Jennifer moved through the school’s back corridors like a shadow, her dress swishing softly. She saw Jeremy duck into a storage room and, instead of coming out the same way, he used a second door that led into a long, dimly lit service hallway. He knows these back routes.

  “Jeremy! Stop!” Her voice echoed off the concrete walls.

  He halted and turned, a smirk twisting his features. “Well, look who’s playing detective.”

  “What do you want?” Jennifer demanded, closing the distance. “I’ve seen you watching us all night. What’s your plan?”

  “My plan?” Jeremy laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “My plan was to have a date tonight too. But Ava can’t be bothered. So that idiot Martin can’t be over there having a great time while I’m getting my heart stomped on. It’s not fair.”

  Jennifer stared at him, disgusted. “What?”

  “You followed me all the way out here,” he said, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “You really are as stupid as he is.”

  He moved faster than she anticipated. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. She twisted, landing a solid punch on his arm, but it only enraged him further. He shoved her hard, sending her stumbling into the open door of a janitor’s closet. Before she could regain her balance, he was on her, wrestling her phone from her grip. With a final, cruel shove, he pushed her fully inside and slammed the door shut. A heavy clunk signaled the manual bolt sliding into place on the outside.

  “Hey! Let me out! JEREMY!” Jennifer screamed, pounding her fists against the metal door. She heard his retreating footsteps, then his voice, muffled and venomous through the steel.

  “That idiot can’t be happy while I’m not.”

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  Then, silence.

  Back in the hall, Martin checked his phone for the tenth time. 7:45 PM. Jennifer had been gone for nearly half an hour. “Girl problems” shouldn't last this long. Worry gnawed at him. He called her. It rang until it went to voicemail. He called again. And again. Four times, no answer.

  Abandoning his post by the punch table, he made a decision he knew was risky. He approached the girls’ bathroom door and knocked softly. “Jenny? You in there?”

  No answer. He knocked again, louder. “Jen?”

  The door swung inward. A girl he didn’t know stared at him, her expression a mix of shock and affront.

  Martin cleared his throat, his face burning. “Sorry, I’m just—is there a girl in there? Brown, curly hair? Jennifer?”

  The girl wordlessly sidestepped him as if he were contagious, hurrying away. As she rejoined her friend, Martin heard her whisper, “…some freak lurking by the bathroom.”

  Humiliation hot in his veins, Martin retreated. He needed a distraction, something to do with his hands. He went back to the refreshments and absentmindedly picked up a fresh cup of the red punch. He took a sip. It tasted… sharper. Tangier. Probably just the cheap mix, he reasoned, or his own frayed nerves. Thirsty and anxious, he drained the cup.

  Time crawled. 8 PM. The dance would be ending soon. Jennifer was still missing. The worry was now a cold fist in his stomach. He decided to try the bathroom one more time, a final, desperate check.

  As he stood, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over him, so intense he had to grab the edge of the table. Is this it? Is this a Blood Wax episode? Before he could answer, his legs buckled. He fell forward, his weight crashing into the punch table. Plastic cups, the giant bowl, plates of cookies—everything went flying in a cacophony of shattering plastic and splashing liquid.

  The music skidded to a stop. Every eye in the hall turned to him, sprawled in a mess of red punch and broken table.

  A stunned silence held for a beat. Then, a few nervous chuckles. A couple of kinder souls stepped forward, offering hands. “You okay, man?”

  Martin, dazed and soaked, reached for one of the offered hands.

  Then a voice, loud and mocking, sliced through the quiet. “Hey, isn’t that Pee-boy?”

  Another joined in. “Yeah, it really IS him!”

  The snickers grew. The story of the “accident” was quickly whispered from the SSS1 students to the bewildered seniors. The laughter returned, not loud, but a pervasive, buzzing hum of ridicule. It wasn’t just sound; it was a physical pressure inside Martin’s skull, a chorus of a thousand whispering voices all saying the same thing: Freak. Loser. Pee-boy.

  He couldn’t breathe. Shoving the helping hands away, he stumbled to his feet and broke into a staggering run, fleeing the hall for the nearest sanctuary: the boys’ bathroom.

  He burst through the door, collapsing against the sink. He coughed, a deep, wrenching sound. In the mirror, his reflection was a nightmare—punch-soaked, mascara streaked, eyes wild. He saw a dark red smear around his mouth. Too dark for punch. Too thick.

  Slowly, he looked down at his right hand, the one he’d used to cover his mouth as he ran.

  It wasn’t punch staining his palm.

  It was blood.