws for his five-hour shift. 

“By the way,” she says, as they’re waiting for Tang Si, “I’m ninety-percent sure Patricia remembers almost as much as Margie does. I noticed she added you to the doc, so I did the same with Patricia.”

“Oh.” Naib blinks, only vaguely surprised. He realizes that he hasn’t had a proper conversation with Patricia in a while. Or Eli and Ganji, for that matter. Maybe it’s the consequences of him zombie-walking through school each day, or the unshakeable tension from their missing peers, but Naib must have not had the energy nor concentration to even interact with his friends. “I think I had a feeling she knew.”

Shiyi nods, giving him a concerned once-over. Naib can see Tang Si exiting her school as the bell rings and raises his eyebrow. 

“Your girlfriend’s on her way—”

“You should talk to Margie about what you texted me last night,” Shiyi says. “Don’t know if you read my reply yet. But I think it’s pretty important.”

Then she bids him farewell. Naib watches Tang Si practically skip over to Shiyi, who welcomes her with a hug, and they walk off together to Tang Si’s car. 

Not wanting to loiter on St. Joan’s parking lot as Catholic kids spill out of the building, Naib drives to Loblaws before pulling out his phone and scanning through his texts. 

pat.tricia.dorval

[uniform-circular-motionPHYSICS12.pdf] 

ispyeli

You should sleep over to…

gr12 english perez period 3

4+ messages

margaritazelle

yo patty knows ab…

qishiyi

4 messages

qishiyi

Today, 2:56AM

i cnat dothus

why r my teachers chasign me

theyre all evil

i got stabbed

mr fan stabbed me

i got stabbed by my graed elven bio teach

er

with a fuckign umbrella 

and my band director stabbed me too

why

7:01AM

if i’m interpreting this correctly, i think you’re struggling to assimilate the teachers who we know and the hunters who actively harmed us in the past

i can’t say i deal with that perfectly, but in my experience, it’s better to just see them as two separate people. mr fan is your bio teacher and is probably dating mr xie, your band director. mr desaulniers is the french teacher, who used to give both of us bad marks. etc. and the hunters in your dreams were hunters. they caused a lot of bloodshed. that’s it.

btw patricia knows about the past as well. i talked with her about mr fan and mr xie and apparently they were actually one hunter and their souls shared the umbrella, which acted as the white guard’s weapon (mr xie). black guard used a bell (mr fan). that’s probably why you remember them as one thing chasing you. they were called wu chang i think.

maybe don’t read all that if you haven’t slept at least 5 hours. i’ll buy you coffee otw to school

Shiyi is right—Naib shouldn’t have read all that because he absolutely did not get five hours of sleep last night. 

As he changes into his Loblaws uniform, he tries to make sense of everything. The name Wu Chang does ring some bells in his nightmares. He opens his phone again to reference the manor document, scrolling through Shiyi’s latest hypothesis brainstorm and seeing wu chang (黑白無常 deities??) at the bottom of the alphabetically-organized table. 

Naib hasn’t exactly had the right state of mind nor concentration to really read through the document, and it’s not like his own dreams are as useful as Shiyi’s or Margaretha’s. But he finds himself scrolling through it anyway when he startles awake from another nightmare, just to reassure himself that he’s not really going insane. 

—

“Somehow, you look worse than you did a week ago,” Margaretha greets him as they sit at the same place for their break, shined on by the weakly-flickering street light. They’ve been using their work breaks to discuss things from the Manor-past-situation, which are both helpful and headache-inducing for Naib. “Did you see my text?”

“Yeah,” Naib says, before taking two massive gulps of the coffee he’d bought from the nearby Tim Hortons. No way he can make it through the rest of his shift without some caffeine, even if it’s late enough that he won’t be able to sleep. “Haven’t talked to Patricia about it. But I had a question about the… uh… the hunters from the past.”

Margaretha hums, resting her face on her palm. 

“Fun topic. Did Shiyi tell you anything yet?”

“Just to try and think of our teachers and the hunters as different people. And something about Wu Chang dating each other.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says with a giggle. “Mr. Fan and Mr. Xie, right? They’re totally into each other. And in the past, their souls literally shared an umbrella. Couple goals, honestly.”

Naib stares at her.

“Really? That’s how you see it?”

“Well, it’s how I cope with it,” she shrugs. “Wu Chang hits hard, and they’re scary as hell in my dreams. But it’s kinda comforting when I see them at school, and I realize that they’re real—not the people in my head. They’re the ones here right now, physically in the present. And they’re not bloodthirsty killers.”

Naib thinks for a moment. “You sure none of them are involved with Emma and Demi’s cases?” 

Margaretha doesn’t look phased at his question. 

“That’s what Shiyi’s hypothesizing,” she says. “I mean, if they were able to kill us in that past, who’s to say they’re not trying to do the same right now? But again, we don’t even know why we’re here.”

“I think the teachers all remember.”

At the very least, Naib thinks Ms. Kobayashi and Mr. Diruse remember. Which opens up another series of questions. 

Are all survivors teen-aged? Are all hunters adult-aged? Then why are Mr. Diruse and Doctor Dyer survivors in his dreams but adults in real life? 

Even if they did all reincarnate, why are so many hunters at Parsons, in such close proximity with the survivors?

“I think so too,” Margaretha says quietly, “but none of them have reached out to any of us.”

Naib pauses. 

“Doctor Dyer,” he says, eyes wide. “Ms. Kobayashi said—she said something like, Doctor Dyer helping ‘a lot of us. ’ By us, she means the hunters, right? And if Ms. Kobayashi could tell that I’m not sleeping—”

I used to nap when I was your age too.

“ —then she knows we’re remembering stuff too, and Doctor Dyer also remembers and supposedly helped them through it, so…”

Naib tries to piece his thoughts together.

“So…?” Margaretha asks, listening intently.

“So they must’ve gone through this too,” Naib finishes. “All these dreams and the insomnia and connecting the dots between real life and the past. So unless they actually have a motive to be taking Emma and Demi, then it means they didn’t plan this.”

“This being… reincarnation?” Margaretha says. She has her phone out, tapping things in rapidly. “Then who did plan it?”

Something seems to light up in her head. Her face goes pale. 

“Orpheus,” is all she whispers, and in the next blink, Naib is dreaming again.

—

In the hours after Qi Shiyi’s death, Naib finds himself standing on the rooftop they used to share.

The night is silent. Patricia is recovering in the infirmary after they secured a draw—likely only due to Wu Chang’s pity. Luca has a dangerously high fever, monitored closely by Dyer. 

Naib presses on his laceration, hoping for a trickle of pain through his numbness. 

“Ah, the Mercenary.”

That smooth, venom-soaked voice. Perpetually condescending. Without even turning to look, Naib can already see the tauntingly amused expression of Orpheus gazing at him. 

“You and the Antiquarian never shared a bed, did you? I can’t imagine why your grief would reach such heights.” Orpheus chuckles. “I hope you don’t actually think you’ll be able to jump. You’re the fifth I’ve had to stop this week.”

Naib closes his eyes. His hand grips his kukri blade, hard enough that his knuckles must be white. 

One slash. One life gone. And everything could stop. Everyone that’s left could live. 

“And I can’t have you absent from these matches. You make them so much more entertaining.”

When Naib opens his eyes again, he’s lunged over the railing and straight toward Orpheus, blade an inch away from his major artery—

A long appendage snaps around his torso and throws him back. Naib hits the hard marble floor with a heavy thump, but the pain doesn’t register. He only sees Orpheus’s delighted face, that spotless monocle, the insane glare in his eyes—and then he sees Qi Shiyi’s broken flute, lying in pieces and soaked by the snow; Adams’s small hands, clutching weakly at Naib’s as her sightless eyes become vacant; Krieburg’s last performance, his blood cooling on the cipher; Nair’s mangled chest; Gupta’s still body; Behemafil’s final flare—

Naib sees his father’s back against a landscape of flames. His friend’s hands clasped in faith before the roof caves in. His commander’s furious push as he shouts for Naib to run. Naib sees himself, running from his dying father, his dying village, his dying Gurkha brothers—always the cowardly survivor.

“Naib!”

He keeps wrestling the appendages, the horrible fucking tentacles, now iron-hard and cutting off his circulation and oxygen—

“Orpheus!” He knows that voice. “Let him go!”

“My, I’m surprised that you’ve joined us,” Orpheus says pleasantly through the roar in Naib’s ears. “Prospector. You have certainly seen better days.”

“Let him go,” the voice repeats. “I’ll hold him back.”

Naib must pass out from oxygen deprivation, because the next thing he sees is Campbell’s bruised, worried face, his worn-gloved hands gripping Naib’s arms forcefully. His kukri blade rests primly on the round table, as if taunting Naib that this was nothing more than a child’s tantrum. 

“It’s almost your tenth game, Mercenary.”

Orpheus turns, walking away, and the oppressive presence in the shadows slowly fades. Naib can breathe easier. But he still feels like he’s drowning—in rage, in despair, in multiple degrees of grief. 

“Don’t give up. I’m sure you’ll make it.”

With that, the baron of the Manor leaves.

—

“Margaretha, you guys are ten minutes over your break time—”

“Sorry Amy, but Naib is—”

“Why are you—oh, shit, what’s wrong with him? Did he faint?”

“No—yes, he did, he—”

“Fuck,” Naib mutters, gripping his pounding head. He leans against something—someone—trying to regain his balance. “Fucking—”

“Naib!” Margaretha exclaims, right next to his ear. Naib flinches. “Sorry—you good?”

“He should head home,” comes Amy’s concerned voice. “Does he have a ride?”

“He drove here on his own.”

“Damn. Okay, could you call his guardian? I’m going to do a quick first-aid evaluation in case he needs to go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Naib is finally cognizant enough to say hoarsely. “Sorry. I can keep working. I’m fine.”

He does feel like he just woke up from a nightmare, which he’s used to. Except he isn’t in bed and is at work, which he’s not used to. His first thought is to jot down anything he remembers, or to text Shiyi a million times, but he quickly re-orients himself and straightens up. Margaretha still stands close to him, worried. 

“Are you certain?” Amy asks, looking Naib up and down with a critical eye. “Leaving early is fine. I just can’t have you fainting while you’re on the lane.”

Naib does feel capable, though just enough to stay functional. He apologizes for his extended break, thanks Margaretha, and returns to the customers within a few minutes. For the rest of his two hours, he can feel Amy’s glances all the way from the front desk. 

But all he’s thinking about is that they need to find Orpheus—wherever, whoever he is now—immediately. 

—

>> GROUP CHAT: naibsubedar , qishiyi, margaritazelle, pat.tricia.dorval

Today, 3:45AM

does anyone know who orpheus is?

6:57AM

qishiyi

oh my god

7:23AM

margaritazelle

that’s what u remembered?? 

is it because i said his name?

i didn’t mean to trigger anything 

no you’re good 

it helped me remember that guy

you said it all went to shit at some point right?

in the manor

it was because of orpheus, wasn’t it

qishiyi

you’re right

i can’t believe i didn’t register that part. i remembered everything about the matches and the people but not why we started dying. the matches were not supposed to result in deaths. 

pat.tricia.dorval

This is so great to wake up to

pat.tricia.dorval named the group chat “beyonce’s survivors”

Naib are you sure you’re good?

yea i’m fine

reply to @qishiyi : wdym by started dying?

margaritazella

the matches were violent and bloody and everything but we would always be fine afterward

magic healing?

qishiyi

margie is right. perhaps doctor dyer is related to that? 

pat.tricia.dorval

Ok but how exactly was Orpheus related? To us dying?

I remember him vaguely too

qishiyi

i don’t remember exactly. but i know he called himself the baron of the manor. in all the later matches, likely all the ones naib’s dreaming about, he was never there. 

tentacles

margaritazelle

huh

qishiyi

?

pat.tricia.dorval

Oh shit

Tentacles 

Yes

I remember 

There was tentacles 

qishiyi

where? who?

margaritazelle

what??

there was a thing with tentacles

it/they were helping orpheus

pat.tricia.dorval

No

They were controlled by Orpheus 

qishiyi

do we remember anything else about this tentacle subject?

the tentacles were hard as shit

like it choked me to unconsciousness 

i couldn’t breathe 

margaritazelle

i do not remember anything about this tentacle subject 

pat.tricia.dorval

It’s a they, not an it

Idk for sure

But they feels more correct? 

I don’t want to gender them but it’s def more “he” than “she”

qishiyi

okay. let’s set that aside for now. first, we need to figure out *who* orpheus is and *where* he is. this can determine if he really is the one behind demi and emma’s disappearances. then we can figure out *why*. none of us know exactly how he’s behind the deaths of everyone in that past.

any guesses?

i don’t remember anyone named orpheus at parsons

margaritazelle

me neither

who tf is named orpheus these days? 

qishiyi

i agree. it’s a highly uncommon name. 

pat.tricia.dorval

But everyone we know has reincarnated/is alive in the present with the same name and face from the past (more or less?)

Knowing that

Shouldn’t we assume there has to be an Orpheus somewhere 

[Screenshot sent]

popular baby names dot com says there’s none in canada, 10 in uk, 2 in us

narrows it down by a lot 

margaritazelle

yeah sure, but how are we gonna actually find this guy

all i got is a g2 and no way am i flying to the us or uk

pat.tricia.dorval

These are all great breakthroughs guys but we’re all almost late to school so let’s wrap this up later 

i’m already at school

qishiyi

i’m already at school

margaritazelle

forgot ur both track n field sweats 

pat.tricica.dorval

Lol

—

“So any leads on Orpheus?” 

Miraculously, Amy has given Naib and Margaretha the same shift times despite their recent minor transgression. They shamelessly stay outside discussing theories and plans—sometimes squeezing in some studying—until the last minute, with Margaretha more careful with her words in case Naib collapses from a flashback again. Naib is grateful, but finds it unnecessary. 

“None,” Naib answers her. Half the table is covered in their chemistry notes and the other half with their scribbled Manor braindumps. “I was wondering… why are we all here?”

After a pause, Margaretha raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Do you want me to say ‘just to suffer’?”

Naib snorts, but shakes his head. 

“No. I mean—why here? In Parsons? So many of us are in high school within a few graduating classes. Did all our parents coincidentally decide to move to this area and all send their kids to this one high school?”

“That’s a decent half of a theory,” Margaretha says. “But if you check the list, almost half of the total people from the Manor aren’t here. Maybe we’re missing more people, but between Shiyi and I, and now Patricia, we’ve got forty-two survivors, twenty-three-ish hunters. We don’t even know a bunch of their full names.”

“Maybe Orpheus wasn’t even his real name,” Naib mutters. “He probably named himself, thinking it was edgy or some shit.”

“Given what I remember about that guy, that seems possible,” Margaretha sighs. “We got nothing, pretty much. We can only rely on his face, which has a higher chance of looking the same, but I don’t remember what he looked like. And none of us are artists.”

Naib slaps a hand on the table, sending one of his thermochemistry worksheets flying.

“Painter,” he says, eyes wide. “That painter guy—”

“Oh my god, Edgar?”

“Yeah, Valden!” 

“I know that kid,” Margaretha says, eyebrows furrowed as she snatches his worksheet out of the air. “Okay. I’ll reach out to him. It’s possible he remembers...”

They head back to work before Amy comes hunting them down again, heads buzzing with a potential lead.

—

edgarvalden_art

Tuesday, 9:54PM

hey edgar :) not sure if u remember me but we used to take dance classes together at jennie’s studio! just wanted to reach out and ask if u could meet with me for a quick chat sometime this week? i’m free mon, tues, and thurs lunch, or if the weekend works let me know!

Seen

Yesterday, 10:23AM

just checking in to see if everything’s good :) i saw ur recent post, love the composition!

Seen

8:45PM

hey, are the art rooms open at lunch? i’ll see u there tomorrow! :)

Seen

Today, 11:23AM

you little shit. i know you remember me. my mom texts your mom daily. i’ll kidnap you and tie you up in the manor if you pretend you don’t remember. this is related to the two missing cases. both of whom were also from the manor. i know you remember. keep avoiding me and i’ll pay the mercenary to jump you 

3:40PM

what the hell

okay i’m sorry

i thought you were a spammer or a creep 

this is my art acc so i don’t usually reply to message requests 

i’m telling my mom you’re threatening minors

yeah just try it

i’ll tell me mom u tried to smoke because u wanted to impress kevin bc he was ur godforsaken crush for some reason and he ended up having to carry u to the nurse bc u forgot u had asthma 

SHUT UP

fine

@valdenedgar

text me there 

LOL why do u only have thirty followers

bc it’s a PRIVATE acc with PRIVATE people 

You reacted with 🙄

beyonce’s survivors

You added valdenedgar to the groupchat.

4:02PM

edgar remembers and he’s willing to draw orpheus’s face so we have a higher chance of finding him

valdenedgar

what?????

i didn’t say i remembered anything 

i said i’d make the mercenary jump u and u knew who i was talking about

naibsubedar

you’d make me do what?

pat.tricia.dorval

LOL

Hey Edgar, thanks for agreeing it makes things easier 

valdenedgar

hi 

i didn’t agree to anything tho

marge was threatening me so i got scared 

qishiyi

although getting a lead would be a great help, threatening juniors is not the way to go margie

yeah tell on me to my senior friends why don’t u 

u were avoiding me first

naibsubedar

reply to @valdenedgar : i’m assuming you do remember/understand what we’re talking about?

also to be clear, i would never jump you 

why would i jump a junior kid 

pat.tricia.dorval

So you would jump one of your senior peers 😬

naibsubedar

uh no

so u would jump one of ur teachers 😬

pat.tricia.dorval

I knew you were looking a little too annoyed at mr Perez today…

naibsubedar

NO?

qishiyi

okay, edgar, would you be able to give us an approximate portrait of orpheus from the manor past? do you remember him?

actually, how much do you remember?

valdenedgar

most of it

we were survivors, got hunted by hunters who happen to be some our teachers rn, and orpheus was the guy who made it all happen 

don’t know a lot of the details tho

and that we all died 

pat.tricia.dorval

That’s pretty much the gist actually 

valdenedgar

i can draw the portrait

but only if you guys lmk what’s going on 

i want to find emma and demi

naibsubedar

to be honest we don’t even know yet

but like you said orpheus made it all happen, so we’re suspecting he’s doing it again now in the present 

qishiyi

sounds good. edgar when do you think you’ll be finished?

valdenedgar

i can finish it tmr at lunch

it would just be a general sketch tho

that works, as long as we have something 

pat.tricia.dorval

Ok guys it’s good that we have this but what are we gonna do with the sketch

Like paste it around the neighbourhood and write “wanted for snatching girls”

qishiyi

good point. for now, i think we should distribute the sketch to just specific people: think of anyone who was in the manor past but may not remember everything *or* people who were not in the manor but were in the past

i get it

i can think of some people 

naibsubedar

me too

valdenedgar

ok got it

i’ll give it to marge tmr 

the art room as printers btw if that’s helpful 

pat.tricia.dorval

What about teachers?

Also Edgar, I’ll add you to the doc 

valdenedgar

what doc??

you’ll see

qishiyi

reply to @pat.tricia.dorval: since we’re not so sure about their motives right now, we should keep to survivors and people connected to survivors. just to be safe

You, naibsubedar, pat.tricia.dorval, and valdenedgar liked the message

—

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Naib has been moving on autopilot these days, though it’s more from stressing about the Manor mess rather than lack of sleep. But his sleep schedule is still abysmal. 

He blames that for not realizing Mr. Gatley, one of his past teachers, is standing on the other side of the lane and smiling at him and waiting for his products to be scanned. 

“Hello, Naib,” says Parsons’ Favourite Teacher. “You’re working so hard on a school night.”

“Mr. Gatley,” Naib says, mortified. One of his worst pet peeves as a cashier at Parsons’ local grocery store is happening before his eyes: meeting someone from school. Worse, meeting a teacher from school. “Uh, yeah. Um. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” Mr. Gatley says. He graciously does not make more comments, clearly sensing Naib’s awkwardness. “Just one bag for these and I’ll get going.”

Naib nods, hands him the receipt, and responds to his teacher’s friendly wave farewell with a half-hearted smile. 

The downside of working at the one big plaza in their little region is that Naib can guarantee he’ll see someone from school, or a Catholic kid from St. Joan’s, or one of his classmates’ parents shopping at least during one out of his three weekly shifts. The interactions are never too awkward—though Naib really wants to erase the time Mr. Diruse pulled up to his lane with a younger, good-looking guy, with nothing but wine and some towels on the belt, clearly foreshadowing a very fun Friday night ahead of them—and Naib has gotten used to it, but it’s been a while since he’s cashiered for a teacher. 

“I saw Mr. Gatley,” Margaretha teases him when their break begins. “So glad he went to your lane and not mine.”

“I thought all the girls had a massive crush on him,” Naib mutters. He’s not exactly mortified or annoyed at the encounter—in fact, it felt like a little reprieve for his brain, which has been running on bitter black coffee and Manor leads for a while. It helped him remember that he’s still a teenager in high school, with normal teenager worries and thoughts, despite the craziness with the Manor and missing cases. 

“Uh, don’t dumb it down to a crush, you little boy,” Margaretha retorts. “Barring starry-eyed ninth graders, and maybe Vera, most of us respect him because he’s so obviously caring and sensitive to women’s issues. Didn’t you know he was part of those university protests years ago? When they fired a female professor because she needed maternity leave?”

“No,” Naib answers, though it does sound like something Rani had been ranting about in middle school. 

“He also gave me an extension on a bunch of assignments because of my period,” Margaretha says. “So I respect him.”

“Okay, got it,” Naib says, admitting defeat. It’s not that he’s immune to Mr. Gatley’s ten-out-of-ten looks either, but he likes to think he hides it better than some of the girls in that CS Committee thing that Patricia always complains about. At least Mr. Gatley actually has the skills to teach. 

“Anyway,” Margaretha says, sipping her iced tea with vigor, “did you get Eddie’s drawing?”

“Yeah, showed it to Ganji and Eli. Neither of them really knew anything though.” 

“Same here,” she sighs. “Okay. Let’s wait for news on that. In the meantime, can you help me understand what the hell Ms. Kobayashi was talking about with centripetal force?”

“Well, I kinda fell asleep during that lesson, but Eli explained it to me…”

—

“Yo, Naib!”

When Naib looks up, his typical customer script on the tip of his tongue, he sees Kevin and Norton grinning at him with a belt full of energy drinks. Norton, at least, looks a little sheepish, but that could be due to the last conversation he had with Naib… which Naib has yet to fix. 

Kevin, on the other hand, looks completely prepared to embarrass Naib as much as possible.

“This must be why you’re sleeping in all your classes!” Kevin says, somehow managing to look completely natural as he reaches over the conveyor belt to clap Naib on the back. “Working hard, buddy!”

“Thanks,” Naib says dryly. He can see Amy’s head pop up at Kevin’s booming voice. Naib uses his short height to the fullest by hiding behind Kevin’s frame. “You guys need a bag?”

“We’re okay,” Norton says. He grins at Naib, but it’s half-hearted. Polite. Distanced. Naib feels his guilt intensify. “Thanks.”

“What d’you need all these drinks for?” Naib says, trying to continue the conversation. Kevin gives him an unsubtle nod of approval. 

“Swim practice,” Norton says, and despite the way he doesn’t look at Naib, he sounds relieved that Naib is even talking to him. “Coach Ackerly has no chill, I swear. I’m gonna start falling asleep in class too at this point.”

Naib offers a chuckle. It sounds awkward. Kevin clears his throat.

“She knew we’d be tired as hell, so she even told us to only get specific brands,” Kevin explains. “I spike my water bottle with this every morning now.”

“Yeah, only Loblaws seems to have this brand,” Norton says. “So… uh… just a head’s up if you see us around.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, you guys are hopeless,” Kevin says under his breath, not quietly enough. He clamps a hand on Norton’s shoulder, grabs their many bottles with his other arm, and heads for the exit. “Bye, Naib! I’ll spike your water too if I see you napping in English again!”

Naib waves them off. 

The next customer comes up, some guy around his age with shoulder-length hair, his hood obscuring half his face. Naib doesn’t bother with the niceties—he’s clearly in a hurry, his fingers tapping his arm frantically and checking his watch about five times within the thirty seconds it takes for Naib to scan the two packs of face masks he’d bought. 

“Have a nice night,” Naib says as the guy leaves, practically snatching the masks out of Naib’s hands and leaving without acknowledging him. Naib stares after him.

For some reason, he feels a disconcerting sense of familiarity. 

—

The next time he sees a conveyor belt full of energy drinks, Naib looks up to see Kevin by himself. 

“Hey, Kev,” Naib says. He tries to hide the fact that he’s glancing behind Kevin, trying to see if Norton is also there. 

“Norty’s volunteering right now,” Kevin says, grinning smugly at him. “Why’re you looking for him?”

“I feel bad,” Naib admits, not bothering to feel embarrassed at getting caught. “I haven’t apologized. I, uh… I said something dumb. And kinda shitty. I didn’t mean it, but he just… ran off before I could explain.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause you called him annoying,” Kevin says helpfully. “You should apologize. He’s been moping. You’re lucky—if Jose was here, he’d drag you out of your lane and make you guys talk it out. It’s a struggle watching you two.”

“He thinks I hate him because of last year,” Naib groans. He scans the last bottle, sliding it across with a little too much force. “I mean, he was a bit of an asshole, but I thought it was just because of his parents, y’know, arguing and stuff. I get that. And he apologized. Like, actually. I didn’t even expect a text or anything from him but he actually went up to me to apologize. It wasn’t even that serious—we all say stupid shit. It’s not like he jumped me or anything. I don’t know why I said annoying of all things, because he’s not really—”

“Hey, Naib,” comes Margaretha’s voice. She’s widening her eyes and looking purposefully toward the customer service front desk, where Amy’s sharp gaze can be felt without even looking over. “Amy says to finish up after the next customer. And to not talk to your friends unless you want her to assign you to closing duty ‘til nine-thirty.”

“Wow, your manager sounds intense,” Kevin laughs. “Sorry, Naib. Really sounds like you and Norton should talk it out. I haven’t heard you rant in a while. Trust me, Norton’ll appreciate it.” 

“Got it,” Naib drones, answering both of them. He waves down the next customer. 

“Margaretha, mind if I join you?” Naib hears Kevin say as they leave, his braid swaying as he trails after Margaretha excitedly. Naib rolls his eyes, foreseeing Kevin’s flirting fail against Margaretha’s staunch homosexuality. “So, how’s school been…”

—

beyonce’s survivors 

Today, 8:39PM

qishiyi

i may have a lead on the topic of orpheus. 

[Image sent]

valdenedgar

is that from the yearbook?

qishiyi

st. joan’s yearbook. tang si’s graduating class.

pat.tricia.dorval

??

“Raymond Hamil” ???

Completely different name?

valdenedgar

raymond needs a haircut 

qishiyi

but the face is the same. the more i look at it the more it feels familiar

pat.tricia.dorval

I agree

That’s Orpheus

And yeah this guy needs to fix his hair 

qishiyi

this was from last year, meaning he’s a senior right now. same as most of us. very close to parsons. 

valdenedgar

that’s orpheus

i wouldn’t forget a face

pat.tricia.dorval

Your sketch was really well done Edgar

valdenedgar

thx 

except for the hair ig. why does he have long hair

it’s longer than naib’s

pat.tricia.dorval

At least Naib takes care of his hair

This guy looks like he doesn’t take his hoodie off ever

qishiyi

anyone know where naib and margie are?

oh, right. they’re both working right now. they’ll know once they check the chat. 

but this is good; we have a solid lead. and it’s very local. he’s actually one of tang si’s friends. 

pat.tricia.dorval

Wow, kinda messed up 

He’s kidnapping/disappearing people our age, and so close by too

St Joan’s is like a five minute walk from Parsons 

valdenedgar

we should ask naib to give margie a ride after their shifts from now on 

qishiyi

why’s that? i thought margie had her own car

valdenedgar

i mean it could be paranoia but like everyone in this area, like parsons and st joans and all the surrounding neighbourhoods, we all go to that plaza with the loblaws to grocery shop 

i’m in the rich area with the nair twins and we all go there too

it’s possible this orpheus/raymond also goes there regularly esp since his school’s right next to parsons

pat.tricia.dorval

Shit, you’re right

I’ll call Margie 

qishiyi and valdenedgar reacted with “👌”

—

By the time Naib has finished with his last customer, the sky is fully dark. 

Margaretha has likely already gone home. Kevin might have commuted, unless he’s waiting around hoping for a ride from Naib.

After shooting a quick ETA text to his mother, Naib steps out of the building and welcomes the cool, evening air entering his body, mentally working out which of his many assignments he should work on once he gets home. There’s an English test for the first part of Orwell’s 1984 soon, and a thermochemistry test the beginning of next week, and he should probably revise the analysis for his physics lab—

He hears a soft groan and freezes. 

Turning his head, he squints through the darkness, all his hairs standing on end, all his instincts telling him something is wrong.  

Naib walks toward their break area, where he and Margaretha always talked during their breaks. He sees a figure on the table—no, passed out on the table. Leaned over, head pillowed haphazardly on their arm, lolling slightly to the side, the faint outline of a long braid swaying—

“Kevin?” 

Naib is running to his friend in an instant.

“Kevin, wake up,” Niab says, and he feels panic well up in his throat so fast that it winds him. He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not— “Come on man, you—”

“The hell…” 

Naib almost sags with relief. Kevin is alive. Kevin is breathing. 

“Kevin, what are you doing out here still?” Naib asks, watching his friend slowly sit up. The flickering street light makes the planes of his face sharper than usual. 

“Shit, I don’t… I don’t remember,” Kevin says. He blinks several times, clearly trying to rouse himself. “I was talking with Margaretha…”

“You sure you didn’t just fall asleep? She wouldn’t leave you out here.”

“No, we were talking about chem—” Kevin stops. He stares at Naib, then stands so suddenly that Naib jumps, and whips his head around as if the Loblaws parking lot is something he’s never seen before. “Where’s Margaretha?”

“Margie probably went home already,” Naib says, watching his friend carefully. “She usually heads home as soon as her shift ends.”

“No, we were just talking,” Kevin says, his eyes wide. He walks a few paces away from the table, craning his neck as if Margaretha is hiding in the shadows. “She was right here.”

“Okay. I’ll give her a call, see where she is right now. You could’ve fallen asleep after she left.”

“No, you’re—you’re not listening,” Kevin says, walking over to Naib and grabbing his shirt. His expression is tense, eyes glinting with something foreign. Naib gets the sudden feeling that Kevin is having a flashback. “Margaretha was just talking with me. Then I passed out. I didn’t fall asleep—I just had an energy drink, there’s no way—”

“I believe you, Kevin,” Naib says steadily, but his hands are anything but. He slowly pulls out his phone, about to call her, but freezes when he sees his newest notification. 

beyonce’s survivors

9:02PM

pat.tricia.dorval

Margie didn’t pick up

He taps the text message, Kevin still holding tightly to his shirt. 

“I’m checking if she texted me,” Naib says clearly. “Kevin, calm down. Tell me what you remember. What were you guys talking about?”

“Chemistry—the thermochem stuff,” Kevin says. His breathing had quickened, but his grip loosens. “I was struggling with one of the formulas, and she… I think she said…”

Naib scans through the chat history quickly, dread pooling deeper and deeper the more he reads. 

He taps Margaretha’s contact. The call tone drones three times before her voicemail rings in the air. Kevin turns to stare at his phone. 

“Shit…”

That’s all the warning Naib receives before Kevin stumbles forward and collapses onto him, his breaths staccato and uneven. 

“Kevin!” Naib shoves his phone into his pocket and quickly maneuvers his friend onto the table. Kevin is already unconscious, but his eyebrows are furrowed and his grip on Naib is still tight. 

"What the hell...?"

Still in his work uniform, standing in front of his workplace, with a half a mind still on his unfinished assignments, Naib is left with one friend passed out, and one friend missing. 

Chapter Text

aama

Today, 11:54PM

i’m at the police station

What?

Chorra are you serious?

Is this why you haven’t answered my calls?

Are you okay? 

i’m okay

i need a parent for questioning

What?

Why are you being questioned?

margaretha went missing 

Oh dear

That girl you work with?

yes

she’s gone

Oh Naib

I’m on my way chorra, don’t say anything 

Seen

Naib closes his phone and falls back on his chair by the detective’s desk. Across from him is Kevin, staring blankly at the ground, uncharacteristically quiet ever since they left the hospital. 

Just a couple hours ago, they were still in the Loblaws parking lot. Naib had dragged Kevin’s unfairly-muscled body to his car after doing a quick airway-breathing-circulation check. His friend seemed fine, except for the irregular rhythm of his breathing and unfocused pupils—but he was still breathing. In his hurry, he’d neglected to alert his mother or friends of anything, focused on getting Kevin to the ER in case there was something else that was afflicting him that Naib’s two-year expired first-aid certification training couldn’t spot. 

Halfway there, he’d briefly panicked about whether or not he should have called an ambulance instead, then panicked even more when Kevin started muttering things in his sleep. 

“You owe me so hard, man,” Naib muttered to himself as he got beeped while making a horrible left turn at an uncontrolled intersection. “Fuck, shit—fuck—”

Somehow, they made it to the hospital in one piece. Naib only remembers parking where he was definitely not allowed to park, pulling Kevin out of the passenger seat, and two uniformed medics rushing toward him and taking Kevin off of him. It wasn’t until Naib was staring down at his friend, who was slowly blinking awake, that he realized Doctor Dyer was by his side and asking him questions. 

“Did you kids go to another party?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“At work. Loblaws.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Margie.”

“Margaretha?” 

“I don’t know where she is. She’s gone.”

That’s when Doctor Dyer paused in the middle of assessing Kevin’s eyes. 

“Margaretha is missing?” she clarified. Naib nods. “Did you call the police?”

Naib stared. He shook his head. 

Minor chaos erupted as Doctor Dyer contacted various individuals, ordering people around—including Kevin and Naib to return to the waiting room—and only then did it sink in through Naib’s shock that Margaretha had gone missing. Right in front of him. 

The police were called, both Naib and Kevin tensed beyond hell as they sat together at the back of a police cruiser, even with repeated reassurances that it was merely for transport purposes and that they were not in any trouble. 

And now, they’re at the police station, waiting for their respective parents to show up so they can get questioned on exactly how Margaretha went missing within minutes of them last seeing her. 

“Mr. Subedar.”

Naib glances up.

It’s officer Johnson—the same one who had questioned Naib in his home when Emma went missing, right after the party. He doesn’t make any acknowledgement that he recognizes Naib. 

“Any updates with your parents?” 

“My mom’s on her way,” Naib says. He glances at Kevin. “Kevin, um… he’s not feeling that well. Can he go home?”

It’s true; Kevin looks like he’s about to spiral into a panic attack. But Johnson only shakes his head and sighs, checking his watch. 

“We need to start the questioning now. I’m sure you boys are in shock, but this is a vital time for a missing case. Come with me.”

Johnson starts walking without waiting for an answer. Naib gets up quickly and shakes Kevin’s shoulder with one hand, the other grabbing Kevin’s hand. 

“Kevin?” Naib says quietly. His friend’s grip is clammy. “You with me?”

Kevin only nods. Naib pulls Kevin behind him, shielding his friend slightly from the urgent bustling of the police station. 

“Miss Margaretha,” Kevin murmurs. The address is bizarre enough that Naib glances back at his friend. “Margaretha…”

“This way, boys,” Johnson says. His tone is impatient. “Have a seat. Mr. Ayuso, please follow my partner to the other room.”

Naib gives Kevin’s hand a squeeze. As he lets go, Naib says, “Tell them exactly what you told me. Don’t overthink anything. Your mom’s on her way, okay?”

“Since he seems to be more affected, we will delay questioning until his parents arrive,” Johnson says, a little exasperated. “No need to act like we’re the villains, kid. We’re trying to help. Witnesses have protection, especially minors. Now please follow me.” 

—

Freddy Riley really wanted to spend his Thursday night in peace and quiet. Maybe binge that show his girlfriend has been recommending, order some delicious Chinese delivery, and sip a nice glass of wine before sleeping at his respectable bedtime of 10:45PM. 

He’d wake up, shoot his girlfriend a good morning text, and head to work. All part of his routine. 

But it’s been a few weeks since he’s been able to stick to his preferred routines. Ever since Emma Woods went missing, Freddy has been working repeated overtime—not for the pay, though it is nice as the head detective—but to chase fruitless leads on where these teenage girls are disappearing to. 

Teenage girls who used to be the very same women from his dreams of the Manor.

When Emma disappeared, Freddy had already jumped on the case. Leo had practically run to him for help. Considering Freddy’s mistakes—past life mistakes, to be clear—that spiraled his friend’s family into ruin, Freddy reluctantly admitted to himself that, yes, okay, he owed Leo. Freddy has long since come to terms with the fact that he has somehow reincarnated into the present, with the occasional familiar face from the Manor shitshow dreams he started having in high school, but facing Leo has never gotten easier. 

In addition to that, it’s Emma—the daughter of the woman he loved in both lifetimes. A bright kid whose mother’s wedding he attended. How could Freddy refuse when Martha came as well, face tear-streaked with trembling hands? 

So Freddy looked into the missing case of Emma Woods. He was a lawyer longer than he’s been a detective, but he’s solved cases that required months of intricate planning and infiltration and an entire team of SWAT operatives. A missing case of a likely runaway teenager shouldn’t have taken more than a week to solve with some hard work and all-nighters. 

But he couldn’t find Emma. 

Even when he shifted to her as his primary case, no amount of search parties or questioning or service dogs could glean a single clue as to where she went. 

Freddy refused to get involved with Martha in this lifetime, but it seems their family is spiraling into ruin again regardless of his intervention. 

Then Demi Bourbon went missing. 

Freddy hadn’t taken note of it then, because the name didn’t register immediately. Demi Bourbon was another Parsons student, another teenage girl, in the same year as Emma. The white strands in her hair struck him as faintly familiar for a moment, before he summed it up as something dumb teenagers liked to do to themselves. 

Somehow, it took Sam Bourbon jumping onto the case, all the way from the big city of Toronto, to make Freddy realize Demi Bourbon looked a little too familiar—familiar in the way Emma was. 

He couldn’t share this common thread with anyone—why would he waste time explaining reincarnation mumbojumbo that he hasn’t even confirmed yet? The closest he’s gotten is a vague glance of acknowledgement from Emil Mesmer in Forensics when Freddy first transferred to Parsons. Other than that, he’s seen some familiar faces at the high school. He never bothered getting close. 

Only when Margaretha Zelle went missing did Freddy really begin questioning his approach to the investigation. 

“This footage makes no sense,” says Jenkins, one of the few competent colleagues Freddy trusts. She’s staring at the screen, showing the CCTV footage taken from the very edge of the Loblaws security cameras. Freddy refocuses his blurring eyes on the next loop—seriously, a perfect Thursday night, and now it’s past a respectable twilight hour—and tries to logic out what he’s seeing. 

Margaretha Zelle sits across from Kevin Ayuso on the picnic table. Kevin says something, clearly some sort of bad pickup line, and she rolls her eyes. About twenty seconds pass as they converse. As if slowly falling asleep, both of them slouch bit by bit until they’re both slumped over on the table. Another ten seconds pass until Margaretha stands, head bowed slightly, and walks off into the blindspot. Kevin remains slumped over, presumably unconscious. Naib Subedar then rushes into the scene, shaking Kevin awake. The two boys spend about one minute panicking to each other before Kevin passes out and Naib has to pull him away, likely to his car. 

“Where did she go?” Jenkins says, the fifth time in the hour. She sits back, the chair rolling with her weight, and goes over her notes again. “They fell asleep, she woke up, he didn’t, and she walked off without a word. Why? Is this some sort of prolonged hypnosis?”

Freddy wants to go home. He wants to call his girlfriend and rant in the comfort of her arms. He wants to drink his wine in peace. He wants Emil Mesmer to stop his unsubtle attempts at pulling Freddy into a private conversation—no doubt about the reincarnation Manor BS Freddy has never desired to analyze. 

But it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

“I might have a lead,” Freddy says with reluctance. Jenkins’s head shoots up to look at him, incredulous, so he continues hastily, “Very uncertain, very unreliable lead. But I think it’s better than nothing.”

“Think you can update me or Bourbon before tomorrow?”

“Uncertain,” Freddy repeats, but Jenkins only nods. “I’ll do my best.”

“Anything I can do to help in the meantime? Other than watching this thing again.”

Freddy takes his glasses off and soothes his nosebridge.

“Could you call the two kids in? Without their folks?” he says. “And maybe get Dr. Mesmer as well.”

She gives him a searching look. 

“What do you need Forensics for?”

“Nothing important. We just have business. He knows the kids, more or less, and I think he could help.”

Jenkins—trustworthy as ever—comes back minutes later with Naib Subedar, Kevin Ayuso, and Emil Mesmer in tow. With a single glance, she understands that he needs a private setting, and leaves again without a word. 

“Okay,” Freddy starts, just a little out of his depth. Now in a room with three faces from the past, the Manor feels less like an abandoned building on Secord Street and more like the looming presence from his teenage dreams. “Can I assume you three at least have some idea of what may be going on here?”

The Subedar kid speaks first. His eyes are glued to Emil’s nametag, no doubt reading the words Head of Forensics and coming to dire conclusions.

“Did you already find her?” he says. His voice cracks, and at his side, Kevin is as still as a statue. “Her body?”

Freddy gives Emil a meaningful glance, while Emil hastily puts his hands up. Of course the kids assumed Emil is here for being in charge of investigating dead people rather than for being part of the Manor clusterfuck. 

On that note—do any of the teens even know about the Manor?

“Nothing has been found yet,” Emil says, his voice gentle. Freddy feels vaguely off-put considering the memories of the man from the past—the same man who couldn’t be three feet away from Ada Mesmer without having a mental breakdown, who couldn’t look or speak to anyone who wasn’t Ada Mesmer, who couldn’t even die before Ada Mesmer did. “Don’t worry. I’m here because of…”

“The Manor.” It’s Kevin who speaks this time. Naib’s head jerks to look at his friend. “I think I remember. We were all in a Manor, right? So was Margaretha. And Demi. And Emma. And… all of you?”

“Yeah,” Naib says, eyes wide. “Yeah, man, that’s all true. You remember?”

“Did we all really die?” Kevin says next. Naib puts a tentative hand on Kevin’s shoulder, but doesn’t seem to be able to say anything. “Margaretha… I saw her…”

“Yes, you were there when she passed,” Emil says. Somehow, the way he says it is comforting. “We understand, Kevin. I—and Detective Riley, presumably—believe that these missing cases are all connected, and that the key to solving them is related to us. The past. The Manor, like you said.”

“I didn’t exactly plan to go this deep into this topic,” Freddy sighs, “but I suppose there’s no point in avoiding it. Yes, I remember most of what happened, and yes, I suspect that there’s something related to our past that’s connected to these missing girls.”

Naib seems to have already recognized Freddy, but Kevin stares at Freddy like he’s a particularly complicated puzzle. Both boys are exhibiting low levels of shock; Naib’s hands are twisting and fidgeting almost painfully, and for a second, Freddy almost glances to see if there’s a knife tucked between his palms. 

This kid is not the Mercenary, Freddy reminds himself. But he remembers the Mercenary vividly—brooding, self-sacrificial. Strong. Always twirling that bent blade. And the one who deteriorated the most. 

“But I understand that it’s been a long few hours for you both,” Freddy forces himself to continue, tearing his eyes away from Naib’s youthful features. “So let’s watch this footage together, you tell me anything you think you should add, then you go home with my contact info. Understood?”

Both boys nod wordlessly. Emil gives Freddy yet another unsubtle look, this time tinted with an approving smile that Freddy does not particularly appreciate. 

“Alright,” Freddy sighs, playing the video yet again, “whenever you’re ready.” 

—

beyonce’s survivors

Yesterday, 9:02PM

pat.tricia.dorval

Margie didn’t pick up

valdenedgar

@margaritazelle

@margaritazelle

@naibsubedar

qishiyi

neither of them are answering my private messages. 

ispyeli

Yesterday, 9:54PM

Naib, are you still at work?

Let me know if anything’s wrong. 

pat.tricia.dorval

Yesterday, 10:35PM

Naib what’s going on? 

I dropped by your house and your car wasn’t there

Are you still at work?

Is Margie with you?

_rani.subedar

Yesterday, 11:04PM

why are you not home yet 🙄 dont tell me your at another party 

mom says to answer her calls 👿👿👿 or else 

im gonna eat your leftovers

qishiyi

Yesterday, 11:48PM

call me when you see this message.

i hope you’re alright.

beyonce’s survivors

Today, 12:39AM

valdenedgar

@margaritazelle @naibsubedar 

pls say something when you see this 

1:06AM

margaretha disappeared

Seen by all

—

As a general rule, Patricia likes to keep her dreams separate from reality. 

Not because she gets crippling nightmares, or because she rarely used to remember her dreams anyway. But because her family’s deep voodoo roots believe that constant and mystifying dreams are symbolic of a deeper spiritual awakening—and Patricia knows that it’s far from the case. 

Unfortunately, the Manor and whatever metaphysical theories at play have skewed this personal value of hers. 

After the twins’ party, Patricia sensed a strange shift. Her spiritual awareness might not have guided her as far in life as her devout grandmother claims, but everything that’s been going on has had her mind on full alert, whether conscious or subconscious—or unconscious. 

“Patricia, are you okay?” said Qi Shiyi that night, a steady beacon of calm amidst fleeing teenagers and flashing ambulance and police lights. Patricia had just called Naib for the fourth time, trying to verify if the suspiciously Naib-shaped figure on that ambulance stretcher really was Naib, when Shiyi grabbed her and led her away from the milling chaos. 

“What?” Patricia said eloquently, still craning her neck to get a view of the ambulance as it pulls out and leaves. “No, I’m fine, why are you—?”

“You’re shaking,” Shiyi said, gently grasping Patricia’s hands. Shiyi was right—Patricia’s entire body feels like a single neuron, going through rapid positive feedback cycles with relentless sodium ions flooding the channel of her senses. But Patricia felt strangely distant from her body’s seemingly mindless attempts to generate heat through her muscles’ feverish contractions. No panic, no fear, just mild frustration and alarm at Naib’s fainting. And at the police, though only a few officers, sternly guiding the teenagers out of the Manor. 

“I don’t know why,” Patricia said, and she sounded breathless. For a moment, she and Shiyi stared at each other, breaths mixing in the cold night air. Patricia had the sudden thought that Shiyi’s hair must feel silky-smooth, waterlike to the touch, if she could slowly comb her hand through it. Before she knew it, her shaky hand had reached forward, as if to do just that—

“I’ll drive you home,” Shiyi said, still calm, though her eyes seemed to say something else. When she straightened up, head turned to the chaos for a moment, Patricia imagined a light blush on her ears. “Naib won’t mind if we use his car.”

It was only then that Patricia realized Shiyi had pulled her to Naib’s black Honda. Still shaking, Patricia collapsed into the passenger seat, staring at Shiyi—a girl she’d only ever known through Naib, only ever treated like a classmate—with her mind swirling through a storm of fragmented, unrecognizable visions. 

Shiyi had suddenly felt deeply familiar. Later, Patricia knows a more accurate term would have been intimate. 

Still half out of her senses, Patricia managed to call her mom. Before she could explain anything, her mom said in warm Creole, “You should stay with your friend tonight.” 

It was the perplexing yet reassuring tone Patricia had grown up with, used whenever an understanding only her mom and grandma could reach had arrived. Conclusions that always seemed too distant for Patricia to understand. Yet she trusted that tone—she knew they were right. 

So Patricia had the first-ever sleepover of her teenage life, allowed by her usually disallowing mother. With Qi Shiyi, no less—a classmate with whom she was on only vaguely friendly terms. 

Patricia doesn’t remember how she made it to Shiyi’s bed. Or how she’d woken with Shiyi in her arms, warm and breathing and definitely closer than when they fell asleep. 

But she did remember why she’d woken with tear tracks on her face, and why Shiyi had only looked at Patricia with silent comfort in her eyes—and why Naib had freaked out so suddenly. 

Patricia remembers the day the snow stopped. 

—

It’s the after hours of Patricia’s sixth match. Four more until she can achieve the so-called freedom bestowed by the infinitely generous Orpheus, the Manor’s Baron, the devil himself. 

The night before, she’d been in the Antiquarian’s bed. 

“Why so desolate tonight?” murmured Qi Shiyi, ever inscrutable. She brushed a calloused hand through Patricia’s locs, her gentleness at great odds with her match against Ripper the day before. Patricia loved finding contrasts—the contrast in Shiyi’s martial abilities and her almost maternal tendencies, the contrast in Shiyi’s unshakeable calm and her vulnerable, wanton moans as Patricia teased her to climax. 

“Such an empath, aren’t you,” Patricia said. Her hands ran through Shiyi’s hair as well—long, inky strands, so smooth and cool to the touch that Patricia could almost imagine her hand running through a pitch-black river. She presses her face into Shiyi’s bare chest, breathing in her woody, medicinal scent. “Desolance describes hopeless, lonely children. I am not a child.”

“Then you may simply be hopeless and lonely,” Shiyi teased her. Patricia huffed a laugh. “Talk to me, Patricia.”

Shiyi always pronounced words with an emphatic approach. Each syllable rolled out with equal emphasis, making her sound almost overly-coherent when she spoke. No doubt a side effect of being a non-British native who didn’t grow up speaking the colonizer’s language. Patricia especially loved the way Shiyi said Patricia’s name—Pa-tri-cia. Like every part of it was important. Like every part of Patricia meant something. 

“How could I be lonely with you here?” Patricia said, and she meant it. Qi Shiyi and Patricia Dorval were not lovers. But they found comfort in each other’s warmth, strength, and simple companionship. They loved each other beyond the platonic, wavering in the uncharted waters of sexual desire, yet simmered on the edge of anything romantic. Neither made the jump over that edge—an unspoken border. Perhaps it was due to their slow countdown to death, and knowing that starting anything close to love meant nothing but more despair. 

“You say very sweet things,” Shiyi said. She was smiling, so soft in the trembling lanternlight, and Patricia could almost pretend that they were simply two lonely women, two lonely foreigners, who found each other in some library or cafe and fell into bed after a few risky drinks at the bar. But that is not their reality. 

“I worry…” Patricia started, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she even realized. Shiyi tilted her head, caressed Patricia’s back, and listened. “I worry for the day you leave.”

Shiyi only hummed. She wasn’t dampened that Patricia brought up such a dreary topic. She only looked thoughtful, as if the thought of leaving—of dying—was just a situation to consider. 

“With my background,” she said, “death is simply a part of life. To enjoy the gift of living means we must also accept the gift of dying. You can’t have one without the other.”

Patricia snorted lightly. 

“By background, you must mean you were a philosopher.”

“Not even close,” Shiyi chuckled. “Rest your worry, Patricia. This is unfair for all of us. But I suppose…”

She trailed off, her head turning away. When Patricia glanced at her, she saw a stark flash of guilt in Shiyi’s eyes. 

“This may simply be the karma of our sins,” Shiyi whispered. Her gaze was far away. Patricia felt a clench in her chest—of annoyance, for the unintended slight against Patricia’s one purpose for her entire life, and of pity, for the undoubtedly painful memories Shiyi must be relieving. Whatever it is, the tenderness of their shared moment feels suddenly doused in a trickling cold. A barrier has come up between them. 

Patricia knows it's always been there. Even if Patricia loved Shiyi—even if Patricia could love another person at all—Shiyi would feel nothing more than a fondness tinted with guilt. So Patricia couldn’t let herself fall too deep. Why take the dive when Shiyi wouldn’t even let herself near the water? 

Now, lying listlessly as Dyer’s fifteenth patient of the day, Patricia recalls her words. 

Karma. Sins. 

Is this really what they deserve? 

Patricia knows herself and her goals. She is unwavering in her faith. And the Manor was meant to realize everything. 

But now…

Atop the blankets, her hands clench into fists. 

Now, the souls are disappearing, taken one by one. Disappearing before her devout hands like wisps in the air. Sinful or not, she is not the one controlling them, not the one grasping them as her offerings. She has no control, and she’s running out of prey. 

“Are you lucid?”

Dyer’s sharp voice cuts through her storming thoughts. Patricia looks up at the Doctor, her expression completely wiped of anything but stress. 

“If you can walk—”

“I will get out of your way,” Patricia interrupts. She’s eager to leave. Grateful as she is for the Doctor’s administrative and medical competence, Patricia has very little to say to British natives. Dyer has long since grown used to unruly patients and only dismisses her with a nod. 

Before Patricia even leaves the infirmary, another survivor has taken her place on the bed.

It’s close to midnight by now. She drops by the main hall, checking the haphazard match board for the next day’s schedule to see she’s been assigned three, then heading to the second floor with the vague intention to look for Naib. But the thought of her friend—moreso an ally, though he seems to trust her more than she does him—runs her mind back to that night with Shiyi, of karma and sins by the lanternlight. 

Naib Subedar is a mercenary. He kills for money. He has committed undeniable sins, yet Patricia cannot wholeheartedly grasp him and wholeheartedly offer it as a sinful soul. Above all is her faith—but part of it means seeing the complexity of sins, the why behind them, and claiming them as prey anyway. 

Naib Subedar is a son, a brother, a soldier. Patricia knows he means more to the world than he does to her purpose. But in the end, all souls are offerings, and offerings do not differentiate as long as the giver’s faith does not waver. 

Patricia does not waver. But the Manor has given her no choice. 

Will she die here? As meaningless as the souls she was meant to hunt for? 

When she breathes back into the present, she’s found her way to the highest balcony on the Manor’s south site. It’s silent, devoid of people. The stars tonight are scattered like salt on a black tablecloth. 

“Enchantress.” 

Patricia startles at the sudden address, but doesn’t show it as she turns. 

The Priestess stares back at her. 

“Gilman,” Patricia returns with an incline of her head. “How are you tonight?” 

“In disarray, I’m afraid,” Gilman answers. As usual, she is peculiar yet attractive in a way that makes Patricia believe she’s more… enlightened, rather than nonsensical. Perhaps it’s their vague similarity in possessing skills beyond the accepted ordinary, but Patricia finds herself more willing to pay attention to Gilman’s musings than the other Manor residents. “How do you fare?” 

“As well as one can after two deaths in a day,” Patricia returns. In the turmoil of her thoughts, the oddity that is Gilman feels like a reprieve. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Patricia pauses. Aside from Shiyi, the other who passed just that afternoon was the Magician, Le Roy. She had no relation to the man aside from functional teamwork during matches. So Gilman can only be referring to Shiyi, but that would mean—

“The two of you were very warm to each other,” Gilman says, as if she’s offering clarification, but only making Patricia feel—

What does she feel? 

Qi Shiyi is dead. Another Manor resident gone. Another teammate down, never to return under Dyer’s deft hands. They shared dreamy words and many nightly trysts. Two foreign women amongst British natives, two mutual abominations amongst more abominations. What loss is there for Patricia to bear? 

“I came to speak to you on another matter.” 

As suddenly as Gilman wrought yet another storm through Patricia’s mind, she brings Patricia’s attention back to the present. 

“By all means,” Patricia murmurs, looking back to the stars. One of them seems to blink at her. She has the sudden absurd thought that Shiyi must have joined them tonight. 

“The Ancient One,” Gilman says, and that catches Patricia’s attention. “The one the Baron calls Hastur. In your next match, would you be able to sense him?”

“Please elaborate on what you mean by sense,” Patricia says, trying not to feel like she’s humoring Gilman’s strangeness. “My abilities are limited. I’m afraid I won’t be able to—”

“You must feel it, don’t you?” Gilman interrupts. Patricia doesn’t bother feeling miffed, but the look in Gilman’s eyes draws her up short. “His aura. It’s not right. It’s been violated and wronged. I need you to confirm it.”

“How would I go about that?” Patricia asks, slightly incredulous. “I see some truth to your words. But it’s as I said. My abilities are limited—I can only cause a strong strike of pain through any organism. You’ve seen it.”

“You can communicate with him.”

Patricia does startle this time, anger filtering through her shock as she registers Gilman’s implication.

“How do you know?”

“I can communicate as well,” is all Gilman offers, cryptic and solemn. “You have the ability. Do not limit yourself to your own faith.”

Ignoring everything that makes Gilman sound jarringly offensive takes some effort. In the end, Patricia says, “And if I can confirm it? What good will it do?”

Gilman takes a step forward. Her hand reaches out, hovering just above Patricia’s sternum. When Patricia looks into her eyes, Gilman’s gaze is filled with a tremendous emotion Patricia can’t even name.

“We are not beyond saving.”

—

The following morning, Patricia skips class for the first time in her life. 

She’d be lying if she said she’s never thought about it—really, she can only listen to Mr. Desaulnier drone about the Canada Health Act of 1984 for so long before her eyes glaze over. But she always had the impression that her peers skipped class out of some sort of early-onset senioritis, maybe to sneak into some seedy corner the janitors don’t clean so they can vape. 

“Is she really gone?”

Patricia, however, is skipping class to console two different friends, simultaneously, over the missing case of Margaretha Zelle. 

Currently, she’s soothing Anne through a fresh wave of tears. Anne’s shoulders shake as she clutches more tightly to her phone, whose screen glares back up at them with the headline Third MIssing Teen Case in Parsons Region—This Month. 

“The police are working on it,” Patricia says quietly, subtly shutting off Anne’s phone when Anne rubs her eyes and sniffles. “Nothing’s certain yet.”

The other friend she found hiding from their fourth period class is Naib, who’d long since escaped to the boys’ washroom when Patricia—ill-advisedly, she realizes now—pressed him on what exactly happened the night before. She’d already sent him an apology text and messaged Ganji to check on him, but she hasn’t heard back from either of them after a wordless thumbs-up emoji from Ganji. 

“This all feels so wrong,” Anne says, voice wet. Patricia can only pat her shoulder in comfort. “Why Demi? Why Margie too?”

After a pause, Patricia hedges, “You think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know,” Anne mutters. They both stare at a crack in the wall across from them, graffiti’d with bright pink sharpie. “I just want them back. I want to know what’s going on. I don’t understand why the police are so goddamn slow.” 

Patricia can’t think of anything to say. It’s evident Anne has, at most, a vague sense of their Manor connection. If she weren’t in such a fragile state, Patricia might have pushed her to try and remember more. 

“We shouldn’t be alone,” Anne says suddenly. “Why don’t the police say anything? It’s obvious—whoever it is, it’s girls being targeted. Teenage girls in Parsons. Shouldn’t we at least get a warning? To not go places alone and all that? It’s like—it’s like no one else seems to notice how fucked up it is.”

“I agree,” Patricia assures her as her friend’s eyes well up again. “I’m gonna bring it up to some of our teachers. There’s a STEM meeting tomorrow—I’m gonna make sure more people are aware.”

As if hearing their words, the intercom crackles to life before Patricia even finishes speaking. 

“Attention all staff and students,” comes Ms. Keighan’s stern voice. “All grade eleven and twelve classes and students—please make your way down to the gymnasium. Teachers, please check your inbox. All junior classes will proceed as normal. Thank you.”

The intercom closes with a beep. Anne and Patricia stare at each other, before Patricia offers a wry grin, and Anne bursts into teary giggles. 

As they walk through the hallway, now filling rapidly with other nonplussed seniors and harried teachers, Patricia checks her phone. 

yaboyganji

Today, 1:29PM

Hey Ganji

Could you check on Naib 

He’s in the 2nd floor washroom 

yaboyganji reacted with “👍”

1:58PM

he’s all gud 

just really tired 

had to help him stand 

he’s not mad at you tho 

🫡

As they enter the gym, Patricia sends a quick Thx before swiping to Naib’s chat, worried despite knowing Naib wouldn’t begrudge her for something so small. 

naibsubedar

Today, 1:24PM

Sorry for pushing you

Talk to me whenever you want 

Don’t keep it all to yourself 

naibsubedar liked the message

Patricia feels something inside unclench at the tiny tag. A vague vision of the Mercenary swims through her mind’s eye, eyes shadowed and hands bloody, and she blinks it away. 

“Tricia,” Anne gently pulls her out of the way. Patricia hadn’t noticed they were standing in the middle of the gym, the rest of their grade and underclassmen still filing in. “I found Martha. Let’s head over?”

Patricia nods, letting herself be guided through throngs of confused peers and arriving in front of Martha and her classmates. They look like they were pulled straight out of a chemistry lab, many of them bearing faint goggle marks on their faces. 

“Hey, guys,” Martha greets. Wordlessly, she reels them both into a hug, patting Anne’s back with one hand and waving at someone behind them with the other. Patricia is tired enough to not bother to see who Martha’s looking at, leaning into her friend’s well-built, athletic arms for a brief moment of comfort. “Hey, Ganji!”

“Hey,” comes Ganji’s voice. There’s a brief pause when Martha’s hold on Patricia and Anne loosen, making Patricia straighten up just in time to see Naib turn on his heel and walk the other direction. “Uh, Naib, where’re you…”

Patricia and Anne share a glance. Right—Naib and Martha are exes, and Naib is clearly in no state to be doing anything more emotionally stirring than breathe and blink at the moment. 

“I’ll get him,” Patricia says, hurrying after Naib’s rapid pace. What a drama queen, Patricia thinks to herself, but part of her is also worried that something else is wrong, that he had another flashback, that he’s heading for the roof again—

“Patricia?”

She’s clutching Naib’s shoulders, both of them, hard enough that there’s a wince on his face. Quickly, she lets go. 

“Sorry,” she says. She feels shaky in the same way she did that night in the Manor, but this time, it’s Naib in front of her and not Shiyi. “You—you’re, we’re good, right?”

“Of course,” Naib says, looking at her cautiously. “Are you feeling okay?”

Before Patricia can say anything, something dry like maybe I’m the one who needs sleep now, the doors of the gymnasium burst open, and in walks two police officers. 

After a moment, the remaining students still standing slink down to the floor, all watching as the police officers make their way to the very front and exchange some quiet words with Principal Barnes. 

“Good afternoon, Parsons Secondary School,” says the woman, in uniform, short, and dark-haired, likely some sort of South American descent. Beside her stands a man—not in uniform, and strangely familiar. “We apologize for disrupting your classes. But we’re here today to bring a very important danger to your attention and what you can do to stay safe.”

The entire gymnasium seems to hold its breath, no doubt thinking of the same thing. 

Emma Woods. Demi Bourbon. Margaretha Zelle. 

“As you all must know by now, three students of this school have gone missing in the past month. The police and others in your community have been working tirelessly on this investigation. Progress has been made—” Patricia and Naib share a look of doubt. “but we would like to take additional precautions.”

Then the projector flashes on, displaying a slideshow titled STAYING SAFE AND VIGILANT—TEENAGERS. A few students start muttering, followed by sharp shushes from teachers, as the police officer continues speaking. 

“We will go over many useful tips—though I strongly encourage you to view them as regulations—followed by some self-defense demonstrations. This is a deeply important matter, and concerns the safety of yourselves and your peers.”

With a sweeping glance over the full gym of silent teenagers, the officer turns to the laptop and starts. 

Next to Patricia, Naib starts to doze off only a few slides in. She watches him worriedly for a moment before nudging him gently. 

“You wanna lean on me?” she whispers, very conscious of Mr. Desaulnier’s watchful gaze some paces behind them. “I’ll let you know anything important."

“Nah,” Naib whispers back, sounding automatic. Patricia watches as he struggles with his noble masculinity for a long few moments, clearly at war between wanting to nap and whatever affection-rejecting male instincts teenage boys have, before sighing and slumping against her. 

The weight of him makes Patricia feel relieved. A second passes before Naib relaxes, and Patricia sneaks a hand in front of his nose, staring at his rising chest and trying to ground herself. 

She thinks of the Mercenary again. Eyes shadowed, hands bloodied. Blade glinting in the moonlight. 

Patricia does her best to stay awake, retaining a few bolded lines like go everywhere with a buddy and always tell someone where you are, but eventually, Naib’s evening breaths make her drowsy as well.

She jolts to alertness some time later at the sight of Shiyi standing in front of the gym. 

“Could I have another volunteer?” the officer is saying, glancing around her audience. “A boy, please.”

Some half-hearted hands go up. Somehow, Ganji is chosen, and Patricia almost shakes Naib awake so he can witness the hilarity of the situation before them. 

“Girls, please watch closely…”

Then the officer demonstrates a series of simple but supposedly effective takedowns, ranging from wrist grabs to bear hugs and even a bag over the head. She handles Shiyi gently, taking care to articulate the steps clearly, but when it’s Shiyi’s turn, Patricia can see Ganji stiffen up. She gets the vague idea that he only volunteered to impress Anne, but his repressed Manor memories of the Antiquarian’s unbeatable martial ability must be giving him second thoughts. 

“Think of center of gravity,” the officer says as Shiyi sweeps Ganji’s legs out from under him. He lands with an audible thump, wincing, but accepting Shiyi’s helping hand up. “It’s more useful than you may realize. Next.”

After two more takedowns—determinedly dignified from Ganji while Shiyi seems to be genuinely picturing a kidnapping scene in her head—the officer lets them sit back down. Some boys give Ganji playful punches as he goes, scolded almost immediately by surrounding teachers. 

Patricia managed to hold back her laughter, but as she sees Shiyi’s furrowed expression and shaking hands, Patricia is reeled rudely back to reality. 

The police are here to tell the girls that, at some point, they may need to fight for their lives. That there’s a kidnapper out there, and that there’s little the police can do with zero evidence on the suspect. 

As the police make their parting words and students begin filing out, her laughter has long faded.