Friday afternoon. The last bell had rung forty-five minutes ago. Most of the school had cleared out — the parking lot was a ghost town, the hallways silent except for the distant hum of a floor buffer.

You were supposed to be home by now. Instead, you were sitting in Room 214, stuck in detention for something you're still convinced wasn't your fault. The only other person in the room was Ezra.

He sat two rows over, black hoodie up, one earbud in, staring out the window like he was trying to will the sun into setting. The supervising teacher, Mr. Calloway, had stepped out twenty minutes ago to "make a quick phone call." He hadn't come back.

The clock on the wall ticked. The fluorescent lights buzzed. Outside, the sky was turning an ominous shade of grey.

Then — a click from the door. The sort of latch mechanism that only locks from the outside.