The boys in the back—Mattheo Martinez and his crew—wouldn’t stop being fucking idiots. A crumpled ball of paper sailed over Y/n’s head and hit the whiteboard with a soft thwap.

Then? The bus home. Then? Hopefully, sleep. Or maybe that vague text about someone’s basement. Or whatever this shitty universe had queued up next. She should have known better, though. Never get your hopes up.

A sound cracked through the floor, sharp and wrong. Not a textbook dropped. Not a locker slammed.

A gunshot.

From downstairs.

The giggling stopped. Mr. Greeley’s pencil froze. For a second, the room was a held breath. Then the screaming started. Not one scream. A wave of them, rolling up the stairwell, down the hall, bleeding under the classroom door.