"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Chase spat as he rushed down the stairs three steps at a time. He needed to hurry and find out who the hell was shooting up at the school. The school had to survive. People didn't need to die because someone had lost and decided to take everyone down with him in the most despicable way possible.
He had just reached the end of the agonisingly long stairs when a screen suddenly popped up in his face.
[People killed: 6/30]
Chase gritted his teeth in anger as he made his way down to the bathroom.
"Dammit!" He cursed. "That bastard has already killed six people. Who the fuck is this guy? What level of vendetta does he have against this school? This school is fucking useless, for God's sake."
He made his way just in front of the bathroom and that was when he saw her.
There, sprawled unnaturally, was a girl. Her body lay twisted, lifeless, the silence around her louder than any scream. The sight froze her in place, her breath hitching as her mind struggled to process what she was seeing.
"Oh, shit!" Chase cursed, stumbling backwards. This was definitely his first time seeing a dead body and even more violent the way it looked. He noticed a gunshot wound to her leg, then a gaping hole in her forehead. Her eyes were still open, her mouth slack.
Sick to his stomach, he turned into the bathroom and saw another body. Half of the head was gone, and what remained was the brain parts askew on the floor.
Chase backed out of the bathroom. He pressed his back against the cold wall, his breath shallow and uneven. The hallway was eerily silent, broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights above. Every step he took was deliberate, his sneakers barely whispering against the linoleum floor. He knew the shooter could be anywhere, and the weight of that knowledge made his pulse thunder in his ears.
He crept toward the next classroom door, heart hammering. Slowly, Chase leaned forward, peering through the narrow glass window. Inside, the sight froze him in place: students crouched beneath their desks, their faces pale and terrified. A teacher knelt among them, one hand raised as if to shield, the other pressed against trembling shoulders in a silent attempt at comfort.
Chase eased the door open just enough to step inside. The moment he crossed the threshold, a ripple of panic surged through the room. Several students gasped, shrinking further beneath their desks, eyes wide with terror. One girl clutched her friend's arm so tightly her knuckles turned white. The teacher's head snapped up, her face pale, her body instinctively shielding the cluster of students behind her.
"Wait—no!" Chase whispered urgently, raising his hands. "I'm not him. I don't have a gun. I'm not the shooter." His voice cracked under the weight of their fear, but he forced himself to stay steady, to sound convincing.
The students didn't move at first. Their flinches, their trembling, told him how deeply the terror had sunk in. He took a slow step back, keeping his palms open and visible. "I swear," he said, softer now, "I'm just trying to find out where he went."
Silence hung heavy, broken only by the muffled sobs of a boy under the desk. Finally, one student—a boy with messy hair and a trembling jaw—spoke up. "He… he was here," the boy stammered. "He came in. He shot Wendy." His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the empty desk where Wendy should have been. "Then he ran upstairs. Third floor. Said he was looking for Prince."
Chase's stomach twisted. Wendy. The name hit him like a stone, but he couldn't let himself freeze. He nodded, jaw tight, and turned toward the door.
"Wait!" the teacher's voice rang out, sharp but desperate. She rose halfway from her crouch, one hand reaching toward him. "Don't go out there. Stay here. It's safer." Her eyes pleaded with him, the weight of responsibility heavy in her gaze.
Chase paused, his hand on the doorframe. For a moment, he considered it—the safety of staying hidden, the fragile bubble of protection inside the classroom. But if he didn't complete the mission, he would die. He cared less about Prince who made his life miserable. He had no choice.
He thought of the shooter, still roaming, hunting.
"I can't," Chase said firmly, shaking his head. "I have to go."
The teacher's voice broke as she tried again. "Please—"
But Chase was already moving. He slipped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence outside pressed in, heavier than before. His footsteps echoed faintly as he headed toward the stairwell, each step carrying him deeper into danger, deeper into the unknown.
Chase pressed his back against the wall, his mind racing. The boy in the classroom had said the shooter went to the third floor. If Chase followed directly, he'd be trailing behind, always one step too late. He needed another angle. His eyes flicked toward the opposite stairwell at the end of the hall. If I go up there, maybe I can cut him off. Maybe I can get ahead of him.
The thought was reckless, but it burned in his chest like fire. He couldn't just wait. He couldn't hide. He had to do something.
Chase moved quickly but quietly, sneakers barely whispering against the floor as he crossed the corridor. His heart pounded with every step, the silence of the school pressing down on him like a weight. He reached the stairwell door, pushed it open, and slipped inside. The stairwell was dim, shadows pooling in the corners, the air heavy with the smell of dust and old paint.
As he climbed, his mind churned with desperate plans. If I see him… what then? He imagined lunging, grabbing for the weapon, using surprise as his only advantage. He imagined shouting, distracting him long enough for someone else to escape. None of the plans felt solid, but he clung to them anyway. Anything was better than nothing.
Step by step, Chase ascended, his breath shallow, his nerves stretched taut. At the landing, he paused, listening. A faint sound echoed from the hallway above — footsteps, slow and deliberate. Chase's pulse quickened. He pushed forward, rounding the corner.
And then he froze.
Just a few feet ahead, emerging from the shadows, was a figure. The shooter. Chase's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened as recognition slammed into him like a tidal wave.
"Travis?" The name slipped out before he could stop it, his voice trembling.
The figure turned, and in the dim light, Chase saw the face clearly. Familiar. Too familiar. His stomach dropped, his mind reeling.
"No," Chase whispered, shaking his head. "No, it can't be." His voice cracked, disbelief clawing at him. He gasped, the words spilling out like shards of glass. "You… you're the shooter."
The hallway seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with tension. Chase's world tilted, the boy he thought he knew now standing before him as the source of terror. His heart hammered, his thoughts spiraled. Shock, betrayal, fear — all colliding in a single, unbearable moment.
Travis's eyes met his, unreadable, cold. Chase felt the weight of the truth pressing down, heavier than anything he had ever carried. He had come here to cut the shooter off, to find a way to stop him. But he hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected Travis.