Josh hadn't slept properly in three days.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it — the locker, the crying, his own face glitching across Brackley's screens like a curse.
People had stopped laughing.
Worse, they'd stopped looking him in the eye.
His girlfriend had blocked him on Snap. His coach "suggested" he sit the next game out. Even his friends were quieter in group chats, the jokes fewer, the messages shorter.
Isolation crept in like black mold.
And then the second USB showed up.
No note this time. Just a plain black drive slipped into his lacrosse bag between classes. He hesitated for a moment before plugging it in, jaw clenched.
An audio file.
No title. Just static. Then a voice.
Feminine. Sharp. Familiar.
"Josh is an idiot. He's useful, sure — brute force always is — but if someone takes him down? Not my problem. We just need to keep the heat off us. If he burns, I'll light the match myself."
His spine stiffened.
Rika.
It sounded like her. The rhythm, the smugness, the contempt. The way she used words like chess pieces.
He sat there, frozen, letting the words loop. Over and over. The voice distorting slightly like it was pulled from a call — not fake, but stolen.
He tried to breathe.
Tried to tell himself it wasn't real.
But then he remembered her expression when the locker posters showed up.
She hadn't looked confused. Or shocked. Or scared.
She'd smiled.
That night, Josh received a DM from an anonymous Instagram account:
@burningcrowns
"You didn't fall. She pushed."
Attached was a screenshot:
A Discord thread between two accounts — one clearly Rika's private handle.
RikaD: "If we pin it on Josh, it dies with him. His dad will scrub it like last time."
Josh stared at it.
His ears burned.
His fists clenched.
So this was it.
They were eating him alive from the inside, and he hadn't even seen it coming.
The next day, he waited outside the student council room. Rika stepped out, flanked by two younger girls she treated like accessories.
Josh blocked her path.
Her smile cracked for the first time all year.
"You set me up," he hissed. "That locker video — the posters — the USBs. You're behind it."
She rolled her eyes. "Josh, you're spiraling. Maybe take a break from your conspiracy blogs?"
"You used me," he snapped. "Just like you used Lyra. You made me the monster so you could stay clean."
Her expression flickered. That name still had weight — Lyra.
"You need help," she said coolly. "And if you come near me again, I'll report it."
He didn't move. Just whispered, "Already did."
Then he walked away.
What Rika didn't know was that Josh had recorded the entire exchange.
He'd left his phone on in his hoodie pocket.
The audio was shaky but clear:
Rika laughing.
Calling him unstable.
Deflecting. Dodging. Denying any involvement with the bullying.
And in the middle of it — a fatal sentence.
"We made a mistake with Lyra, but she couldn't handle it. That's not on us."
Josh sent the clip to two places:
An anonymous encrypted tip line linked to a political watchdog group.
A parent-run Facebook group monitoring Brackley Academy's administration.
Within 24 hours, Rika's name was trending.
Within 48, her father's PR team issued a statement.
"These are fabricated recordings being used in a targeted harassment campaign against my daughter. We are cooperating with school officials and cybersecurity experts."
But the damage had begun.
Parents whispered.
Teachers distanced themselves.
Even the younger students avoided her gaze.
Rika stormed through the hallways like a queen deposed, her perfect hair and practiced smirk unraveling inch by inch.
And Josh — once the blunt weapon of her cruelty — watched from the sidelines, still broken, still boiling, but finally pulling a thread.
Back in her room, Mira watched the fallout unfold across her monitors.
No celebration. No smile.
Just a soft breath as she clicked save on a folder labeled:
Rika_DownPhase_01.mp4
The real collapse hadn't started yet.
But now?
Now the crown had cracked.