Chapter 3

After school, I headed to the equipment room right on time.

It was Friday, and by the time classes let out, the sky had already darkened. Most of the students and staff had left the campus, leaving the halls eerily quiet.

I pushed open the door to the equipment room. The rusty hinges groaned in protest before the door swung open. Inside, it was dim and empty.

I wasn’t in a hurry, though. I knew confessions were nerve-wracking, especially for someone as shy as Adam Blake.

Strolling around the room, I noticed a cluttered shelf filled with old, dusty vases, all precariously stacked and out of order. With nothing better to do, I decided to kill some time by rearranging them. One by one, I lined them up, straightening out the mess.

Suddenly, the door creaked again behind me, followed by a loud slam.

I thought it was just the wind blowing the door shut, so I turned to open it again.

Before I could move, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind.

I froze, my body stiffening as I felt hot, ragged breaths against the back of my neck.

He was panting, his voice shaky as he whispered my name over and over. His hands moved frantically, sliding under my shirt and groping at my bra.

I felt my stomach churn with disgust. Humiliated and furious, I began to yell at him, twisting and struggling to get free.

But he only held on tighter. His lips brushed against my neck, and his voice, trembling with emotion, murmured words of love into my ear.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. My skin crawled.

In that moment, I regretted everything—coming here, agreeing to his note, believing for even a second that a teenage boy could have any sense of control.

He made me sick.

I told him to stop, my voice sharp and firm, but my rejection only seemed to excite him more.

To him, my "no" was some kind of game, a twisted form of encouragement. His breathing quickened, and I felt something hard pressing against me, grinding into me.

Fear and anger surged through me, mingling into something wild and uncontrollable.

You should know, when someone is consumed by rage, they can tap into strength they didn’t even know they had.

Blinded by fury, I twisted my body sharply, breaking out of his grasp.

With all the force I could muster, I shoved him backward.

He stumbled, colliding with the shelf behind him.

One of the vases teetered for a moment before crashing down directly onto his head.

The sound of shattering ceramic filled the room, and a shard of the broken vase sliced into my shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain through me.

His grip loosened, and his hands slipped away from my waist as his body crumpled to the floor.

Clutching my bleeding shoulder, I stumbled toward the door, still trembling.

When I pulled it open, the light from the hallway spilled into the dark room. That’s when I saw him lying there, motionless. Blood pooled beneath his head.

He wasn’t breathing.

He was dead.

"That’s everything that happened," I said softly, my fingers grazing the bandage on my shoulder as tears welled up in my eyes. Two drops slipped down my cheeks.

"If I had known what kind of person he really was, I would’ve never agreed to meet him that day."

The air in the hospital room was heavy, suffocating.

The officers standing around me exchanged silent glances, as if communicating through subtle nods and expressions.

The lead detective finally stood, offering me a small, polite bow. “Thank you for your time. We’ll let you rest for now.”

I gave him a faint smile. “Thank you, officer. Take care.”

One by one, they filed out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

The room fell silent.

Alone at last, the faint smile on my lips vanished. My eyes darkened, and the corners of my mouth curled into something colder, sharper.

My tears were long gone.

And in their place, a quiet, satisfied smile lingered.