Ravenswood Academy changed after sunset.
During the day, the halls were loud, careless, alive. At night, the building felt like it was holding its breath—every corridor stretched too long, every shadow lingering where it shouldn't.
Thomas Langley noticed it as he shut his office door.
The clock on his wall read 9:06 p.m.
Later than usual.
He straightened his tie, irritation flickering across his face. The administration's silence still rang in his ears. No suspension. No formal inquiry. Just vague warnings and careful smiles.
Exactly as he'd predicted.
Langley returned to his desk and flipped through the last stack of lesson plans, scanning them without really reading. Names blurred together. The students were irrelevant. They always had been.
When he finished, he stacked the papers neatly, slid them into his briefcase, and snapped it shut.
Done.
The Empty Halls
Langley stepped into the hallway.
The overhead lights hummed softly, casting a sterile glow over the tiled floor. His footsteps echoed—sharp, confident, unhurried. The school was empty now. Security rounds wouldn't reach the academic wing for another hour.
Plenty of time.
As he walked, his phone buzzed once in his pocket.
No signal.
He frowned but kept moving. Ravenswood had always had dead zones. Nothing new.
He passed the staff room. Dark.
The science wing. Locked.
The west corridor. Silent.
Too silent.
A Feeling He Ignored
Somewhere deep in his chest, something tightened.
Langley stopped walking.
For a brief moment, he had the strange sense of being watched—as if the building itself had turned its attention toward him.
Ridiculous.
He scoffed under his breath and resumed walking.
Power didn't fear shadows.
Elsewhere
Rowan stared at the glowing screen in Vivienne's hands.
"His card still hasn't scanned out," Vivienne said quietly.
Lyra's jaw clenched. "It's too late."
Orion stood apart from them, gaze distant, unreadable.
"He thinks he's safe," Orion said.
Rowan swallowed. "People like him always do."
The Flicker
Langley reached the main hallway leading toward the exit.
That was when the lights flickered.
Once.
He stopped.
Twice.
He looked up, annoyance flashing across his face.
Three times.
Four.
The hum overhead stuttered, the corridor plunging briefly into shadow before the lights struggled back on.
Langley turned toward the nearest switch panel.
"Maintenance," he muttered.
He lifted his hand—
And the lights flickered a fifth time.
The hallway went dark.