Amy didn't mean to look.
She was supposed to be doing homework.
Maths worksheet open. Pen uncapped. Phone face-down beside her.
She lasted twelve minutes.
Then she flipped it over.
The original post was gone.
That was the first thing she noticed.
The anonymous account had disappeared from the group chat entirely. Messages that mentioned it now read:
This message is unavailable.
Like it had never existed, like the person that made the account just disappeared.
Except screenshots did.
Screenshots always did.
Amy opened one Jamie had sent her earlier.
Her writing stared back at her from the screen. Cropped. Blurry at the edges. Posted at 3:17 p.m.
3:17.
She frowned.
3:17 was during the last period.
PE.
She hadn't had her phone.
They weren't allowed.
She sat up straighter.
Slowly, she opened her own message history.
At 3:14 p.m., Chloe had texted her:
Did you finish the English homework?
Amy hadn't replied until 3:52.
After the bell.
Her phone had been locked in her bag inside the changing rooms.
She remembered that clearly.
So whoever posted it—
Had access during school hours.
Not at writing club.
Not at home.
At school.
Her stomach tightened.
She tapped the screenshot again and zoomed in.
The text wasn't a photo of paper.
It was a screenshot of a document.
Typed.
Not scanned.
Not photographed.
Formatted.
Left aligned.
Standard font.
Which meant—
It hadn't been copied from her notebook directly.
It had been typed up first.
Amy's pulse quickened.
She didn't type her drafts.
Not usually.
She wrote them by hand.
Except—
Her breath stalled.
Except one.
There was one piece she'd typed.
Months ago.
In the school library.
For an English assignment.
She'd written it in her notebook first.
Then typed it up on the library computer before submitting it.
The same piece that had been posted.
Her chest went cold.
That file would have been saved automatically.
School computers did that.
Saved drafts to the student drive.
She hadn't deleted it.
She hadn't even thought about it and thought it would be safe.
Which meant someone didn't need her bag.
They didn't need her locker.
They didn't need writing club.
They just needed access to a school login.
Or—
She froze.
Or access to a teacher's computer.
Her mind jumped somewhere new.
Somewhere uncomfortable.
The formatting in the screenshot.
It looked... clean.
Too clean.
Not like something copied quickly from a shared drive.
Like something opened properly.
Exported.
Jamie knocked once and stepped into her room without waiting.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said.
Amy turned her phone toward him.
"Look at the time."
He leaned closer. "3:17."
"I was in PE."
"So?"
"So my phone was in my bag. Locked away."
Jamie's expression sharpened.
"And look at the formatting," she added. "It's typed. Not photographed."
He studied it more closely.
"That's not from your notebook."
"No."
Realisation dawned slowly across his face.
"That's from a computer."
"Yes."
They both went quiet.
Jamie sat on the edge of her bed.
"Do you still have that file saved anywhere?" he asked.
"No. I only typed it once. In the library."
He exhaled slowly.
"So someone accessed the school system."
"Or," Amy said carefully, "someone who already had access did."
Jamie looked at her.
"Like who?"
Amy thought about the English classroom.
About handing in the assignment.
About her teacher scrolling through submissions on the projector.
About how long her document had stayed open on screen while someone fixed the printer.
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn't noticed who was in the room that day.
She hadn't needed to.
She trusted it.
"You're thinking something," Jamie said.
Amy nodded faintly.
"I don't think this started at writing club."
Jamie's jaw tightened.
"Then where?"
Amy looked back at the screenshot.
3:17 p.m.
During school.
Typed.
Formatted.
Accessed properly.
Her world shifted slightly on its axis.
This wasn't someone stealing pages out of her bag.
This was someone who had gone looking.
Deliberately.
And maybe—
Maybe they hadn't been looking for her at all.
Jamie stood slowly.
"We need to check something tomorrow," he said.
"What?"
"The computer logs," he replied.
Amy's pulse spiked.
"Can we do that?"
Jamie gave her a look.
"Probably not."
A beat.
"But we can try."
Amy looked at the timestamp one more time.
3:17 p.m.
And for the first time since this started—
Her fear wasn't just personal.
It was procedural.
Systematic.
Someone hadn't just taken her words.
They'd accessed them.
And that meant the breach was bigger than she thought.