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Chapter 2 - The Equation!

The second bell rang, slicing through the chatter of the hallway like chalk against a board.

Lila Chen hurried toward Room 109, clutching her notebook to her chest. First math class of the year. She wasn't thrilled — not because she hated math, but because the teacher, Mr. Rowan, had a reputation. Former engineer. Cold as steel. Ran his classroom like a lab experiment.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and new textbooks. Rows of desks sat in perfect symmetry. Mr. Rowan stood at the front, his tie slightly crooked, thick glasses magnifying eyes that missed nothing.

"Take your seats," he said, voice clipped. "We begin."

Ravi slid into the desk beside Lila, yawning. "You think he sleeps here?"

"Probably recharges in the supply closet," she whispered back.

Maya entered a moment later, clutching a half-open binder and looking like she'd run a marathon. "Is this Algebra II?" she asked breathlessly.

Mr. Rowan's gaze didn't waver. "You are in the right place. You are also late."

Maya flushed crimson and hurried to a desk near the back.

The class began — numbers, equations, logic, rhythm. The steady scratch of pencils was almost hypnotic. But beneath it all, there was tension. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly. A faint hum from the vent filled the silence between questions.

Lila's pencil tapped against her desk. Something about the air felt…off.

"Ms. Chen," Mr. Rowan said suddenly, snapping her attention back. "If x + y = 9 and x − y = 3, what is x?"

Lila blinked, then answered automatically, "Six."

He nodded once, turned back to the board, and continued as if nothing happened. But his eyes lingered on her a fraction too long — analytical, measuring.

By the time the bell rang, most students bolted for the door.

"Man," Ravi muttered, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, "I swear he stares into your soul."

"Maybe he sees numbers floating over our heads," Lila joked.

"Or maybe he's planning world domination."

They laughed, but the unease lingered.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of introductions and syllabi. Lila met up with Maya at lunch, introducing her to their small table near the window. Jasper wandered over, soccer jersey half untucked, with Ethan trailing behind.

"You're in Rowan's class too, right?" Jasper asked between bites of pizza.

Lila nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

He grinned. "He used to teach my brother. Rumor is, last year he caught a senior cheating during midterms and made her cry in front of the whole class."

"Harsh," Maya said quietly.

"Yeah, but that's not even the weird part," Ethan added. "Apparently, she transferred schools a week later. Said she couldn't handle the pressure."

Lila frowned. "That's… dramatic."

Ethan shrugged. "Maplewood's full of drama. You'll see."

A sharp whistle from the next table made them all glance over — the student council was organizing something, a fundraiser or pep rally. The cafeteria buzzed with laughter and gossip, but somewhere beneath it, a current of unease still ran through Lila's mind.

Something about Mr. Rowan's class — the way his gaze had flicked toward the door mid-lecture — stuck with her. Like he'd seen someone, or something, that didn't belong.

By the end of the week, everyone had settled into routine — mostly. Homework, cafeteria chaos, sports practice. Maplewood's rhythm.

Then came Friday.

The morning began with drizzle, gray skies pressing low over the school. The PA crackled: "Attention students — please note that after-school activities are canceled due to weather."

Inside, the corridors were dim and cold. Lila walked with Ravi toward math class again, both half-asleep.

"Rainy Fridays should be illegal," Ravi muttered.

"Tell that to Rowan," she said. "He probably loves this. Numbers and gloom — perfect combo."

They reached Room 109. The door was closed. Odd — Mr. Rowan was always there early. Lila exchanged a look with Ravi, then turned the handle.

The smell hit her first. Sharp. Metallic.

Then she saw it.

Mr. Rowan lay sprawled beside his desk, his glasses cracked, one lens missing. A dark stain spread across the tiled floor. The whiteboard marker in his hand had rolled away, leaving a jagged blue streak near his palm.

For a moment, the world stopped moving.

Ravi's voice was barely a whisper. "Lila… oh my god."

Maya appeared behind them, clutching her books. "What's—" She froze mid-sentence, hand flying to her mouth.

Lila stumbled backward, her heart hammering. "We need to— we need to get someone."

Ravi nodded, bolting down the hall. Lila stayed frozen in the doorway, unable to look away. Something about the scene didn't fit — the way his desk chair was still upright, the scattered papers, the marker line that trailed off halfway.

It wasn't chaos. It looked arranged.

Within minutes, the hallway filled with noise — teachers shouting, students craning their necks to see. Principal Hawthorne arrived, face pale and tight. "Everyone back! Back!"

Lila felt someone pull her away. Her body moved on autopilot as a teacher guided her to an empty classroom. She sat down, staring at her trembling hands.

Her mind replayed the image in fragments — the cracked glasses, the marker, the equation half-finished on the board:

(x + y = …)

It didn't make sense.

By lunch, the entire school knew. A teacher's been found dead.

Rumors spread like wildfire — accident, heart attack, poisoning, murder.

Police arrived. Students were sent home early. Reporters waited outside the gates, cameras flashing.

That night, Lila couldn't sleep. Her phone buzzed every few minutes with texts from classmates. She ignored them all.

Finally, near midnight, she opened a new message from an unknown number.

Unknown: You were in Room 109 this morning.

Lila's chest tightened.

Lila: Who is this?

No reply.

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown: You saw something you shouldn't have.

She sat upright in bed, every muscle in her body tense. Outside, rain battered the window.

Then another text came through — a picture.

Grainy. Dimly lit.

It showed the corner of Mr. Rowan's classroom — and on the whiteboard, something she hadn't noticed before.

Below the half-finished equation, someone had written a single word in shaky handwriting:

"Solve."

The next morning, Maplewood felt like a different school. Police tape sealed off Room 109. Hallway whispers followed Lila everywhere.

"Did you hear they're saying it was a break-in?"

"No way. Why just his room?"

"I heard he had enemies."

Ravi met her by her locker, eyes bloodshot. "They questioned me last night."

"Me too," Lila said. "They think we might've touched something."

Maya approached quietly. "The cops think it was someone from the school."

Lila froze. "A student?"

Maya shrugged helplessly. "They didn't say. But they asked a lot about who was there early."

"Mr. Rowan was strict, not suicidal," Ravi muttered. "Someone did this."

Lila glanced at the caution tape down the hall, the flashing lights of a police cruiser still visible outside. "Yeah," she said softly. "But why leave a message?"

They didn't have an answer.

That weekend, Maplewood's quiet suburb buzzed with fear. News anchors called it The Maplewood Mystery. Parents kept their kids home. The school board promised "enhanced security."

Lila spent hours scrolling through old photos on the school website. In one group photo of the math department, she noticed something odd — a blurred face in the background, standing near Mr. Rowan's desk. The file name read Staff_Event_2023_Confidential.

When she clicked it again, the image vanished. "File not found."

Her phone buzzed. Another message from the same number.

Unknown: You're close.

She stared at the screen, heartbeat thundering.

Close to what?

Then another ping — this time, an attachment. A photo of the same whiteboard. But now the equation was complete.

x + y = 9

x − y = 3

And underneath, the word again: Solve.

Lila whispered to herself, "Six and three…"

Her mind spun — six and three.

Six. Three.

June third? A date?

Or…

Room 63?

She scribbled notes in her journal, trying to make sense of it.

Then she noticed something else in the background of the photo — a reflection in the window near the whiteboard. A figure standing just outside, barely visible.

Someone who'd been watching.

On Monday, the school reopened. Students shuffled through the halls like ghosts.

As Lila reached her locker, she noticed a slip of paper sticking out. She unfolded it slowly.

Scrawled in neat, sharp handwriting were two words:

"Keep quiet."

She froze, scanning the hall. Faces blurred past — Jasper laughing with his teammates, Maya checking her phone, Ethan doodling on a notebook.

Any one of them could've slipped the note in.

Her pulse quickened. She tucked the paper into her bag and forced herself to breathe.

Somewhere, a bell rang.

The sound was ordinary.

The fear wasn't.

Because at Maplewood High, equations weren't the only things that needed solving anymore.

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