The projector died with a hiss. Darkness swallowed the studio.
But the real horror had only just begun.
Not outside.
Inside.
Inside Camille — where the walls were thinner.
Because now, she remembered everything.
Not the sanitized versions.
Not the curated excuses she'd whispered to herself at night.
Not the comfortable, survivable half-truths.
No.
Now she saw it all — the full story, unedited, unforgiven.
She had seen the videos.
Heard the rumors.
Laughed once — not at the jokes, but to stay safe.
She had walked past Lyra more times than she could count —
head down, hands trembling, sketchbook clutched like a life vest in a rising flood.
She had heard Lyra sobbing in the bathroom —
gut-wrenching, breathless, a sound so raw it froze her in place.
And she had walked away.
Why?
Because silence was easier.
Because safety tasted better than justice.
Because if you don't speak, you can't be targeted.
Right?
But if silence is safety…
at what cost?
And for whom?
She knew what Rika had planned.
She knew Josh was filming.
She knew Mara had stolen the records.
She didn't stop them.
She didn't join them.
She just… watched.
Like a mirror on the wall.
Reflecting cruelty.
Never breaking it.
And when Lyra died — pulled from the lake like a secret no one wanted to admit existed — Camille mourned her quietly.
She said the things people say.
"She was so talented."
"It's so tragic."
"No one saw it coming."
But that was a lie, wasn't it?
Camille did.
She saw it coming like headlights on a dark road and still didn't flinch.
Then she submitted her ghostwritten essay.
Accepted her scholarship.
Moved into the studio Lyra once begged to keep.
Posted her awards.
Posed in front of her paintings.
And told herself:
"I didn't do anything."
But now — now she understood what that really meant.
She had done everything.
Camille left the gallery in a daze.
She didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't run.
She just walked.
Like a shadow retracing someone else's final steps.
She reached the lake at twilight — the same hour Lyra had vanished.
The sky above was bruised with clouds.
The water, still and watching.
She stood at the edge, her reflection rippling below her feet.
Did Lyra look at the sky like this?
Did she wait for someone to stop her?
Would it have changed anything…
if Camille had knocked on the bathroom door?
Behind her, in the woods, a soft glow flickered.
A phone screen blinked to life.
Camille_Yu: Exhibit Complete
Status: Awake. Breached. Remembering.
Mira watched from the shadows.
She didn't intervene.
Not yet.
Because Camille hadn't drowned.
Not completely.
Not until she broke — not from violence, but from truth.
From knowing that she had watched a girl scream for help…
and stayed silent.
From realizing the silence had teeth.
And finally, finally, when the weight of guilt tore past the dam of denial, Camille whispered the only words that mattered:
"I should've helped her."
That was when Mira pressed the final key.
File Logged: Witness_Camille_Yu — Complete.