Cynthia woke with a start, her body drenched in sweat, the remnants of her nightmare clinging to her like a cold, suffocating fog. Her heart thundered violently against her ribs as though it wanted to escape, and her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. She had dreamt of Janet again. The dream was always the same—the dark forest, the mist curling around twisted, skeletal trees, shadows moving as though they were alive. And Janet… Janet's eyes always stared at her, wide, terrified, accusing. Silent, yet screaming at her in ways Cynthia could feel in her very bones.
She tried to shake it off, but the sense of dread lingered like a second skin. Perhaps it was the stillness of the dormitory, the oppressive quiet of the night, or the way the moonlight sliced through the curtains and painted long, shifting shadows on the floor. Every creak, every whisper of the wind against the window made her jump.
Mara was gone, as usual. She had gone to her nightly prayers hours earlier, leaving Cynthia alone with her racing thoughts. Alone, yes—but not safe. Not from herself, not from the memories she had carefully buried, and certainly not from the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching her.
Cynthia sat up on the edge of her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the storm inside her mind. Janet had been her closest friend, almost like a sister. Until the betrayal. Until Alex. Until her death. And now, the guilt that had never left her loomed over her like a dark shadow. She had never told anyone what she felt, how she blamed herself for Janet's death—or for what she hadn't done.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of her phone on the bedside table. A text. No name. No number. Just a chilling message:
"I know what you did."
Cynthia's stomach turned to ice. Her fingers hovered over the screen as if touching it would make the message scream at her. She scrolled, frantically searching for clues, for any indication of who could have sent it. But there was nothing—untraceable number, no sender ID.
Someone knew.
Her hands trembled as she typed back, hesitant and nervous: "Who is this? What do you want from me?"
No reply came.
For the rest of the morning, Cynthia moved mechanically through her day. Lectures, notes, dance rehearsals—all of it seemed muted, as if the colors had been drained from the world. Even the bright sunlight streaming through the windows seemed dim.
Alex noticed immediately. His eyes followed her as she moved through the cafeteria, the library, the studio.
"Cynthia, are you okay?" he asked, concern threading his voice as he reached for her hand across the table.
She pulled back instinctively. "I'm fine," she said, her voice hollow.
He didn't push. He had learned early on that when Cynthia wanted space, pressing too hard only made things worse. But the unease in his chest wouldn't let him ignore it. Something was very wrong.
Meanwhile, someone else was moving unseen, blending into the crowds and shadows. Ian. His presence was quiet but deliberate, precise. Every step, every glance was part of a plan that no one—least of all Cynthia—could begin to suspect. He was a ghost among students, a shadow that walked in daylight, watching, waiting.
Back in the dormitory, Cynthia tried to focus on her studies, but her concentration was shattered every few minutes by thoughts of Janet. She remembered the fight in the school hall, the push, the angry words that had felt so important in that moment. She had walked away, and by the next day… Janet was gone. The news of her death had hit her like a tidal wave.
And now, even after all this time, Cynthia felt Janet's absence as a constant weight pressing on her chest. The guilt. The regret. The lingering suspicion that if she had only…
Her hand shook as she reached for her pen. Every note she tried to take seemed meaningless, her mind slipping back into shadows.
And then came the packages. They were small at first—notes slipped under her door, strange trinkets left on her desk. Then the gifts grew more sinister: small boxes with twisted contents, disturbing objects, fingers carved from wax, and cryptic messages. I know what you did. You can't hide.
At first, she suspected Mara. Perhaps Mara knew about Janet in ways Cynthia hadn't realized. But Mara was innocent, her devotion genuine. And yet, the seeds of doubt were planted. Even Mara, who had prayed for her every night, could be hiding something.
Violet, too, had been more aggressive lately. Her obsession with Alex had sharpened, her jealousy practically visible in the way she glared, whispered, schemed. It made Cynthia nervous. Everything seemed to be circling her—Violet's envy, Mara's cryptic warnings, the threatening packages, the memory of Janet. She couldn't trust anyone, and the isolation she felt tightened around her like a noose.
That evening, she left the dormitory for a walk through the campus gardens, hoping the fresh air would clear her mind. The scent of wet earth and jasmine should have been soothing, but it wasn't. The rustle of the leaves, the distant footsteps echoing across the pathways—it all made her jump.
"You okay?" Alex's voice came softly from behind. He stepped into her path, eyes filled with concern.
"Yes," she said, lying again, though her voice wavered.
Alex fell into step beside her. "You're tense. Something's wrong. I can feel it."
She wanted to tell him everything—about the dreams, the guilt, the packages—but she couldn't. Not yet. Not while she still didn't understand it herself.
"I'm just thinking," she whispered.
He studied her for a long moment. His gaze was searching, almost desperate. But he said nothing, guiding her back toward the dormitory with a protective hand over hers.
That night, Cynthia couldn't sleep. Every shadow in the room seemed to stretch toward her, every sound magnified. The memory of Janet's smile, Alex's betrayal, Violet's obsession—they all combined into a single, suffocating weight pressing on her chest.
Then she noticed the envelope. Sliding silently under her door while she had been lost in thought, jagged edges torn as if it had been handled roughly.
Her fingers shook as she opened it. Inside, a photograph. Janet, smiling—but with eyes that seemed to pierce directly through Cynthia, accusing her. And a note, written in messy, urgent handwriting:
"You can't hide from what you did."
Cynthia dropped the envelope, her mind screaming. She wanted to run, to flee—anywhere. But some force, some unseen hand, seemed to hold her in place. She knew this was only the beginning.
In the distance, shadows moved with silent purpose. Someone was watching. Someone knew.
Somewhere else in the city, Ian moved silently, eyes scanning every street, every alley, every corner. He was calm, unnervingly so, but his mind was calculating, recording every detail for later. Every person he observed, every movement he noticed, was a thread in a tapestry no one could yet see.
Meanwhile, Mr. James Akodu sat in his high-rise office, surrounded by luxury and power, yet shadows lingered in the corners of his room. Contracts, photographs, and documents lay across his desk. His mind was a web of ambition, influence, and secrets—some of which he did not fully understand. While he plotted the course of his empire, the fates of those around him were quietly shifting, unnoticed until it was too late.
Cynthia paced her room once again, thinking about the dream, the packages, Janet, Alex, Violet, Mara, and the uncertainty that seemed to shadow every corner of her life. Every piece felt connected, though she could not yet see the pattern. Every step she took brought her closer to a truth she wasn't ready to face.
She didn't sleep that night.
And deep in the shadows, unseen by all, the first threads of a plan were being set into motion.