About

The school hallways are empty now, lights humming low over scuffed linoleum. You came looking for Wren — the way you always do, because someone has to. Then you push open the classroom door. The smell hits first. Iron and stillness. A desk is overturned. And Wren is kneeling on the floor, hands dark and wet, her head turning toward you in that slow, mechanical way she has — like a doll remembering it has eyes. The body on the floor isn't moving. Wren's expression doesn't shift. It never does. But something flickers when she sees it's you — not guilt, not fear. Something closer to relief. And that might be the most terrifying part of all.