Draeya’s fingers are speckled with blue and gold paint, wrists bruised and raw as she dances her brush across the half-finished mural that sprawls like an open wound across the gym wall. Her jeans hug her legs, splattered and frayed. She’s barefoot, dark hair twisted up with stray curls falling around her sharp, restless face—cheekbones knife-edged, mouth set in practiced indifference. Only her eyes betray her, watchful and hunted, flitting toward every sound in the echoing gym.

She catches Sionel lingering near the doorway, hands jammed deep in his pockets, jaw tight beneath a veneer of composure. His shirt’s rumpled, tie half-undone—he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. For a moment neither speaks. The silence crackles.

“I heard you’re making the place beautiful,” he says, voice soft, trying too hard not to look at her wrist. Draeya laughs, high and brittle. “I’m just painting the things no one wants to see.” She steps back, paint-stained toes curling into the cool floor. Sionel’s eyes linger, searching for an invitation she isn’t sure how to give. Her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She ignores it, lets the tension hover between them.

Later, Elora’s breath is shallow and quick as she rushes through the halls after a panicked student. Her hair is a glossy halo, but the smile she offers feels thin, straining at the edges. She stops abruptly outside the nurse’s office, knuckles white on the doorframe, shoulders trembling. Calise stands nearby, arms folded, lab coat unbuttoned, dark eyes narrowed with concern. She doesn’t ask—just moves in close, voice low. “Breathe. In through your nose. Out.” Calise’s hand hovers a moment before pressing warm and steady between Elora’s shoulder blades. Elora shudders, lets herself lean against the support.

For once, Calise’s tone is gentle. “You’re not alone, Vian. Not as much as you think.” Her hair—short, honey-brown, wild—sticks out at odd angles, and her mouth softens as Elora blinks away tears. Gratitude flickers in Elora’s eyes, mingled with something that almost looks like longing. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Calise just shrugs, cheeks flushed. For a heartbeat, the two women linger in fragile peace, neither of them brave enough to pull away first.

The peace shatters the next morning. Cai corners Elora in the staff lounge, his presence dominating the cramped space. He’s taller than he looks, all wiry muscle beneath a school hoodie, grinning in a way that never reaches his eyes. “You skipping lunch with me again?” His gaze flicks to her lips, then over her shoulder toward the door. Heat flushes her face. “I—I can’t. There’s too much to do.” Cai leans in, dropping his voice to a private pitch. “You sure that’s the real reason? Or is it him?” His words coil tight, a dare and a warning. Elora glances away, shame crawling under her skin.

Sionel trails down the art hall after school, tie stuffed in his satchel, drawn by a desperate text from Draeya: HELP. Please. He finds her in Studio 4, eyes rimmed red, hair wild around her pale face. She’s shoving canvases into a cluttered closet, fingers trembling as she shoves one painting deeper behind the others. Sionel steps in, closes the door behind him. Close up, he sees the purple-black bracelet blooming around her wrist. His voice drops, gentle. “Who did this?” Draeya’s mouth twists. “Does it matter?” For a moment, he thinks she’ll cry. Instead she turns away, face composed, arms folded like armor. “Someone wants to drag me under. I don’t know how much longer I can keep swimming.”

Sionel reaches out, fingers skimming Draeya’s forearm—an unspoken offer. Draeya startles, but softens, letting herself fall just a little into his touch. “You shouldn’t help me.” Her voice is a ragged whisper. “It’ll destroy you too.” Sionel is silent, throat working, guilt and ache warring in his eyes.

After dark, the school’s hallways go silent. Somewhere between moonlight and adrenaline, Draeya presses her body against a co-teacher in the art supply closet, the sharp smell of turpentine burning in the air. Her back scrapes the metal shelving, paint smudging across her bare thighs as desperate hands fumble with buttons and fly. Their mouths crash together—reckless, hungry. Draeya’s fingers dig into his hair, needing the pain, needing the oblivion. She gasps as teeth graze her neck; someone’s hand muffles her cries. It’s frantic, messy. When it’s over, she slides to the floor, laughing—half-wild, half-broken.

Outside the closet, Calise waits in the deserted hall, head tipped back against the locker, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the muffled sounds and hating herself for caring. Her jaw is set hard, anger and longing twisting in her gut. She wants to be needed, just this once.

The next morning, teachers gather in the staff lounge. Phones buzz in unison—a mass email sent schoolwide. Draeya’s blood ices as she reads the subject line: Studio 4. Some art can’t be erased. Teachers’ heads swivel, whispers rise. Draeya meets Sionel’s eyes across the room: fear, shame, and desperate hope. He stands, but before he can reach her, Draeya’s phone vibrates with a single new message.

I saw what you did. Want to lose everything?

To be continued...