The news hit (Y/N) with a force that left him breathless. It hadn't been an accident; Alex was dead. The truth was brutal and permanent.
Chloe's smile, as she saw him exit, felt like an icy knife. It was the smile of someone who had just validated his fear—the fear she was so insistent on calling "dreams." She hadn't just tried to silence the truth; she had replaced it with a convincing lie.
— Chloe: Don't worry about it. Let's focus. Perfection requires concentration, doesn't it, (Y/N)?
— (Y/N): Yes, a lot of it. — He replied, remembering Alex's full name, which he had read earlier in the yearbook, and how it had already dissolved in the adrenaline.
Chloe led him to the study, a room with bookshelves packed with books. There was no clutter, no personal photos, no warmth of a home. It was an operating theatre.
The study session began, but the dynamic had changed. (Y/N) was no longer just feigning submission; now, every History question was an attempt to gauge the depth of the situation he was in.
Chloe took the history book and opened it with military precision.
— Chloe: For your essay, you need a strong argument, (Y/N). If you don't define disorder, disorder consumes you.
(Y/N) felt the comment was a dart aimed at his heart. She wasn't talking about history.
— (Y/N): And how do you define disorder, Chloe? — He asked, maintaining his academic tone.
Chloe looked up, her eyes gleaming with a strange light. For a second, (Y/N) saw the ten-year-old girl, alone in the sandbox.
— Chloe: Disorder is everything wrong in life, it's mediocrity. When people refuse to fit where they belong, they create chaos. — She smiled. — I just help restore the balance.
(Y/N) swallowed. Alex had been "disorder" to her, someone who, by rejecting her, had threatened the structure of her perfect life. What exactly had Alex done? And what had Chloe done?
As Chloe searched for more books on one of the shelves, her back turned to him for the first time in an hour, (Y/N) felt a pang of urgency. He needed the rest of the article. He needed to know the how.
He slowly slid his hand toward his jacket pocket.
— Chloe: Ah! Here it is, excellent for your essay. — She said, returning without warning and placing the thick book right next to (Y/N).
(Y/N) pulled his hand back, pretending he was simply adjusting himself. His pulse quickened.
She almost caught me.
The silence in the house was oppressive. It was just the two of them, on a minefield.
— Chloe: Why so quiet, (Y/N)? Still feeling unwell from your nightmare?
— (Y/N): A little. It's hard to forget something so... vivid. — He lied, using her vocabulary. — But I'm here to study. I want to be as perfect as you, Chloe.
The effect was immediate. The tension in Chloe's shoulders released, and a proud, though cold, smile spread across her face.
— Chloe: That's what I like to hear. Show me you can do it.
The next hour passed with (Y/N) diligently taking notes, acting as the model student Chloe desired. When the sun began to set, Chloe decided it was time for a break.
— Chloe: We've worked hard. I'm going to put the movie on. Wait for me here, okay?
— (Y/N): Okay.
This was his chance. As Chloe headed to the entertainment room at the end of the hall, (Y/N) opened his jacket, sliding his hand in to grab his phone. But before unlocking it, his gaze fixed on an object on a small table: a thick scrapbook.
Curiosity overcame caution. Chloe didn't usually leave anything personal in sight.
He got up carefully, moving silently toward the table. He opened the album.
They weren't family photos. It was a collection of clipped newspaper articles.
The first page, in the center, featured a large clipping. The headline: "Child Prodigy Wins Regional Oratory Contest at Twelve." The face of a younger, triumphant Chloe. Around it, handwritten notes: "Validation. Finally."
(Y/N) turned the page.
The next was a photo of a school podium. A clipping pointed to a smiling, dark-haired boy receiving a trophy. Beneath it, in a clear, elegant script (Chloe's same handwriting): "The first one. Always trying to steal the spotlight from me."
And on the next page, fear coagulated in his throat.
The center of the page was dominated by the headline he had seen on his phone, but this time it was printed, clipped, and underlined in red ink:
"Student [Dies] After Incident on Subway."
Beneath it, Chloe had written a single sentence, in italics and with a chilling tone of finality:
At peace, finally.
(Y/N) heard the sound of the TV turning on at the end of the hall. He had to move. Instead of closing the album, he quickly took out his phone and photographed the page.
He put the album back exactly as he found it.
Now he had the proof: Alex was dead, Chloe had something to do with it, she had celebrated his death as "balance." The subway wasn't just a place; it was the scene of a crime.
He returned to his seat at the desk. His hand was shaking, but his eyes were lifeless. He had to watch the movie with her. He had to be the "good boy." He had to survive the night.
— Chloe (From the hall): Coming, (Y/N)! I made snacks.
(Y/N) took a deep breath. The movie was about to start. And the real terror, too.
Autor:
In the following 10 chapters, I'll attempt to develop Chloe's backstory, if I don't lose my motivation.