I published the letter at 7:43 a.m.
Taped it to the wall beside the front entrance of Ravenshade.
Typed. Printed. No name.
But everyone knew who wrote it.
'TO THE BLOGGER.
We see you. But more importantly, you see us.
What does that make you? A god? A warden? A coward with WiFi?
Your power depends on one thing: fear.
So here's mine: I'm not afraid of you anymore.
If you want to expose the truth, do it.
But you don't get to decide who deserves punishment.
Not anymore.
We're not your puppets.
Signed,'
No One Special. Just Watching.
Within thirty minutes, it had over 400 reposts on RavenLine.
By lunch, it was torn down.
By dinner, three new students had been "outed" for various sins: one for stealing Adderall, one for cheating on a math test, and one for secretly applying to a rival school.
All with proof. All humiliated.
It was clear: this was retaliation.
And it was just beginning.
***
"What the hell were you thinking?" Lena hissed, slamming my locker shut.
"I was thinking someone had to say something."
"You don't poke a wasp's nest and expect a thank you note."
"Good. Maybe now people will start realizing this thing only has power because we give it silence."
She looked at me like I was already halfway to a coffin.
"Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"If they come for you next… fight back louder."
I nodded.
***
That night, Ezra waited for me outside the library.
His hands were in his pockets. His face unreadable.
"You wrote the letter," he said.
I didn't bother denying it.
"Why?"
"Because fear only works if we keep it locked in."
He looked past me. Toward the rows of dim shelves.
Then he said: "I knew Isla Moreau."
My pulse still.
"She was my neighbor," he continued. "We weren't close. But we had a routine. We walked home together sometimes. And… she trusted me."
"What happened?"
"She gave me a key. Said it opened something important. Told me not to look unless she disappeared."
I stared. "You still have it?"
He nodded slowly. Then reached into his jacket.
A small brass key. Worn. Cold in my palm when he handed it to me.
"She disappeared in February," he said. "But no one ever found a note. Or a reason. Just a headline."
"What does it open?"
He hesitated. "A drawer in the old journalism classroom. Room B5."
"The one that's always locked?"
"The one they don't use anymore."
***
We went after hours.
Flashlights. Gloves. Silent footsteps.
The room was a time capsule. Dusty desks. Faded posters. A dried-out whiteboard with "TRUTH MATTERS" half-erased in red marker.
The drawer in question was rusted. Heavy. But the key worked.
Inside: a small manila envelope labeled "A.M."
I pulled it out. Hands shaking.
Inside were photos. Dozens. Maybe more.
Most were students. Some sleeping. Some walking. Some kissing in secret.
And at the bottom… a list.
Typed.
Names.
Dates.
Reasons.
My name was on it.
NOVA REYES - TRANSFER CASE -INCIDENT UNSEALED - "TOO LOUD"
"Too loud?" I whispered.
Ezra read over my shoulder. "It's a list of targets."
"From who?"
"Not the Blogger," he said. "Not just one person, anyway."
I looked up.
"What if this isn't one person with a grudge?" I asked. "What if it's a system?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because at that moment, we heard a sound.
Not the wind.
Not the door.
Breathing.
Behind the desk.
We both froze.
Then Ezra moved first, yanked the light toward the sound only to find a mask. Propped on the chair. Plain black. Empty eyeholes.
With a note pinned to it.
"You wanted the truth. You're standing in its grave."
Next time: bring a shovel.