Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Some things don’t rot all at once — they dry, they quiet, they pretend to live a little longer.”

_____________________

“Two of the three missing persons have been found… brutally murdered and dismembered.”

The anchor’s voice was steady. Emotionless.
“The first victim, twenty-three-year-old Sara Moore, was discovered in Weatherbea Forest. Her head is still missing and has not yet been recovered—”

Click.

Mrs. McClain changed the channel before the sentence could finish. Her hand trembled slightly. Her husband was already late. She didn’t need to hear more about heads missing in the woods.

“Oh come on, Mama!” Veronica whined. “Why’d you change it? It was just getting good.”

Thirteen, dramatic, and bored. Veronica flopped back against the couch, arms crossed. Nothing exciting ever happened in their quiet town. A little murder on the news made the week less dull.

“I don’t want to hear about people being chopped up,” Rosa muttered, rising from the couch. “If that’s what you want to watch, go somewhere else.”

She stormed into the kitchen, her jaw tight. Cooking always helped calm her down. Her hands needed something to do, especially on nights like this. Her husband was a cop. Worrying was a habit she’d learned to live with—but not like this. Not since three people went missing. Not since two of them were found carved up like meat.

She slammed a lump of dough down onto the counter and started kneading it furiously.

“Mama?” came a voice behind her.
Louis stood in the doorway, watching her with that same gentle expression he always wore. Her oldest. Always too sensitive.

“Not now, mijo,” she said without looking up. “I’m making dinner.

“Uh-huh,” Louis said, backing away slowly, chuckling to himself. “Whatever makes you happy, girl.”

Back in the living room, little Lance curled into his father’s side on the couch. Ten years old. Wide-eyed. Quiet. Always thinking.

“Don’t stress your mama, Bubbles,” Mr. McClain said, patting his son’s soft curls.

Veronica had already turned the news back on. She sat on the floor now, leaning in toward the screen with morbid fascination. Lance stayed on the couch beside Papa, feeling safer near him.

“Papi?” Lance whispered.His father looked down with that warm smile of his.

“Yes, Bubbles?”

“You’re late. You said you wouldn’t be late again.”

Mr. McClain chuckled, brushing a hand through his son's hair.

“I had to meet someone near the lake,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, mi amor. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He pulled Lance into his arms, warm and steady.

“It won’t happen again.”Lance relaxed. He always did in Papa’s arms.

“Hey freak,” Vi snapped. “Stop cuddling your teddy bear and listen. This is the good part.”

Lance gave her a look but turned back to the TV anyway.

“The second victim, nineteen-year-old Robin Afterhod, was found in an alley behind the Walmart. His body was intact—”

“But Sara Moore’s severed head was discovered resting in his lap.”

Lance blinked. His stomach turned.

“They probably haven’t found the third body yet,” Papa murmured.

Lance looked up.
“How do you know that?”
His father was looking at him.

But something had changed.

His face was blank.

His smile gone.

His eyes—cold.

And his shirt…

Soaked.

Dark patches bloomed across the chest and sleeves. Dripping water. The smell of lake mud suddenly filled Lance’s nose.

“Why are you wet?” he asked, voice small.

“Lance, shut up,” Vi snapped. “You’re so annoying.”

Lance ignored her.
His father was still staring at him.

Then he smiled—but it wasn’t warm anymore.

“Find us in the lake, Bubbles,” he whispered.
Lance blinked.

His father was gone.

No creak of the couch. No footsteps. No door.
Just—

Gone.

He was just here.

He was right there.

Lance froze, breath stuck in his throat. His eyes darted to the front door.

Did anyone even see him come in?
His body shook.

Was he even here?

Lance curled into the corner of the couch. Pulled his knees to his chest. Closed his eyes.

He told himself he was tired

He told himself it wasn’t real.

And slowly, he drifted off.

_________________________________

Lance awoke to sunlight spilling like melted butter through half-closed blinds. He blinked against the soft gold bleeding across his tan skin, trying to hold on to the last flickers of his dream — or maybe a memory.

His father’s arms.
The lake.
A voice like cracked glass whispering, “Find us, Bubbles…”

Lance exhaled shakily, a hand pressed to his chest as if trying to still the tremor beneath his ribs.

His room was exactly how he’d left it:
Blue bedsheets with jellyfish patterns, barely straight. Posters of ocean creatures swaying slightly from the breeze of the fan. A small vanity desk against the wall, cluttered with moisturizers, lip balm, and his favorite toner — the one that smelled like blue berries.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just breathed.

Eventually, the sound of clattering pans and bickering voices drifted through the floorboards. Home was loud. Home was always loud.

Time to wake up.

⸻

He wandered into the kitchen in socks and a faded blue hoodie, sleeves tugged down over his hands. His dark brown hair was damp from a quick rinse, messily parted in the front like seafoam tossed around his pixie cut.

“Buenos días, dormilón,” Rosa said, not looking up as she kneaded dough with powerful arms. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing skin dusted with flour and faint scars from years of work. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm.” Lance leaned against the fridge. “Had a bad dream again.”

Rosa’s hands paused for just a second. Then she kept kneading.

Across the kitchen, Louis — 26, sleep-starved, forever in college — sipped black coffee like it was survival fuel. “That dream with the lake?” he asked, glancing over with tired eyes and an empathetic wrinkle in his brow.

Lance nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Creepy,” said Veronica, flipping her wavy bob over her shoulder as she dug into a bowl of cereal. She wore a cropped pink tee and pajama shorts, totally unbothered. “You sure you’re not just suppressing trauma again?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

Marco — 21, flannel-wrapped menace — leaned over from behind and flicked his ear.

“Aw, little Bubbles having scary dreams again?” he teased with a grin.

“I will murder you in your sleep,” Lance muttered, adjusting his hoodie.

Mia wandered in next, still in her scrubs, hair in a loose bun. She gave Lance a soft kiss on the cheek before collapsing into the chair beside Louis. “Leave him alone. He’s more emotionally mature than all of you combined.”

Lisa (12) and Sam (6) were fighting over a single waffle.

“I had a dream about a robot war,” Lisa said, smug.

“I had a dream I was a jellyfish,” Sam declared proudly.

Lance finally smiled — just a little.

And then:
“LANCE.”
Rachel stood in the hallway, one hand on her hip, her dark hair tied in a lazy braid over her shoulder. “You used my toner again, didn’t you?”

“I borrowed it,” Lance said innocently. “My skin’s glowing now. You should thank me.”

Rachel threw a dish towel at him. He ducked and cackled.

The house felt alive. Warm. Full of chaos, sarcasm, and care.

That’s why the dream felt so cold in comparison.

⸻

Lance pulled on a cropped denim jacket over his uniform tee and joggers. His backpack was a mix of enamel pins — a jellyfish, a pride flag, a ghost with sunglasses.

The sky was a clean slate, pale blue with sharp air biting just enough to make you tuck your chin into your hoodie.

Hunk was waiting for him at the corner.

He wore a yellow hoodie two sizes too big, hands stuffed into the sleeves, hair pulled into a fluffy ponytail. His deep brown eyes lit up when he saw Lance.

“You okay?” Hunk asked as they started walking.

Lance nodded. “Yeah. Just… bad dream.”

Hunk didn’t press. He just offered a muffin — warm, banana, no nuts. Lance took it without a word, tearing little pieces off and eating slowly.

“Thanks,” Lance murmured.

They walked in silence.

That’s what Lance liked about Hunk. He always knew when to just walk beside you.

⸻

School – Lunch, the Heartbeat of the Day

The cafeteria buzzed like a beehive with Wi-Fi. Trays clattered, sneakers squeaked, and voices rose like steam.

Pidge was already at their table, green hoodie zipped up to her nose, legs folded beneath her like a goblin perched on her throne.

“Did you see Mr. Grant’s tie today?” she said as they approached. “Looked like a pine tree threw up on him.”

“Be nice,” said Allura, settling beside her with practiced elegance. She wore pale pink today — silk blouse, soft curls pinned behind her ear with a rose-gold clip. “Maybe his children picked it.”

“Then his children should be arrested,” Pidge shot back.

Allura rolled her eyes and pulled a pink macaron from her lunchbox. “Romelle made these for me. Want one?”

“I always want one,” Lance said, sliding in next to her. “Where is your girl, anyway?”

“She’s in robotics. Her girlfriend got her a raspberry macaron, so now she’s legally bound to stay for life.”said hunk

Pidge snorted.

Lance took a bite of the macaron and let himself melt.

They laughed. Teased. Shared fries and stories and bits of their day. But every so often, Lance’s gaze drifted past the table.

Toward the hallway.

Toward a red jacket and a familiar mullet of black hair.

Keith Kogane.

He leaned against a locker, arms crossed, eyes sharp. His crimson tee fit snug under a dark windbreaker, collar turned up like a warning sign.

He glanced Lance’s way.

Their eyes met. Just for a moment.

Something in Lance’s chest tightened — sharp and unexplainable.

Regret?

Pidge was talking about tech club. Allura about ballet. Hunk was fiddling with his necklace.

But Lance wasn’t listening.

Keith blinked.

Looked away.

And something inside Lance whispered, you’ll see the mullet again before the day ends.

He didn’t know why.

His thoughts were cut off by a certain someone snorting at him from the table behind him.

“Careful, McClain. Wouldn’t want you to go crying to your ghost dad” ‘james’ lance thought he know that annoying guy anywhere

“And here I thought your parents’ marriage was the most dead thing on campus.”lance said without a beat turning around with a smirk on his face

“…Ouch.” James said a little shocked but expected

“Yeah, I figured if you can joke about mine being six feet under, I can at least mention your dad running off with the yoga instructor.”Lance laughed slightly

“Whatever, freak.”

“Aw, don’t be mad. I hear abandonment issues build character.” Lance smiled confidently as the students laughed and made their own jokes about james

⸻

The bell rang.

Students scattered like startled pigeons.

Lance grabbed his bag, adjusted the jellyfish pin, and was about to head to the café with Allura when someone came running down the hallway.

A freshman — breathless, pale, eyes wide.

“There’s—blood. Upstairs. In the second floor boys’ bathroom. It’s—there’s a bag. I think it’s someone’s bag.”

Lance’s heart stopped.

The crowd was already forming. Whispers like stormclouds.

He ran.

Pidge followed. So did Hunk. Allura, confused, caught up with them near the stairs.

A teacher was already shouting for students to back off.

But Lance saw it.

Red. Like spilled paint.

And next to it, soaking at the edges—

A black backpack with a patch he knew.

Pidge’s footsteps slowed. Her face drained of color.

“That’s—” she whispered.

“Matt’s bag,” Lance finished quietly.

The hallway spun.

Her brother. Her brother.

She took a step forward, then another.

“Pidge,” Lance said, reaching for her wrist. “Don’t.”

She didn’t move.

And Lance—he suddenly felt it again.

That cold.

The whisper at the edge of hearing.

The bathroom door, half-open, dripped.

The light inside flickered.

Somewhere, beneath it all…

A presence.

Watching.

Waiting.

_________________________________

The school had never felt so quiet.

Bright fluorescent lights glared off the walls of the counselor’s office, now repurposed into a temporary investigation room. Metal chairs scraped against the floor as one student after another was called in. The air was too cold, too still—like it was holding its breath.

Outside, students gathered in murmuring groups. Inside, a detective’s voice cut through the silence.

The town had never seen something like this. A student’s bag soaked in blood. No Matthew Holt in sight.

The police didn’t waste time. One by one, they began their interviews.

⸻

1. Katie Holt (Pidge)

“I prefer Pidge,” she said flatly.

Detective Moreno didn’t flinch. “Your student record lists you as Katie.”

Pidge rolled her eyes behind her glasses, folding her arms over the green Voltron hoodie she practically lived in. Her blonde hair was tied up in a lazy ponytail, one stray curl bouncing near her temple.

Moreno continued. “You were close to Matthew Holt?”

“I’m his sister,” Pidge snapped. “Of course I was close.”

Her chair was too big. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. She hated that—it made her feel small.

But Pidge wasn’t small. She was sharp. And she was angry.

“Do you think he ran away?” Moreno asked.

“He’s not stupid,” Pidge said. “He wouldn’t leave his bag. He wouldn’t leave me.”

There was a pause.

“Did he have enemies?”

“Everyone has enemies. Some of us just handle it better than others.”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable. She pushed her glasses up her nose to hide it.

Moreno’s pen scratched across the paper. “Was there anyone acting strange recently? Anything out of place?”

Pidge hesitated. Her mind flicked to the day before. Matt had seemed tired. Distant. She remembered him holding his phone a little too tight. Checking over his shoulder.

“…He was scared,” she said quietly. “But he didn’t say why.”

That went into the report.

And later, they’d remember she said that.

⸻

2. Hunk Garrett

Hunk’s chair creaked under his weight. He was a large guy—broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, smooth black hair tied back in a short puff—and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said for the third time, voice trembling.

Moreno tapped her pen. “You were in the hallway before the bathroom was found.”

“Yeah, but I—I was just walking with Lance. We were talking about… lunch. Or something. I don’t know. My head’s a mess.”

The detective softened. “You’re his best friend?”

“Yeah. Since we were kids.”

He looked down at his hands. His fingers were shaking. He rubbed his thumbs together, a calming habit.

“What do you think happened?”

Hunk swallowed hard. “I think… I think something really bad happened. And we’re all pretending it didn’t.”

There was silence.

He looked up slowly.

“I’ve seen Lance… get weird before. Around… things. People. I thought it was just—grief. But now?” He paused. “I think it’s more than that.”

Moreno raised an eyebrow. “More than grief?”

Hunk shook his head quickly. “Forget it. I—I probably sound crazy.”

But she didn’t forget it. That went in the report, too.

⸻

3. Allura Alfor

Allura sat with her hands folded neatly on her lap. Her white hair cascaded over one shoulder, her blazer a soft blush-pink that matched her nails. She smelled faintly of jasmine and something more elegant—old money, maybe.

Her British accent was calm and composed, but her eyes shimmered like glass.

“He was a good boy,” she said of Matt. “Always polite. Always helping Pidge with the projector before club.”

“You were with him yesterday?”

“Yes. Briefly. He seemed… distracted. Like something was following him.”

Moreno leaned forward. “Following him?”

Allura hesitated. “Not literally. Just… he seemed haunted.”

“And how do you know Pidge?”

“She’s… not exactly a ray of sunshine,” Allura said, lips twitching. “But she’s brilliant. And Voltron matters to her.”

“Voltron?” Moreno repeated.

“Our school club. We help people. Students in trouble. It started small, then kind of… grew.”

“And why do they call you ‘Princess’?”

Allura actually laughed. “Because I look like one.”

Moreno cracked the tiniest smile.

But she wrote down every word.

⸻

4. Romelle

Romelle was color incarnate.

Two long blonde pigtails. A pink sparkly sweater with a dancing frog. Bright purple eyes that practically shimmered. She bounced into the room like this was a game show and sat cross-legged in the chair.

“I’m Romelle! I don’t like offices! They smell like pencils!”

Moreno blinked. “You’re Allura’s girlfriend?”

“Yes! We have matching rings. Except not yet because she said she wants sapphires and I want frogs. Did you know frogs can smell sadness? I think Matt was very sad.”

“You knew Matt?”

“Not really. But sadness has a color. It’s gray. He was very gray.”

The detective tried to follow.

Romelle leaned in. “I think the school is cursed. Or maybe the plumbing is angry.”

“…Do you remember anything suspicious?”

“I saw Keith throw a banana at a vending machine. Does that help?”

“…Not really.”

But they wrote it down anyway.

Romelle smiled the whole time.

5. Keith Kogane

Keith didn’t sit. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the back wall of the room like it might attack him if he let his guard down.

His black jacket—slightly too big—hung open over a red shirt. His mullet, raven-dark, looked messier than usual, like he hadn’t slept. His indigo eyes didn’t avoid the detective’s—they burned into her.

“Sit down,” Moreno offered.

“I’m good.”

“You’re part of the Voltron club?”

“Yeah. Barely.”

“Explain.”

Keith sighed, jaw tight. “I joined because Shiro asked me to. Didn’t talk to any of them before that. Except Lance.”

“Lance McClain?”

Keith flinched slightly. “Yeah.”

“You two get along?”

“No.”

“What about Matt Holt?”

Keith blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

“He was smart. Kinda twitchy. Always on edge.”

“Did you notice anything off lately?”

Keith stared at a corner of the wall. “He was asking about security footage. Around the east wing. Said someone was following him.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

Silence. Moreno wrote carefully.

“Keith,” she said slowly, “if there’s anything else—”

“There’s nothing else.”

He was already out the door before she finished.

⸻

6. Shiro

Shiro looked like he belonged in a different world entirely—an adult in a teenager’s body. His short black hair, streaked white at the bangs, framed a calm, steady face. His right arm, metallic and humming softly, rested over his lap.

He wore a dark sweater and black jeans. No jewelry. Just tired eyes.

He spoke slowly.

“Matt is… important to me.”

Moreno glanced at her notes. “You two were close?”

“We’re together.”

That made her pause.

“I thought you were friends after an accident.”

“We were. That’s how we met. The car crash. I was in the car behind him. I pulled him out.”

“And now?”

Shiro looked down at his metal hand. “He’s the kind of person who keeps you honest. Makes you question everything. Lately… he was paranoid. Locked his laptop. Jumped at sounds.”

“Did he mention anything unusual?”

Shiro’s voice dropped. “He said there was something in the school. That he could feel it. And I believed him.”

“Why?”

“I’ve felt it too.”

For the first time that day, the detective stopped writing.

⸻

7. Lance McClain

Lance sat cross-legged in the chair like it was his throne. His hoodie was blue, pulled up halfway, and he wore jeans with artistic patches stitched in—his own work, maybe. His dark brown hair had grown into a pixie cut, fluffy and sharp at the same time. His eyes were a piercing blue—almost too bright to be real.

He gave the detective a lazy grin.

“So. We doing the good cop thing? Or the scary stare thing?”

Moreno didn’t smile. “Mr. McClain—”

“Please. Call me Lance.”

A pause.

“…Lance. You found the bathroom?”

“Technically, James found it. I was the lucky guy standing outside when he screamed like a horror movie cheerleader.”

“Can you describe what you saw?”

He sobered. Instantly.

“There was blood. A lot. It looked old and fresh at the same time. Like it didn’t belong there—but it did. And Matt’s bag was next to it.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“No. I just froze.”

He didn’t mention the chill in the air. The smell of iron and something… wrong. The flickering shadow in the mirror.

Because he never talked about what he saw.

Except to Hunk. And even then—barely.

“Do you think someone hurt Matt?” Moreno asked.

Lance hesitated.

“I think something did.”

⸻

8. James Griffin

“Finally,” James said, sprawling in the chair like a kid in detention. Olive-toned skin, brown hair flopping in his eyes, hoodie halfway zipped.

“Are you aware of your… reputation?” Moreno asked carefully.

He smirked. “You mean Lance? He’s just salty I’m smarter and better-looking.”

“Mr. Griffin—”

“Fine, fine. Look. I didn’t kill Matt. I barely knew him. Kinda creepy, honestly. Always watching stuff. Kept to himself.”

“Did you see anything unusual lately?”

“Other than Lance pretending he’s psychic or something? Nah.”

Moreno looked up. “Psychic?”

James shrugged. “He gets all weird sometimes. Like he knows stuff he shouldn’t. Like… when my parents split. He said something about ‘hearing the dead in your house.’ That pissed me off.”

Moreno stared. “Did you tell anyone that?”

“No. Why?”

She didn’t answer.

⸻

9. Kinkade

Kinkade adjusted his yellow scarf nervously as he sat down, his brown skin glowing faintly in the overhead light. His smile was shy, but kind. His notebook was tucked tightly into his arm.

“You know Lance?” Moreno asked.

“Yeah. He helped me find my bike. And he gave me sunscreen once.”

“Did you notice anything odd about Matt Holt?”

“Not really. But… um… I did see something weird two nights ago. By the gym.”

“What was it?”

He fiddled with his pencil. “It looked like a shadow, but not like from a person. It moved the wrong way. And it… buzzed. Like a radio losing signal.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No. I—I didn’t want people to think I was making stuff up.”

Moreno leaned back slowly. “Thank you, Kinkade.”

He left with his scarf unraveling slightly behind him.

⸻

10. Rolo

Rolo chewed gum loudly, sitting backwards in the chair, arms crossed over the backrest. His hair was messy and gelled, and he wore a smug look like it was his signature.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“Didn’t say you did.”

“Still. You’re thinking it.”

“Do you know Matthew Holt?”

“Barely. Nyma talked to him once, but she said he was weird.”

“Did she?”

“She’s got good instincts. Me, too. Something’s wrong in this school. And I don’t mean just the food.”

“Such as?”

He leaned forward. “Doors that open by themselves. Lights flickering. This bathroom thing? It’s just the start.”

It was hard to tell if he was joking.

But something in his tone lingered too long.

⸻

11. Nyma

Nyma’s blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her lip gloss shimmered in the light. She looked more bored than nervous, one leg crossed over the other in perfect posture.

“So Lance used to be your boyfriend?” Moreno asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. He’s… intense.”

“In what way?”

“He feels everything. Pretends he doesn’t, but he does.”

“Do you think he could’ve hurt someone?”

Nyma looked genuinely startled. “No. God, no. He’d rather punch himself in the face.”

“Did Matt ever talk to you?”

“Once. Asked me if I’d seen anything… strange. I thought he was trying to flirt, honestly.”

“Do you believe in strange things?”

Nyma smiled faintly. “I used to.”

_________________________________

Shiro’s house sat quietly on the edge of town, far enough from the school to feel like a different world. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting a soft navy glow across the windows, and the living room glowed with the muted amber light of standing lamps. There was something sacred about this space — not in a holy way, but in the kind of way that made people lower their voices and soften their footsteps.

Lance sat curled into one side of the long sectional, knees drawn up to his chest, hoodie sleeves stretched over his hands. His dark hair curled slightly at the edges from the humidity of the walk over, and the soft pixie-cut strands hung low over his forehead. His blue eyes flicked across the room, not lingering too long on anyone. Just watching. Calculating.

Hunk sat beside him, warm and steady, a calming presence even now. His yellow sweatshirt had a few flour smudges on it — he’d been baking again, trying to distract himself, even if he didn’t say it out loud. His hands were resting on his knees, fidgeting gently with the drawstrings of his pants.

Allura took the armchair by the fireplace, her posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle like she’d been raised in royalty. Her long white hair was pinned back with delicate gold clips, and her pale-pink blouse shimmered faintly under the light. She looked calm, elegant. But her hands trembled where they held the ceramic teacup Coran had given her before retreating upstairs. She hadn’t taken a sip.

Keith leaned against the wall beside the window, arms crossed, red flannel open over a black tee. His raven-black mullet fell around his face, casting shadows that made his already sharp features look like they were cut from stone. He hadn’t said much since he arrived. Every so often, his eyes would drift toward Lance, linger there — but as soon as Lance looked back, Keith would scoff and glance away.

Typical.

Pidge’s face glowed from the laptop screen on the coffee table. She was home, perched on her desk chair, green hoodie oversized and the hood tugged up half-covering her glasses. Her room behind her was dim, walls plastered with schematics and bits of soldered electronics.

“I still think it’s stupid that my parents wouldn’t let me go,” she grumbled into her mic. “A crime happens and suddenly I’m not trustworthy enough to be out past dark? Give me a break.”

“You hacked your school records to say you were eighteen last month,” Hunk reminded her gently.

Pidge scoffed. “Details.”

Lance cracked a faint smile but didn’t laugh. His arms tightened around his knees.

Silence followed for a beat too long.

Shiro finally spoke. He stood near the kitchen island, arms folded, voice quiet and commanding. “Thank you all for coming.” His tone was softer than usual. Strained. “We need to talk about what we’re going to do next. About Matt.”

Allura’s face fell at the mention of Pidge’s brother. “Has there been anything new since the police spoke to us?”

Pidge shook her head. “Not from them. But they’re not going to find anything unless we give them something.”

There was a subtle shift in the room — shoulders tensed, eyes flickered toward each other, away again. The unspoken truth hung in the air: this wasn’t just another “Voltron mission.” This was personal. Real.

“I think we should start by going over what everyone saw — what everyone remembers,” Shiro continued, voice low. “Even the things that might not seem important.”

Keith pushed off the wall. “And what? Play detective? The cops already grilled us. Hard.”

“They didn’t ask the right questions,” Pidge replied coldly. “They asked who, what, when. Not why. Not how.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. She adjusted her glasses and looked away from the camera, swallowing hard.

Lance bit the inside of his cheek. His chest felt tight — not the dramatic, movie kind of tight, but the quiet, suffocating kind that made it hard to breathe and impossible to show.

“I—I remember something,” he said softly, surprising himself.

Everyone turned.

He sat up straighter, lowering his legs to the floor. “When I went to the bathroom… before they found the blood… I thought I heard something. Like whispering. I thought I was just—y’know, imagining it.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Imagining?”

Lance met his gaze. “Yeah. Imagining. Maybe you’ve heard of it — it’s what smart people do when they don’t want to be rude.”

A flash of something crossed Keith’s face — irritation, maybe, or something more brittle, something harder to pin down.

Shiro sighed. “Not now, guys.”

“I’m just saying,” Lance muttered, looking away.

Allura broke the tension. “We should make a timeline,” she said, reaching into her tote and pulling out a neat pink planner. “Everyone writes what they saw, even the small details.”

“I already did,” Pidge announced. She turned her webcam slightly and revealed a corkboard covered in notes and strings.

Hunk blinked. “Did you sleep?”

“Did you breathe?” Lance added quietly.

“No and no,” Pidge said proudly.

They all chuckled — even Keith.

For a moment, the weight lifted.

But only for a moment.

Lance looked back at the others, one by one. These people — his friends, his rival — they didn’t know the whole truth. Not about the bathroom. Not about the whispering. Not about the hour he’d spent staring at nothing, trying to understand what he’d seen. Or who.

His father’s face flickered across his mind — soaked, cold, smiling that strange empty smile. “Find us in the—”

He blinked, forcing the image away.

Keith was watching him.

Lance raised a brow. “What?”

Keith didn’t look away. “Nothing. Just… thought you looked pale.”

“I’m Cuban. I glow,” Lance shot back, lips curling.

But the warmth didn’t reach his eyes.

And Keith didn’t smile.

The room settled again, quieter this time.

Shiro began outlining next steps, Allura took notes, Hunk offered to bring snacks next time, and Pidge kept working even as her mom knocked and told her it was bedtime.

But Lance barely heard any of it.

He sat in the half-shadow of the lamp, watching the way the light pooled across Keith’s jaw, how his arms crossed a little tighter when Shiro mentioned danger, how he kept glancing toward Lance like he couldn’t decide if he was an enemy or something else entirely.

Lance didn’t know either.

But he did know one thing.

This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The next morning came too soon.
Not like a sunrise — not golden or kind.
But like a knife under the ribs. Sudden. Cold. Merciless.

Lance sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely like he didn’t remember how to use them. The jellyfish comforter was tangled at his ankles. His pillow was on the floor. The clock on his wall blinked 6:03 AM in soft, static blue — the same color as the bags under his eyes.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe an hour, maybe less. Every time he drifted off, something pulled him back. A noise. A flicker. A whisper. He couldn’t tell the difference between dreams and memories anymore.

Somewhere between three and four, he thought he heard someone crying in the hallway. When he went to check, no one was there. Just the sound of the old floorboards creaking under their own weight.

He didn’t tell anyone.

He didn’t say anything.

He just… existed.

In silence.

His fingers twitched.

⸻

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the house had already erupted into its usual weekday chaos.

Rosa barked orders from the stove, spoon in one hand, her phone pinned to her shoulder. “No, I told him three-fifty! Not four! We are not paying extra for something we didn’t ask for—Sam, put your shoes on—Veronica, stop stealing the eggs!”

Marco shuffled in with one AirPod dangling from his ear and a bottle of cold brew in hand. Lisa and Sam argued over who got the last pancake. Louis scribbled something in a notebook while Mia pressed a kiss to his temple on her way out the door in scrubs again. Rachel tossed a banana at Lance’s head when he didn’t say good morning.

It hit him on the shoulder.

“You look like a haunted sea slug,” she said cheerfully, tying her long dark hair up with a pencil. “Drink water. Or cry. Whatever works.”

Lance grunted and opened the fridge. “How are you this chirpy in the morning?”

“Because I didn’t see a pool of blood yesterday next to my friend’s brother’s bag,” she said bluntly, grabbing her bag. “Drink water, Bubbles. You’re pale.”

He was. Paler than usual. He didn’t need her to tell him.

⸻

Outside, the air was thick with the scent of asphalt and sun, like the world was trying too hard to pretend nothing had happened.

The sidewalk shimmered faintly in the early light. A crow cawed from a telephone wire.

Lance hugged his arms to himself as he walked to the corner. His denim jacket felt thinner than usual.

Hunk was already waiting for him — same hoodie, same ponytail, but a different look in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You slept?”

Lance shook his head.

Hunk didn’t push.

He just fell into step beside him like he always did. They walked in silence for a while. At one point, Hunk offered a slice of buttered toast wrapped in a napkin.

Lance took it.

The warmth helped.

⸻

At school, everything felt… muted. Off. Like someone had turned down the saturation of the world.

The parking lot wasn’t full of laughter or screeching tires or music blaring from someone’s car speaker. It was hushed. Teachers stood near entrances, speaking low into radios. The bathroom on the second floor had been sealed off with yellow tape and a printed sign: UNDER INVESTIGATION.

No one dared go near it.

Rumors had already started to spread like mildew:

There was a body
There were symbols on the mirror.
Matt Holt was found dead in the vents.
Matt Holt was possessed
Matt Holt ran away after killing someone

Lance heard all of it

And ignored all of it

Mostly.

But there was one thing he couldn’t ignore.

⸻

Lotor.

He stood near the library doors, posture perfect, arms crossed like someone had painted him there. He was dressed in black from collar to boots, a long coat draped over his shoulders like some Victorian ghost, and his hair — waist-long, impossibly white — shimmered like silk. His pale skin gave him a spectral look, like a statue that had stepped off its pedestal to wander among the living.

But it was his eyes that held you — indigo, cold, sharp as glass, and somehow… familiar.

When Lance saw him, their gazes locked instantly.

It was like being seen in a way that wasn’t flattering.
Like being dissected.

Hunk noticed. “Isn’t that Allura’s friend?”

“Yeah,” Lance murmured.

Lotor tilted his head slightly, like a curious animal. And then — he smiled. Just a little. No teeth. Just enough to say I know what you are.

Lance’s stomach twisted.

⸻

Later, in the hallway before third period, Lotor approached.

No words at first.

Just footsteps, deliberate and smooth. Students parted around him instinctively. Lance stood near his locker, hands tucked into his jacket sleeves, trying not to flinch as Lotor came to a stop beside him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Just looked at Lance.

Then:

“You didn’t scream when you saw the blood,” Lotor said softly.

Lance blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You ran. But you didn’t scream. You froze. Like someone who’s seen it before.”

Lance’s spine stiffened.

“I don’t know what you think you saw—” he started.

“I think,” Lotor interrupted, “that you’ve been seeing things for a long time.”

Lance’s heart thumped.

Too loud. Too fast.

He forced a laugh. “Wow, do you practice sounding creepy in the mirror? Is this a senior thing?”

Lotor didn’t smile. His eyes stayed on Lance, unwavering. “You know something’s wrong here. In this school. With Matt. You felt it.”

Lance swallowed.

“Who told you anything about me?”

“No one,” Lotor said simply. “I’ve been watching.”

“You’re not really making this less weird.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Silence.

Then, just as Lance was about to walk away, Lotor leaned in a little closer — not enough to touch, but enough that his voice landed like a whisper against the side of Lance’s jaw.

“I think you’re the only one who can find him.”

Lance turned.

But Lotor was already walking away.

Like a ghost.

Like he’d never been there at all.

_________________________________

The cafeteria felt like a church.

Not the loud kind — the kind that was always too quiet. The kind with marble floors and old windows that made you whisper, even if no one asked you to.

That was what school felt like now.

The tables were full, technically, but no one raised their voices. Laughter came in short, hushed bursts. The food tasted like nothing. Even the vending machine had gone quiet — the usual clunks and beeps muffled like it knew it should shut up too.

Lance sat with Hunk, Pidge, and Keith at their usual table by the window. Allura hadn’t arrived yet. Romelle was out sick. Pidge barely touched her tater tots. Keith stared out the window like he wanted to fight the sky.

Lance poked at his pasta.

And kept glancing toward the corner table.

Because that’s where they were.

Lotor.
Acxa.
Zethrid.
Ezor.
Narti.

They sat like a perfect storm — like five corners of something sharp. A quiet constellation of students that didn’t quite belong but insisted they did.

Lotor sat in the middle, cross-legged and regal even in a cafeteria chair. His tray untouched. His gaze calm.

To his right, Acxa sat with the stillness of a sniper — back straight, hair in a sleek bob that curved at her chin, dark eyes calmly scanning the room. She had a single silver ring on her thumb and a bruise forming on her knuckle like it meant something.

She wasn’t looking at Lance.

She was watching Keith.

Lance noticed.

He glanced at Keith, who hadn’t looked up once.

To Lotor’s left, Zethrid leaned back with her boots on the seat, chomping into a sandwich like it had insulted her mother. Her broad shoulders stretched the seams of her varsity jacket, and her boycut only made her jawline look sharper.

Next to her, Ezor bounced in place, giggling at something on her phone. Her pink ponytail bobbed like a highlighter in motion, and she chewed her gum with a rhythm that matched her shiny, kinetic vibe — like she was powered by glitter and caffeine.

And beside her — almost unnoticed — was Narti.

She was a shadow.

She sat with both hands folded neatly on her lap, long silver hair falling like a veil over most of her face. Her posture was impeccable, but her head was slightly tilted, like she was listening to something no one else could hear.

Her milk carton remained unopened.

Her tray was empty.

And yet, she smiled. Softly. As if she knew something.

⸻

“What’s with the royal court?” Pidge muttered, finally breaking the silence.

Hunk leaned in. “I think they’re friends with Lotor. Allura knows them — they’re, like, the rich weirdos.”

“Why does one of them look like she could kill me with an eyelash curler?” Pidge whispered, nodding toward Acxa.

Lance blinked. “That’s Acxa. She’s… dating my sister.”

Pidge slowly turned to stare. “Veronica? Your sister Veronica? The one who stole my croissant in fourth grade and then paid me back with a fake twenty?”

“Yeah,” Lance muttered, poking harder at his pasta. “That one.”

“She has taste,” Keith said suddenly, eyes still on the window. “Acxa’s one of the good people.”

Lance looked at him. “You know her?”

Keith finally turned, but not toward Lance. His eyes flicked toward the table in the corner.

“She’s my sister.”

That made everyone pause.

Even Pidge.

“What?” Hunk said, blinking.

“My… biological sister,” Keith clarified, brushing his thumb against the edge of his tray. “We were separated when we were little. Found each other again last year. She’s been staying with Veronica’s family on and off since then.”

Lance’s brain short-circuited for a second. “Wait— she’s dating my sister and related to you?! What is this, a soap opera?!”

Keith shot him a look. “Shut up, Lance.”

“No, I’m serious, that’s, like, peak dramatic crossover energy. That’s wild. Is she secretly adopted royalty or something—”

“She was trained in knife combat in another country,” Keith said, deadpan.

Lance shut up.

⸻

Across the room, Acxa caught Lance staring. She didn’t react. Just lifted her chin a fraction.

A gesture that said: You see me? Good.

And then, Veronica appeared.

She dropped into the seat next to Acxa like she’d done it a hundred times, which — apparently — she had. Her wavy bob bounced as she kissed Acxa on the cheek and stole a fry from Zethrid’s tray. Ezor squealed and leaned over to braid Veronica’s hair, laughing about something only they heard.

The whole thing made Lance’s stomach twist in a way he couldn’t explain.

Not jealousy.

Not fear.

Just… dissonance.

How could anyone laugh right now?

How could anyone feel warm, or happy, or safe, when the hallway upstairs was still stained with Matt’s blood?

⸻

Later, as the bell rang and students filed out, Lance hung back near the vending machines.

He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe he wanted a better look.

Maybe he wanted to ask Acxa what she knew — if anything. She was connected to too many people not to have heard something.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because before he could move, Narti turned her head — as if she felt him looking — and smiled.

A small, eerie smile.

And whispered something.

Lance didn’t hear it.

But the hallway lights above him flickered once.
Just for a second.

And the scent of lemon rust hit his nose like a slap.

_________________________________

The sky was the color of bruised fruit.

One of those late afternoon hours where the sun hadn’t set, but the light felt… off. Almost sick. Yellowish, but strained. As if the day itself didn’t want to go on but didn’t know how to stop.

Lance stood outside the science building, backpack sagging against one shoulder, eyes heavy. Not tired — just worn. Like all the colors around him had faded a bit. A symptom of thinking too much and understanding too little.

He didn’t remember walking here.

Only that he’d needed air.

The breeze carried the scent of drying grass and faint exhaust. Not a hint of lemon rust this time. Still, he stayed alert. Listening. Watching.

Waiting for something to go wrong.

“Yo.”

Keith’s voice snapped him back.

Lance turned just in time to see him jogging up the walkway, guitar case slung over his back like always, hair still windswept from wherever he’d been brooding all afternoon.

Lance squinted. “You bring that thing everywhere?”

Keith shrugged. “Helps me think.”

“I draw.”lance said

“I punch stuff.”

Lance cracked a smile. “Of course you do.”

They walked in silence after that, the kind that wasn’t awkward — just cautious. Like two magnets pulled close enough to feel the tension but not touch yet.

By the time they reached Shiro’s house, Hunk and Pidge were already inside. Allura sat on the couch with her tablet open, video-chatting with Romelle, who was wrapped in a blanket and sipping something that steamed through the screen.

Lance dropped onto the loveseat, barely saying hi, and stared at the carpet like it might tell him what to do.

⸻

The Meeting

“I checked,” Pidge said, snapping the silence like dry twigs. “Matt’s laptop was still in his locker. But his phone? Gone. So either he took it with him or someone else did.”

Allura frowned. “And the bag?”

“Still bloody. Still chilling in the evidence bin at the front office,” Hunk muttered. “Principal Iverson said the police took swabs, but they’re ‘waiting on lab results.’ Which is code for: no one knows crap.”

Romelle’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Why leave the bag but not the phone?”

“Maybe the phone has something on it,” Keith said. “Or… maybe whoever took him didn’t know he had it.”

Lance’s jaw clenched. “Unless he dropped it. Or tried to use it. Maybe there’s footage.”

Pidge nodded. “I already hacked into the hallway cams.”

Everyone stared.

“What?” she blinked. “I’m grieving. I grieve with code.”

Romelle gave her a proud thumbs-up from the screen.

“Most of the footage was wiped,” Pidge added, more serious now. “Like… selectively. Only the hour before we found the blood. The rest of the day’s still there.”

“Wiped?” Allura repeated.

“Like someone knew exactly what to erase. That’s not normal.”

“So someone covered it up,” Keith said. “They planned this.”

Silence again. Heavier this time.

Lance leaned back, eyes half-closed. “We’re missing something.”

Allura turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he hesitated. “What if it wasn’t a ‘someone’? What if it was something?”

The room stiffened.

Allura looked at him differently now — like she was trying to read past the words.

“You’re the one who found the blood,” she said softly.

Lance nodded.

“Did you… see anything?” she asked.

Not did you find anything.
Not what was there.
But — did you see.

Lance looked at her. Then at Pidge. Then Keith.

He shook his head.

“No,” he lied. “Just… felt wrong.”

Which was true. Just not all of it.

⸻

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They all froze.

Three soft, deliberate knocks echoed from the front door.

Shiro wasn’t home yet.

Allura rose slowly, setting the tablet down.

“I’ll check,” she said.

“No,” Keith said, already moving ahead of her.

He opened the door.

And there stood Lotor.

Cool. Calm. That same unnerving elegance that made him look like he belonged on marble steps, not a porch with a loose screen door.

He offered a slight bow, hands in his pockets.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” he said smoothly. “But I thought it best we speak before things get any worse.”

⸻

Lance stood.

“You followed me,” he said.

Lotor tilted his head. “You left a scent trail strong enough to wake the dead. You might want to learn to control that.”

Lance’s skin crawled. “What do you know?”

“Very little,” Lotor said, stepping inside. “But I know this much: what took Matt Holt was not human. And if you don’t act soon, it won’t stop.”

He looked at the others.

At Pidge — whose breath hitched.

At Hunk — whose eyes darted toward Lance.

At Keith — who stepped protectively in front of Pidge without even realizing it.

Lotor smiled faintly. “You’re all braver than most. But bravery won’t be enough.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Then what will?”

Lotor looked directly at him — gaze sharp, voice softer now.

“Truth.”

“You’ve seen it,” Lotor said softly. “The veil. The thin place. You feel it — I can smell it on you.”

The words didn’t echo.
They thudded — like something heavy dropped into the center of the room.

Lance froze.

Not from fear. Not from confusion. From something worse.

Recognition.

Keith stepped forward before Lance could speak. “What are you talking about?”

Lotor didn’t flinch. “I’m talking about the reason you’re all being hunted and don’t even know it.”

“Don’t twist things,” Lance snapped. “You don’t know what I—”

“Oh, but I do,” Lotor said, voice gentle, which only made it worse. “I can smell death on you, Lance. I can see it in your aura — in your eyes. You walk beside it. Sleep with it.”

“Shut up,” Lance said, louder now. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re lying,” he replied.

And then—

“I know you saw something. When you found Matt’s bag.”

A silence like a knife.

Everyone turned to Lance.

Pidge’s chair scraped the floor as she stood. Fast. Sharp. Too sharp.

“What?”

Lance looked at her.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

Her eyes weren’t just glassy — they were cracking.

“What do you mean he saw something?” she asked, voice too calm. Too even.

Lotor’s gaze didn’t leave Lance. “You should ask him.”

“Lance?” she said again.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I—I didn’t—”

“Did you see my brother?”

His breath hitched.

“Did. You. See. Him.”

Lance’s voice broke. “Not him. Just—just something. Something I don’t understand.”

Pidge’s face shifted so fast it was like watching glass shatter in real time.

“You lied,” she breathed.

“No—Pidge, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“YOU LIED!” she screamed.

It felt like the entire house flinched.

“YOU LET ME SIT THERE AND HACK CAMERAS AND CHASE GHOSTS AND YOU SAW SOMETHING?!”

Hunk stood quickly, reaching for her, but she backed away, furious and trembling.

“You could’ve helped, Lance! You could’ve told me! I’ve been losing my mind—I haven’t slept—I—” Her voice cracked like lightning. “That’s my brother.”

Lance’s hands trembled at his sides. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“IT’S ALREADY WORSE!” she cried. “HE’S GONE!”

Silence slammed down again.

Romelle, still on the screen, whispered, “Pidge…”

Pidge turned to the laptop and slammed it shut.

Everyone froze.

Allura reached out gently, but Pidge stepped back.

“You don’t get to protect him,” she whispered.

Keith looked at Lance now, eyes full of something unreadable. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I—I don’t know,” Lance whispered, feeling like he was shrinking. “I thought I was imagining it.”

Lotor stepped back, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “You all think you’re so clever. But you let fear chew holes in your trust. The real enemy doesn’t need to break you. You’re doing it yourselves.”

“Leave,” Allura snapped.

Lotor looked at her. “I already did.”

And without another word—he vanished. Not just walked out. Gone.

Gone, like a dream slipping through fingers. Gone like the hour Lance always lost.

The room held still.

Lance stared at the floor.

Pidge’s voice came soft now. Shaky.

“If you ever find something else…” she said.

She didn’t finish. She just turned and walked out, wiping her face with her sleeve.

Hunk followed, slow and sad.

Keith didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Allura gave Lance a long, broken look before gathering her things.

And then he was alone.

⸻

the sky finally broke.
The storm fell — hard, cold, and merciless.
And still Lance sat there, unable to move.

Because he’d seen something.
And he hadn’t told them.
Not even his best friend.

_________________________________

Lance sat in the back of first period with his hoodie pulled low over his face. Not sleeping. Not listening. Just… bracing.

Like if he sat still enough, maybe the world wouldn’t notice him falling apart.

Rain tapped at the windows like impatient fingers.
His pencil never moved.
Neither did the weight in his stomach.

No one talked to him that morning.

Not Pidge — she didn’t even look his way when she passed in the hall, stiff and small inside her jacket.
Not Hunk — who gave a sad, quiet smile and kept walking.
Not Allura — who walked like a queen but didn’t acknowledge him once.

Even Keith — normally the one person Lance could count on to insult him — kept his distance. Glanced at him only once, eyes unreadable.

The only one who did speak was James Griffin, because of course it was.

“Rough night, McClain?” he whispered as they passed by lockers. “Someone finally call you out on your freak show?”

Lance didn’t answer.

Didn’t even blink.

Just kept walking, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

⸻

Lunch.

He sat outside in the cold — alone — on the edge of the soccer field bleachers, where no one would look for him. His sandwich was untouched. His legs bounced restlessly.

Across the courtyard, he could see the others.

Pidge at the tech table, her hands moving fast, eyes darker than usual.

Allura and Romelle sitting in silence, their lunch barely touched.

Hunk talking to Shay and Kinkade in low tones, checking over his shoulder more than once.

And Keith — leaning against a tree with his guitar case, eyes scanning the quad like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

He looked right at Lance.

Then looked away.

Lance closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sky. The wind tasted like metal.

⸻

It started with a scream.

Not human.

Not animal.

But something.

Something wrong.

The students on the field froze. A bird took off. A gust of wind slammed into the bleachers like a body.

Lance stood.

The scream echoed again — distant, like it came from the inside of the building, through the vents, from under the floor.

He ran.

So did Keith — from across the field, already moving.

They collided near the maintenance doors behind the gym.

“You heard that too?” Keith barked.

Lance nodded. “Where is it coming from—”

“BOILER ROOM,” Keith growled, already pulling open the door.

Lance didn’t ask how he knew.

He just followed.

⸻

Boiler Room

It was freezing.

Steam hissed. Metal ticked. The lights flickered like a dying heartbeat.

And in the center of the concrete floor—

Something wet.

Lance stopped short.

A dark red stain spread outward like a melted star. Fresh. Still glistening.

Keith crouched beside it, eyes scanning the walls. “There’s no trail.”

“Something was here,” Lance whispered, chest tightening.

Something that screamed like a hole in the world.

From behind them, a voice said:

“You found it too?”

They turned fast.

Acxa stood at the edge of the doorway, her bob-slick hair untouched by the wind, her hands in her pockets like she’d been here for hours. Behind her, the shadows of others waited.

Ezor, chewing gum, her pink ponytail bouncing.
Zethrid, arms crossed, smirking like she dared something to fight her.
Narti, silent — her silver hair veiling most of her face — her nose tilted toward the blood like she could sense it.

“Lotor said this would happen,” Acxa said softly. “That the seams would bleed.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Keith snapped.

But Lance looked at her — really looked — and felt that same pressure behind his eyes.
That same veil lifting.

“We need to talk,” Acxa said.

And in her voice was something final.
Something inevitable.

Like the real story was only just beginning.

Keith stood still for a moment.
Fists clenched. Shoulders tight.
Eyes locked on the blood on the floor — then on Lance.

“You knew something,” he said. “And you didn’t say a damn word.”

Lance opened his mouth, but the words weren’t there. Just static.

“Save it.” Keith’s voice was quiet. Too quiet. “I’m done.”

He turned on his heel and walked away.

No dramatic slam of a door. No angry shout.
Just the cold sound of boots on concrete, fading fast.

Lance stood frozen in place.

Even the air didn’t move.

He could still feel the heat of Keith’s anger in the room — or maybe that was just the blood under his own skin trying to crawl out of his body.

“Let him go,” Acxa said behind him. “He’s not ready for this.”

Lance turned slowly.

The four strangers — no, not strangers anymore — were standing like a wall of silence and certainty. Acxa at the front, Ezor leaning against a rusted pipe, Zethrid crouched beside the blood with no fear at all, and Narti still in the shadows, head tilted like she was listening to something only she could hear.

“You have no idea how deep this goes,” Acxa continued. “But it’s already touching you. All of you.”

Lance’s throat was dry. “What do you want from me?”

Zethrid looked up, grinning. “For now? Just your eyes.”

That sent a chill straight to his spine.

Ezor giggled. “Zethrid, that’s so creepy. What she means is—we’re watching, McClain. You’re the key. Lotor said so.”

Lance shook his head. “I’m not a key. I’m just—”
But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

Acxa stepped forward, calm and deadly as a blade.

“Do you know why you can see them?” she asked. “The things that don’t belong in this world?”

Lance flinched. “I never told anyone—”

“You didn’t have to,” Acxa said. “You wear it in your soul. Like frostbite. Something took a piece of you… and it left a crack.”

Lance stepped back. “Stop.”

But she wasn’t cruel. Not mocking.
Just… factual. Like someone reading his autopsy report while he was still breathing.

“Do you want to know why Lotor disappeared?” she asked. “He went to see what’s on the other side of that crack.”

Lance felt his stomach twist. “Is he—dead?”

“No,” Narti whispered. Her voice was like breath on a mirror. “But he’s not here anymore.”

Ezor nodded. “He’s in between. The Veil we talked about? It’s thinner now. And it’s your fault.”

Zethrid snorted. “You say it like that’s a bad thing.”

Acxa looked at Lance again, eyes like silver storms.

“Something is coming,” she said. “And your hour is almost up.”

Lance blinked. “What?”

“The hour you get,” she said. “The one where they come close. Where the world opens a little too wide. That gift, that curse — it has a cost.”

She stepped closer.

“And your debt is growing.”

The room buzzed like a swarm of flies.
The blood on the floor seemed to ripple.
And Lance’s knees nearly buckled.

Ezor whispered, “Tick tock.”

Then, as if some signal passed between them—

They were gone.

The shadows took them.
The door slammed shut behind them, even though no one touched it.
And Lance was alone.

Again.

_________________________________

The wind had picked up

It’s been two days after the last meeting he attended

The trees whispered as Lance trudged through the familiar path, overgrown and half-forgotten, like a scar hidden beneath hair. The lake wasn’t far now. His knee ached faintly — like it remembered what his heart tried to forget.

He didn’t hear Keith until a sharp voice cut through the quiet:

“So what — you thought you’d come out here alone and play hero again?”

Lance stopped.

Keith was there, arms crossed, eyes shadowed beneath the dark fringe of his mullet. He stood near the rocks like he’d been waiting, and maybe he had.

Lance exhaled, slow. “Not in the mood, Keith.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “Too bad. Because I’ve been dealing with your mood all week.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize my trauma was inconveniencing you—”

Keith stepped closer. “You bailed the meeting. Again. You think you’re the only one who’s scared?”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“No,” Keith snapped, “you just keep doing things without telling anyone. Like you’re the only one who’s allowed to fall apart.”

Lance’s breath caught.

There it was — that thing between them. Hot and bitter. Pressed down too long.

They stood a few feet apart, anger pulsing in the dirt between them.

“So what now?” Keith asked, voice low. “You gonna cry on the rocks and pretend you’re alone in this?”

“I came out here to think,” Lance growled. “Not argue.”

Keith threw his hands up. “Think about what? About how you’re going to ghost us again the next time things get hard?”

That hit something deep.

Lance turned away.

Keith’s voice followed, quieter this time. “What is this place to you anyway? Why come here?”

Lance was silent.

But the lake — the lake wasn’t.

It shimmered like memory.

“Five years ago,” Lance finally said, staring at the water, “this is where my dad died.”

Keith stopped moving.

Lance’s voice cracked. “We were supposed to go fishing after he comes back home but he was late I was in the living room. With a teddy bear a named cappuccino.” he laughs dryly and inhaled

He blinked, eyes glassy.

“I don’t know when I fell asleep. But right before that — I saw him. Not my dad-dad. Not living. More like his phantom.”

Keith stiffened.

“He just sat there and said, ‘find us in the lake bubbles.’ And then… he vanished.”

The wind rippled.

“I thought it was a dream. But when I woke up, the house was empty. I… I didn’t even put on shoes. I just got on my bike and rode.”

He touched his knee — absent-minded, tender. “I hit something. Scraped up this leg. But I kept going. The whole forest felt wrong. And then… I saw it.”lance says pointing at his right knee

The silence wrapped around them like fog.

“My dad,” Lance whispered, “was floating. Face up. Eyes open.”

Keith’s breath caught.

“There was someone else in the water,” Lance said. “Another man. He was close. Pale skin. Black hair. I didn’t know who he was. I never even thought to ask. I was ten.”

Keith didn’t speak — didn’t breathe.

Lance turned to him slowly. “But when i heard the news the day after I found out his name was ken kogane”

“No,” Keith said instantly. “That’s not— That’s not possible.”

“Was he close to you?.”

Keith staggered back.

Lance’s voice cracked. “I think I saw him. With mine. They died together.”

Keith’s mouth parted. “They said it was a fire.”

“There wasn’t a fire,” Lance said. “Not then. Not when I was there. There was just… stillness. Water. Death.”

A long beat passed.

Then, something turned in Keith’s face — realization, followed by horror.

He stepped forward, angry now, fists shaking. “Then why did you run?! If you saw it—if you saw him—why didn’t you say anything?!”

Lance blinked. “What?”

“You left, didn’t you? You ran? You left them there.”

“I was ten!” Lance yelled. “What the hell was I supposed to do?! I was bleeding and confused and scared out of my mind!”

Keith shoved him.

Lance shoved back.

They stumbled, fists clenched, years of silence boiling over.

“My whole life they told me my dad burned in some forest fire,” Keith hissed. “No one found the body. No one knew what happened. You had answers—and you didn’t say anything.”

Lance’s voice dropped, trembling. “I didn’t know he was your dad. I didn’t know until now. And I wasn’t trying to hide it, Keith. I was just… I was just trying to survive it.”

The wind howled softly.

The lake said nothing.

Keith’s chest heaved, hands curled into his jacket sleeves.

“I lost him too,” Lance whispered, “and I saw him after. His ghost. He told me to find him. That’s all he said.”

Keith stared at him.

“And you did,” he said finally. “You found him. Just not alive.”

Lance nodded.

Neither of them moved.

Then — wordlessly — Keith sat down.

Lance joined him.

The sky overhead grew dim.

And for a while, neither of them spoke. The pain between them didn’t go away — it just rested. Still sore. Still raw.

But now… shared.

/\¥/\

They didn’t mean to fall asleep.

The forest had a way of softening time, of weaving silence into something thick and slow, like fog or memory. Somewhere between the stillness and the ache, the tension had worn down. Anger gave way to exhaustion. The kind that lives in the chest, just behind the ribs, and waits for years to be let out.

Keith’s head had dropped first, chin tipping against his shoulder as the adrenaline faded. He sat with his knees pulled up, arms around them. Lance had curled into himself beside him, legs stretched long and pale under the dark blue of the sky.

The moon had risen without their permission.

Now, morning was barely brushing the edge of the lake — pale gold against glassy water.

Lance stirred first.

Warmth.

The steady rise and fall of someone breathing beneath him.

He blinked, disoriented. His face was pressed against fabric — not the ground, not his jacket — but a chest.

Keith’s chest.

One of Keith’s arms had, at some point, looped loosely around Lance’s shoulders. The other was stretched behind his head like a forgotten shield. His chin rested gently against Lance’s hair, and his breath stirred the soft strands above Lance’s forehead.

Lance didn’t move.

His heart thudded too loud.

Keith’s hoodie smelled like cedar and something smoky. His pulse was steady. His chest warm.

Lance had no idea how long they’d been like this.

Minutes? Hours?

He wasn’t even sure who had leaned into who first.

But the softness of it — the quiet vulnerability of being held — made his throat tighten.

He should move.

He should say something.

But for a moment… just a moment… he let himself stay.

Keith made a faint sound. A sleepy exhale. His grip reflexively tightened, like he thought Lance might slip away.

Lance’s breath hitched.

Keith blinked awake.

His eyes opened slowly — groggy, unfocused at first — then sharp as a switchblade when he realized where they were, how they were.

Lance felt the change instantly.

Keith’s body went stiff.

Lance pulled back quickly, heart slamming. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t—”

Keith sat up fast. “No, I— It’s fine. I didn’t mean to— We must’ve—”

They both scrambled a little. No one looked at the other.

The cold rushed in where warmth had just been.

“I guess… we passed out,” Lance muttered.

Keith nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

The birds were starting to chirp.

It was morning. The lake looked different in daylight — less haunted, more hollow.

Lance hugged his knees. “You snore.”

Keith huffed, almost a laugh. “You drool.”

They glanced at each other.

There was a moment.

A real, bare, human moment.

Then Keith looked away, lips pressed tight. “We should get back.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, quieter.

They didn’t speak on the way out of the forest.

But they didn’t walk apart either.

Their shoulders bumped once — and neither of them moved away.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open.

Lance stepped inside, spine stiff, hands clenched inside his jacket sleeves. The usual hum of conversation inside the Voltron club came to a jagged halt. Even the light in the room felt sharper somehow — cutting and still.

Pidge’s eyes snapped to him first. The sound of her chair scraping back echoed like a threat. Allura glanced up from her notes, mid-sentence, and her breath caught. Shiro stopped talking. Romelle blinked slowly. Hunk, bless his heart, offered a small wave and a worried smile.

Lance gave no one a greeting. He stood in the doorway like someone about to confess to a crime.

“Well,” Pidge said, voice clipped and brittle, “look who remembered we exist.”

“I’m not here to fight,” Lance muttered.

“Then what are you here for?” Pidge’s arms crossed over her chest. “Because last I checked, you don’t talk, you don’t help, and you definitely don’t share anything unless someone bleeds it out of you.”

“Pidge—” Allura began, her voice a warning.

“No, let her,” Lance said. His voice didn’t shake, but his knuckles were pale where they gripped his sleeves. “She’s right.”

Pidge blinked — surprised, maybe, that he agreed.

“I’ve been hiding something,” he said. “Something I should’ve said a long time ago. But I didn’t. Because I was scared. And because I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

“Try us,” Shiro said quietly, though his expression remained unreadable.

Lance looked down at the floor.

“I see ghosts,” he said.

The silence after that was deafening.

Romelle tilted her head slightly. Allura’s brows drew together, unsure. Shiro didn’t move. Hunk looked like he’d been bracing for this. Pidge, meanwhile, blinked once — and then scoffed.

“Seriously? That’s your big secret?”

“I know how it sounds.”

“No,” she cut in, voice rising, “you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to wait months for a call that never comes. To get nothing — no clues, no leads, just an empty goddamn room where your brother used to live. And then you walk in here after ghosting us, and your answer is ghosts?”

“I’m not lying,” Lance said.

Pidge stepped toward him. “If you really could see the dead, you would’ve said something when Matt went missing. You would’ve helped. You would’ve done something, Lance!”

“I was scared—!”

“So am I!” she shouted. “Every single day! But I don’t get to hide behind fear! I act! I search! And you—” her voice cracked, sharp with pain, “—you just watched us struggle. You let us suffer.”

Lance’s breath hitched. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone more than they already were.”

“You think keeping the truth from us helped?!”

“I didn’t think I could help,” Lance said, the words spilling out now, choked. “I didn’t understand it for years. It’s not like flipping a switch! Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes it hurts.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Hunk said suddenly, stepping forward. “I saw it. My grandma died last spring. Lance started saying things — things only she ever told me, in our language. He didn’t know it. There’s no way he could’ve faked it.”

“Or he told you because you’re his friend,” Pidge snapped.

“Pidge,” Allura said, “this isn’t helping.”

“No,” Shiro said quietly, “but it’s fair.”

They all turned to him.

“He’s been hiding this from everyone. If it’s real — and I think it is — it still hurt people. And if it’s not, then it’s cruel.”

“I’m not lying,” Lance whispered, looking right at Pidge.

“Then prove it,” she shot back. “What did you see near the bag?”

Lance hesitated.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said. “No visions. No voices.”

Pidge’s mouth twisted. “So what—now you suddenly don’t have powers?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lance muttered. “I just said… it felt wrong. Like something was watching. Like something waiting to break through.”

“So you felt something,” Pidge snapped. “While Matt’s out there somewhere — maybe dying — and all you did was feel.”

“Pidge—” Hunk tried again.

She turned away. Her jaw was clenched. Her hands were shaking.

“You should’ve told us,” she said, without turning back. “You should’ve told me.”

“I’m sorry,” Lance said.

But she didn’t answer. She just sat back down at the far end of the table, facing the window. Everyone could see the way her shoulders rose and fell — sharp, uneven.

Shiro finally spoke again. “So this feeling… was it death?”

Lance shook his head. “No. That’s just it. It wasn’t death. It was… close. Like someone brushing against the edge of it.”

Romelle inhaled slowly. “So Matt might still be alive.”

“I think he is,” Lance said softly.

Pidge’s breath caught — just for a second.

And though she didn’t look at him, Lance saw her wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

_________________________________

The door to AL-Tea jingled softly as Lance stepped inside, blinking against the dim lighting. The place smelled like cinnamon, cardamom, and espresso — calm, inviting, almost too gentle for the nerves prickling under his skin.

They’d picked this place intentionally. Away from campus. Neutral ground.

Hunk was already at the corner table, nursing a cappuccino drink with extra whipped cream. Allura sat beside him, radiant and polished even in casual clothes, typing something furiously into her tablet. Romelle perched at the edge of a seat across from them, reading a printed-out case report.

And beside her — slouched, arms crossed, jacket still on — was Keith. With his eyebrow piercing that Lance did notice until now

Lance’s shoulders tensed automatically.

Keith looked up. Their eyes met. It wasn’t hostile, not anymore. But it wasn’t warm either. Something complicated passed between them — maybe truce, maybe unfinished fire.

“Late,” Keith muttered.

Lance raised a brow. “Nice to see you too, Mullet.”

Keith didn’t smirk, but he didn’t scowl either. Progress.

“Hey, Lance,” Hunk said quickly, clearly eager to keep the peace. “Grab a chair. I got you one of those cappuccinos you like. A lot of sugar,, no judgment.”

Lance relaxed a little. “You’re the best.”

“I am.”

As he slid into the seat beside Hunk, he noticed Allura watching him — calm, composed, but serious. “Thank you for coming again,” she said. “We weren’t sure if you would.”

“Honestly? Me neither.”

Pidge was late. That wasn’t a surprise. No one had seen her all day. Romelle had texted her twice. No reply.

Keith cleared his throat. “So… do we start, or wait?”

“I say we start,” Romelle said, folding her notes. “There’s still information to process.”

“Right,” Allura said, smoothing her skirt and shifting her focus to Lance. “Lance. You said last time you didn’t see anything at the scene, but you felt something. Can you describe that more?”

Lance nodded, fidgeting with his drink sleeve.

“It was like… pressure. The kind that makes the air feel too thick. But only in one spot — right around the bag. Not death. Just… like something wanted to get through. Or was close.”

“Could it have been Matt?” Hunk asked.

“I don’t think so,” Lance said slowly. “I’ve seen death. It leaves a residue, like soot on glass. This wasn’t that. It felt more like… a warning.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “So let me get this straight—”

Lance cut in immediately. “Keith. Be honest with yourself. That’s not something you’ve ever been good at.”

Keith froze for half a second, then groaned low in his throat. “Seriously?”

“You walked into that one.”

“Every conversation with you is an emotional landmine.”

“And yet here you are. Walking barefoot.”

Romelle didn’t even look up from her notes. “Please continue your weird flirting later.”

“I am not—” Keith began, then stopped himself. “Whatever.”

“All I’m saying is: you said it, not me,” Lance said with a shrug, taking a victorious sip of his latte.

Keith looked skyward like he was praying for patience.

“Can we focus?” Allura said, clearly restraining a smile.

Lance gave a half-nod. “Right. Sorry.”

Keith sighed and refocused. “Okay. So you feel death, but only sometimes. You don’t control it. You don’t even know when it’ll happen. But you want us to trust you?”

Lance stiffened. “I didn’t ask you to trust me.”

“Oh, good. Because I wasn’t planning on it.”

Hunk groaned. “Guys…”

Lance leaned forward. “Then why are you even here?”

Keith smirked. “Because unlike you, I don’t run away when things get hard.”

“Really?” Lance shot back. “Because you seemed pretty good at walking out the last time we needed you.”

The table fell into sharp silence.

Keith’s jaw clenched.

Allura glanced between them, her face unreadable. “This isn’t helping.”

Lance exhaled. “Look. I know what I said. And I know it’s not easy to believe me. I don’t blame you for doubting.”

“Then what do you want?” Keith asked. “Sympathy?”

“I want to help,” Lance said. “Even if you don’t trust me yet. Even if I mess it up. I want to try.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Keith looked at him again. Really looked. Not like an opponent — not fully — but like someone slowly letting their guard down.

“Fine,” he said. “Then you try. And I’ll be watching.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Always so charming.”

Keith didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched.

“Bite me,” he muttered.

“Not in public,” Lance said.

Romelle slammed her notebook shut. “I’m going to throw you both in the lake.”

The tension hadn’t gone away. It just hovered now, simmering beneath the surface.

Steam curled up from mismatched mugs. Outside, the sky had shifted into a moody dusk, clouds turning bruised purple over the school district. In here, the air was thick with questions.

The little silver bell above the café door rang again.

Everyone turned.

Pidge walked in with her hood up and her hands jammed into the pockets of a faded green jacket. She looked like she hadn’t slept — which, given the circumstances, was probably true.

She didn’t stop by the counter. She didn’t say hi.

She just walked straight to the table, dropped her backpack onto the ground, and sat down.

Romelle blinked. “We didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” Pidge said. Her voice was hoarse. Tired. Sharp.

Hunk shifted in his seat. “We were just—”

“Talking about me?” she interrupted, looking straight at Lance.

Lance sat frozen. He didn’t know where to put his hands. On his lap? On the table? Somewhere invisible?

“Not about you,” he said quietly. “About what happened.”

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “So exactly about me.”

Keith sat up straighter. “Pidge—”

“No. Let her talk,” Lance said.

Pidge’s eyes narrowed. “You’re damn right you’ll let me talk.”

Silence spread across the table like spilled coffee.

Pidge leaned forward, voice low but fierce. “You stood there, Lance. You were the closest one to that bag, and you said you felt something. But you didn’t say anything until now.”

Lance nodded, guilty. “I was scared.”

“Of what?” she snapped. “Of helping?”

“No. Of getting it wrong.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He looked her in the eyes. “I know.”

For a second — just one — her face twitched. The anger was real. But underneath it was grief, crumbling through every crack.

“You have powers,” she said. “Weird, freaky, spooky-ass powers. You can see things we can’t. And you just… kept that to yourself?”

“I didn’t ask for them,” Lance said, his voice suddenly stronger. “I didn’t want them. I didn’t even understand them until recently. And even now, I don’t always know what I’m seeing or why. But I’m trying.”

He looked down at the table. “And I’m sorry I didn’t try sooner.”

Pidge blinked hard. Her jaw clenched like she was biting down every word she didn’t want to say.

Romelle reached out gently. “Pidge…”

Pidge shook her head. “No. I get it. Everyone’s sad. Everyone’s scared. But Matt is my brother. My brother. And every second we waste because someone’s too afraid to speak up, he’s—”

Her voice cracked.

Hunk moved to put a hand on hers, but she pulled away. Not angry — just fragile.

Keith stood slowly. “We’re not going to let this end in nothing. Whatever Lance saw — or felt — we follow that. We dig. And we don’t stop until we get answers.”

Lance looked up at him, surprised.

Pidge gave a tight nod. “Good. Then I hope you’re ready to stop wasting time.”

The table fell into a strange, exhausted silence. Not peace — not yet — but something close to a beginning.

From behind the bar, the barista cleared her throat. “Anyone want to order something or…?”

Romelle raised her hand. “Six coffees. Make them angry.”

“So,” Allura said gently, “can you tell us more about how it works? Your… ability.”

Lance tapped his fingers on his coffee cup, his eyes fixed on the swirl of cream inside.

“I don’t know how to explain it right,” he said. “It’s not like… a switch I flip. Or a spell. It’s more like something pulling me — like the dead want to be seen. And I’m the only one who can.”

“That’s horrifying,” Romelle muttered.

“It’s not always bad,” Hunk said quickly, glancing at Lance. “Sometimes it helps. It’s helped people before.”

“How long have you known?” Allura asked.

“Since I was ten,” Lance said quietly. “It started the night my dad died.”

That hushed the table again. Even Keith, who’d gone half-cold during most of the discussion, looked over with quiet intensity.

Romelle leaned in. “And since then… it’s been random?”

“Kind of. It comes in moments. Sometimes it’s visual, sometimes it’s just… a presence. Or whispers. I don’t get to choose.”

“Can you summon them?” Pidge asked, still sharp-edged.

Lance shook his head. “No. They come when they want. Some don’t know they’re dead. Some don’t want to leave. Some—” he swallowed—“some are stuck.”

The word stuck made something flicker across Shiro’s face.

Keith asked, “So when you felt something by Matt’s bag…?”

Lance nodded. “It wasn’t death. But it was close. Like something was about to break through.”

“Like a gate?” Romelle offered.

“Maybe.”

Shiro, who had been mostly silent, finally spoke. “And you didn’t see anyone near it?”

Lance met his eyes. “No. Nothing. Just that pressure. Like the space around the bag wasn’t normal anymore.”

They all sat with that.

Processing.

Questioning.

Fearing.

And then—

The door burst open.

A pair of juniors stumbled inside, laughing and out of breath from the evening wind. One of them called out toward the back of the café, probably looking for friends.

“Did you guys hear? Another student’s missing!”

The air in the room shattered like glass.

Everyone at the Voltron club table froze.

“What?” Keith said sharply, already half-standing.

“Yeah,” the kid said, catching their alarm. “It’s all over the group chats. Some guy named Adam? Senior? Went missing after school. His phone was found smashed near the tennis courts.”

Lance turned to look at Shiro — and his stomach dropped.

Shiro had gone pale. Completely, silently pale.

Romelle spoke first. “Shiro?”

But Shiro was already standing. His hands were clenched. His voice, when it came, was tight and restrained.

“Adam… he… I dated… him before..”

The group sat in stunned silence.

Allura whispered, “Oh no…”

Lance looked at the others, then back at Shiro. The weight of what had started — what they were stepping into — crashed into his chest all over again.

Because whatever this was, whatever had happened to Matt…

…it wasn’t over.

The tennis courts behind Garrison High were silent. Adam’s phone lay half-buried in dirt and crushed gravel — shattered screen, bent casing, black streaks across the back.

The yellow caution tape fluttered in the wind. Pointless. Whatever had happened here was already gone.

The Voltron Club stood just outside the boundary. Still. Watching. Listening.

Lance could already feel it in the air.

Not sadness this time.

Something sharper.

Darker.

Beside him, Shiro stood motionless, his gaze locked on the smashed phone — not with grief, but with tension. Jaw clenched. Fists white-knuckled. His eyes didn’t blink.

“He was your ex, right?” Romelle asked gently.

“Yes,” Shiro said flatly. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

He exhaled hard. A shudder almost imperceptible.

“This isn’t about Adam. Not really. This is about Matt.”

That name. Matt. It hit the group like a crack in the silence.

“Because if whatever took Matt also took Adam—” he stopped, swallowing the rest. His voice frayed. “—then we’re too late.”

Pidge stiffened like she’d been slapped.

Lance felt his heart thump harder.

He turned toward the phone, the energy prickling at his skin again. It was different this time — colder, yes, but not completely gone. Like a light that had just flickered out… but hadn’t cooled.

A memory. A residue.

He crouched slowly.

There.

A tug in his gut. That strange pull. His breathing slowed.

Then—
A flicker of something. Not an image. Just… feelings.

Panic.
Rage.
Regret.
Then—

“I tried.”

Lance gasped and stumbled back.

“What did you feel?” Hunk asked quickly.

Lance’s voice was tight. “Desperation. Like Adam knew he didn’t have time. Like he tried to stop it.”

Shiro closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped, just a little. And when he opened them, they were steel.

“This means it’s not random,” he said. “Adam’s disappearance confirms it. Whatever’s happening—whatever took Matt—this is planned.”

Romelle glanced at the phone. “So what’s the connection?”

Shiro answered without hesitating. “Me.”

The group went still.

“I was close to both of them,” he continued. “I loved Matt. I… hurt Adam. This isn’t just about ghosts. Someone’s trying to send a message.”

Lance stepped forward carefully. “Then what’s the message?”

Shiro didn’t speak. Instead, he walked to the edge of the crime scene, crouched, and turned the phone over.

There — scratched into the back.

V. C. 4.

The black smear across the casing was still sticky.

Keith read it aloud. “Voltron Club… four?”

“Or victim count,” Romelle said, voice grim.

“No,” Shiro said. “It’s a threat. It’s saying we’re next.”

Pidge’s breath hitched.

Lance felt the chill spread through his spine.

Because if this was a message… then someone — or something — was targeting them.

And Matt wasn’t the last.

He might have been the beginning.

_________________________________

The AL-Tea coffee shop was closed for the night.

No hum of milk steamers, no indie playlist through the overhead speakers. Just the hollow clink of ceramic mugs on the wooden table and the occasional scrape of a chair as someone shifted restlessly.

The Voltron Club sat at the same booth in the back, but it didn’t feel like a safe haven anymore. Not after Adam.

Pidge’s arms were folded tight across her chest. Her leg bounced beneath the table, glasses fogged slightly from the mug she hadn’t touched. Her eyes hadn’t left Lance once since they sat down.

Romelle stirred her tea in slow, measured circles.

Hunk sat beside Lance, calm but alert.

Keith leaned back with his arms crossed, one boot tapping the floor impatiently.

And Shiro… Shiro sat like a stone. Not detached — just still. Like if he moved too quickly, something in him might break.

No one had spoken for a while.

Lance finally cleared his throat. “We’re all thinking it, right? This is the same as Matt.”

“No, it’s not,” Pidge snapped, voice sharp. “Matt’s bag had blood on it. His was a violent disappearance. This—” she motioned toward the photo of Adam’s phone on the table “—this was clean. Too clean. Not a trace.”

Keith frowned. “No sign of a struggle either. Just his phone. Crushed. Like it was placed there.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Pidge said again. “It’s worse. That means it’s getting smarter.”

The room went quiet.

Romelle looked up. “Or it means Matt fought. And Adam didn’t have time.”

Lance’s stomach turned.

He remembered what he’d felt at the scene. That awful pressure. The fear, yes—but also something else. Like Adam had seen it coming and had no time to scream.

“Both of them knew Shiro,” Keith said.

Shiro didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“You dated Adam,” Romelle said carefully. “But you loved Matt.”

He nodded slowly.

“So… this is personal.”

Lance looked between them. “And deliberate.”

Pidge’s eyes were hard. “And still happening. So maybe now we stop dancing around the one thing no one wants to say—” her gaze locked on Lance “—you should’ve told us about your ability weeks ago.”

Lance stiffened.

“I didn’t understand it back then!” he said. “I didn’t even want it.”

“That’s not the point,” she shot back. “You had a connection. You could’ve helped my brother.”

Lance’s voice cracked. “I’m not some magic GPS, Pidge! I see things when they come to me — I don’t control it. I’m scared every time I close my eyes. Is that what you want to hear?! That I hate this? That I hate being haunted by people I couldn’t save?!”

“Then use it!” she shouted. “Do something useful with it before someone else dies!”

“Hey—” Keith cut in, stepping forward. “Back off. He’s trying.”

Pidge looked like she wanted to argue, but her breath caught. Her voice, when it came again, was low. “Trying isn’t enough.”

“I agree,” Shiro said finally. Calm, but heavy. “It’s not enough. But blaming him won’t help either.”

Everyone turned to him.

“I lost Matt,” he said, voice tight. “Now Adam. Two people connected to me, both pulled into whatever this is. We don’t know if this is supernatural or calculated or something in between. But if Lance is the only one who can sense it—then yes, we use that. All of it.”

Romelle raised an eyebrow. “Do you think this thing is… choosing people?”

“I think it’s watching,” Shiro said. “And learning.”

“Which means it could already be planning its next move,” Keith muttered.

“Yeah, well,” Hunk said, shifting uncomfortably, “I’d like to not be on that list.”

“Too late,” Romelle murmured. “We all joined the club.”

Lance let his hands fall onto the table. “We need to build a pattern. Track places. Times. Emotions. See if anything overlaps.”

“I’ve already started one,” Pidge said grudgingly, pulling out a messy notebook. “But I need more than ‘I felt weird.’”

“I’ll be clearer next time,” Lance said. “I promise.”

The words hung in the air — and felt heavier than any of them liked.

A moment later, the front door burst open. A group of seniors walked in, laughing loudly, not noticing the mood as they passed by.

But one of them, a boy in a red varsity jacket, turned to his friend and said too loudly, “Did you hear? Another one’s gone. Some senior named Adam—vanished behind the tennis courts. No blood. Just… poof.”

Pidge’s hand clenched her pen so hard it cracked.

Lance didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

The air shifted.

Cold.

Wrong.

The same way it had before.

Chapter Text

Heeyyyy yallll

You will probably skip this but hear me out

I will start rewriting this fic because I don’t think I wrote it the best way possible

And I would like to apologize for not updating for a while i got a really high fever on my period and i was literally dying but i came back because duh i love you guys

Just wait for me