You didn’t mean to listen.

All you wanted was your sketchbook the one you left beneath the auditorium seat during sixth period. The hall was empty, the door slightly ajar. You figured no one would be there this late, not with the sun already dipping low behind the gym windows.

But then you heard her voice.

Larissa.

You freeze behind the thick velvet curtain, your fingers brushing the edge of the sketchbook. Her voice doesn’t sound the way it usually does in class bright and teasing. No, this one is sharper. Colder.

“…it wasn’t supposed to take that long,” she says. “But the way she begged God, it was almost annoying.”

Another voice laughs. Male. Unfamiliar.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says. “Blood under your nails again?”_

“I like it under my nails,” Larissa replies softly. Too softly. Like it’s a secret she wants to keep. Like it thrills her.

Your blood runs cold.

Your stomach twists.

You try to breathe, but your lungs are frozen, your chest tight. Your fingers tremble as you pull your hand back from the sketchbook, terrified the motion might make noise.

This can’t be real. She can’t mean that.

But deep down, something in you knows she does.

The silence that follows is louder than any scream.

Then footsteps.

Slow. Getting closer.

Your heart races.

And still, you don’t move.