The common room on the top floor of the UK branch dorms smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and lavender-scented air freshener. It was late—closer to midnight than not—but the lights were still on. The couches sagged under the weight of half the senior year class, sprawled across them in tired heaps, half-laughing, half-dragging themselves into conversations they were too exhausted to sustain.
Mabelle sat cross-legged on the edge of the biggest sofa, scrolling absently through her phone. The glow painted her face blue, her reflection catching on the glass of the window behind her. The screen buzzed with notifications from group chats across branches, little fireworks of gossip popping off every few minutes:
"Did you hear Kevin's here??""Bro I swear I saw him at the hotel lobby yesterday.""Nah you're lying. He dropped out.""Ask the UK kids—they know."
The words made her stomach tighten. Kevin's name had been banned, unspoken, practically erased for months. But now, thanks to the festival and the Dubai trip, it was everywhere again—echoing through whispers, saturating the air until even the teachers couldn't ignore it.
Across the room, Celeste had her legs draped over one arm of a chair, idly painting her nails black. Every few minutes she'd blow gently on them, glance up at whoever was talking, then go back to her phone. Mikey was sitting on the floor, leaning against the armrest, earbuds dangling around his neck. He was laughing at something on his screen—probably a meme Zion had sent him.
Zion himself wasn't here. That fact alone made Mabelle's pulse beat a little slower, a little steadier. For once, she didn't have to navigate the way he seemed to take up all the space in a room. Tonight, this felt like her arena.
She cleared her throat, earning a few distracted glances.
"We need to talk," she said.
Nobody responded at first—too used to her being the quiet one in the background, the girl who blended instead of leading. So she set her phone down, leaned forward, and repeated:
"I said, we need to talk. About Kevin. About… all of this."
Celeste raised an eyebrow, twirling the nail polish brush like it was a dagger. "You're really bringing him up again? Half the room's already spiraling."
"Exactly," Mabelle shot back. Her voice cracked but she pushed through. "Everyone's spiraling, rumors are flying, and none of us are actually saying anything that makes sense. We keep waiting for Zion to handle it, or for the teachers to shut it down, but they won't. Not this time."
The room went quiet. Even Mikey pulled out one earbud.
"You think it's that deep?" someone from the back asked. "Kevin's just—what, another dropout? People move on all the time."
"No," Mabelle said. The word hung sharp and heavy. "He isn't just another dropout. You all know that."
The silence confirmed it. They did know. Kevin wasn't just a ghost story—they'd seen the wreckage he'd left behind. His betrayal, his cruelty, the way he'd carved open Zion's secrets for the whole school to feed on. And now he was back, not just existing quietly, but orbiting their world again. Close enough to touch.
Celeste finally capped her polish, her eyes narrowing. "So what do you suggest? We form some kind of… anti-Kevin task force?"
Mikey snorted. "Sounds like an Avengers knock-off."
"I'm serious." Mabelle's voice surprised even herself—it had an edge she didn't usually let out. "We've been living like he can't touch us anymore, but what if he can? What if he already is? The UK kids are talking. The teachers are nervous. Zion's pretending he doesn't care but you can see it in his face. He knows this is about to blow up."
"And you think you can fix it?" Celeste challenged.
The words landed like a slap. Everyone knew Celeste could cut with just a tone. But Mabelle didn't flinch.
"No," she said simply. "Not me alone. Us. All of us. If we don't figure out how to handle this, we're going to spend the rest of the year letting Kevin control the narrative. He'll turn our last months here into a circus."
A ripple of discomfort moved through the group. Someone coughed. Someone else muttered, "She's not wrong."
Mikey pushed himself off the floor and sat up straighter. "Okay. Hypothetically, what's step one of this… damage control?"
Mabelle let out a shaky breath. She hadn't thought this far ahead, not really. She just knew something had to change. But as the room watched her—really watched her, not through Zion's shadow, not through Celeste's biting wit—she felt the shape of the answer forming.
"We own the story," she said. "Not Kevin. Not the UK branch kids. Us. If they want to know what happened, they hear it from us. Not some twisted version passed through five different group chats."
Celeste tilted her head. "So you want us to… what, hold a press conference?"
"Not exactly," Mabelle admitted. "But we can control what gets out. Decide what's worth saying and what's not. And if Kevin tries to spin it, at least we've already set the record."
The room buzzed again, low whispers crackling. Some nodded. Some rolled their eyes. But the energy shifted—Mabelle could feel it.
For the first time in forever, she wasn't just there. She was leading.
The next morning, she woke before sunrise. Her phone buzzed with unread messages, but she ignored them. Instead, she opened her notes app and began typing.
The words didn't come easily. Every line she drafted felt like it might set the school on fire. But she kept going, imagining what would happen if Kevin twisted the silence to his advantage.
By breakfast, she had a plan. Not perfect. Not foolproof. But hers.
When she walked into the dining hall, Zion was already there, sitting at the end of the table with Lucian. They were bent over something—probably debating strategy again, like generals mapping out a war. Zion glanced up when she entered, then froze slightly at the sight of her marching straight over.
"Mabelle," he said carefully, as if testing the air.
She dropped her phone on the table between them. "I have something to say. And I need both of you to listen."
Lucian arched an eyebrow. "This sounds serious."
"It is." She locked eyes with Zion. "We can't let Kevin run this school from the shadows. We either step up and control the story, or he'll eat us alive. And I'm not letting that happen."
For once, Zion didn't argue. He just leaned back, studying her with an expression she couldn't quite read—surprise, respect, maybe both.
And in that moment, Mabelle realized something: she wasn't just reacting anymore. She was choosing. Taking the narrative in her hands.
Whether anyone liked it or not, this was her story too.