Sleep never came.
I lay there long after Lena started snoring, the message burning behind my eyelids like a brand.
"Find me, Nova. Or I'll find you."
The Blogger had my number. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Which meant… someone in this school already knew who I was. What I'd done. Maybe what I was running from.
I didn't flinch when the morning bell rang.
****
The first scandal hit before second period.
I was walking toward Lit & Culture, still adjusting to the stiff uniform. A gray blazer, pleated skirt, raven crest over the heart, when the whispers started spreading like wildfire.
"She actually sent those?"
"Her dad's a senator, right? Holy hell."
"Do you think the Blogger hacked her phone?"
"Please, the Blogger doesn't need to hack. People give them secrets."
I paused near the vending machine where a group of girls huddled, phones out, expressions somewhere between glee and pity. Celine, the alpha queen from lunch yesterday stood frozen, her eyes locked on the screen like it was a horror movie she couldn't look away from.
And then I saw it.
Over someone's shoulder, a photo.
A screenshot.
Messages from Celine's personal phone. Explicit ones. Private ones. Sent to someone named Luca who, very publicly, was not her boyfriend.
There were dozens.
And then… there was a video.
Just the audio, muffled and breathy, but enough to leave no doubt: it was her voice. And she wasn't reciting poetry.
"Oh my god," someone whispered. "She's going to die."
Celine's face turned pale, then red, then terrifyingly calm. She threw her phone into the trash can like it had bitten her.
And that's when I realized something horrifying.
She wasn't surprised.
She was waiting for this.
****
I found Lena outside the gym during free period, chewing on the edge of her pen and pretending to do chemistry homework.
"Did you see it?" I asked.
"Who didn't?" she said without looking up. "Blogger strikes again."
"She barely reacted."
"She's a senior. They've all been hit once. Some just… survive better."
"Why does no one do anything?"
Lena finally looked at me, eyes sharp.
"Because no one knows who it is. No trace, no IP, no way to fight back. They post from library computers, burner phones, hacked IDs. Sometimes, people accuse each other. But most just keep their heads down and pray they're not next."
I sat beside her, knees bouncing. "And if you are next?"
"You get ruined. Or you transfer. Or…" she trailed off.
"Or what?"
She didn't answer.
****
In the afternoon, I found myself in the library, not reading, just hiding. Trying to breathe. Trying not to feel like the walls were pressing in on me.
That's when I saw him again.
Ezra Maddox.
Alone, seated at a window table, one hand propped under his chin as he read from a thick copy of The Secret History. His glasses,black-rimmed and unfairly flattering,made him look less like a schoolboy and more like a dangerous academic.
He noticed me watching.
Of course he did.
He raised a brow and said, "I hear you're already famous."
"Celine beat me to it this morning," I replied dryly.
"Careful," he said. "If you're too sarcastic, people will think you're smart."
I hesitated. Then: "Do you think I'm smart?"
"I think you're sitting at their table," he said casually, nodding at the corner desk I hadn't even noticed.
I turned.
There it was. An old, scratched table tucked in the farthest corner of the library. Dusty. Forgotten.
A faded carving on the surface caught my eye.
"Confess, or be exposed."
-B
I stepped back.
Ezra's voice was closer now, just over my shoulder. "The Blogger used to sit there. Sophomore year. Rumor is they wrote every post at that table."
"You said 'they.' You don't think it's one person?"
He shrugged. "Could be. Could be a group. Could be the administration."
I turned to him. "You're really casual about this."
"That's the only way to survive here."
I folded my arms. "You've never been exposed?"
"No," he said. "But maybe that's because I don't keep secrets."
Liar.
His voice was too smooth. His gaze too polished. I knew a lie when I heard one. I'd lied like that before. A lie smooth as silk but cold underneath.
I didn't press it. Not yet.
That night, Celine didn't come to dinner.
Rumor was she'd gone home for "family reasons."
Translation: damage control.
By ten p.m., the school's Wi-Fi had been shut down.
By midnight, the Blogger's site was still up miraculously, ominously running on a private server.
And at 3:00 a.m., another message arrived.
Just like the night before.
"You're not like the others. You're more fun."
"Careful where you sit."
-The Blogger
I lay there in the dark, wide awake again.
The last row. The Blogger's old seat. The table in the library.
They were leaving breadcrumbs. No challenges.
But why me?
Because I was new? Because I had a past worth digging up?
Or because I was the only one crazy enough to chase them?
I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
Then I whispered to myself, for the first time:
"Fine. Let's play."