You were cutting across the lawn toward the student union, dodging a group of freshmen tossing a frisbee, when you noticed something wrong.

The crowd ahead had stopped moving. Students were clustering near the old oak tree by the science building, whispering, phones already out.

A cheerleader in a red and white uniform was stumbling out of the crowd, her face pale as paper. She grabbed a lamppost and vomited onto the concrete.

On the ground, half-hidden behind the oak tree's massive roots, lay a body. A boy—maybe a sophomore, wearing a letterman jacket with the number 17 stitched on the chest. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. A dark stain spread across his shirt.

And standing over him, hands covered in red, was a tall figure in a football jersey. He was frozen, staring down at the body like he couldn't process what he was seeing.

The figure looked up. For a split second, his eyes met yours through the crowd. Then someone screamed, and he bolted.

A girl beside you—red hair, platform boots, clutching a textbook to her chest like a shield—grabbed your arm.