Spectra Vondergeist floated invisibly above the cafeteria table, her ectoplasmic fingers scribbling furiously in her notebook. *This,* she thought, *is the juiciest scoop since Headmistress Bloodgood's secret stash of mortal rom-coms.*
Below her, Frankie Stein's bolts practically vibrated with nervous energy. She chewed the end of her pen dramatically, whispering, "*What if we staged an intervention?*"
Clawdeen Wolf leaned on the table, claws tapping impatiently. "*Or*—hear me out—we lock them in a closet together during the next full moon. Classic romance protocol."
Draculaura gasped theatrically, fanning herself. "*Ghoul*, that's *genius*! We could—"
"*No candles!*" Frankie and Heath Burns shouted simultaneously. Heath, licking maggot juice off his chin, waved his hands for emphasis. "Uh. Fire safety. Obviously."
Ghoulia Yelps, perched on the edge of the bench with her usual monotone skepticism, adjusted her glasses. A low groan rumbled from her throat as she tapped one claw against Spectra's floating ectoplasmic notes, which hovered midair, shimmering faintly in the cafeteria light. *Case Study: Jackie & DJ — Shared Wardrobe or Shared SOUL?*
Frankie muttered, gnawing pens like tiny sticks of tension, "Ghoulia's right. We need *proof*. Not just"—she gestured vaguely at Clawdeen—"werewolf shipping goggles."
Heath leaned back with a small flare of flame licking his sleeves, flames reflecting in his sunglasses. "Uh, hello? *Obvious* proof is that DJ keeps stealing my *entire* aesthetic—*and* my moves. Dude even called Frankie 'sparks' before *I* could last week. *Suspish.*"
Clawdeen snorted, rolling her eyes at Heath's melodrama. "Please. Sparks? That's like, what, two shades of obvious?"
Meanwhile, Holt Hyde—cool, unruffled, and just exuding too much charisma for the school's poor halls—wandered the hallway like a ghost in his own right. He tapped fingers against his thigh with a rhythm that seemed to sync with the distant thump of the boiler room. "Hey…any of you seen Jackie?" he asked a random group of monsters, his voice breezy, casual. He didn't really care—they didn't know, and neither did he. Not *yet.*
A snide voice floated down the hallway. "Why do you always care about that normie, Hyde?"
Holt's smile twitched. Perfect timing. Oh, *perfect.* He recognized that voice immediately—or rather, Jackie did. Because that voice belonged to Manny Taur, the school's resident minotaur bully.
Holt's fingers twitched in rhythm with his pulse. Jackie's voice hissed in the back of his skull, a quiet warning: *Don't. You'll blow everything.* Holt forced a grin, rolling his shoulders back. "Taur, buddy, you're *so* last season with the whole 'bully' routine. Try *innovation.* Maybe…" He snapped his fingers, conjuring a tiny green flame that danced between them like a spotlight. "*Pyrotechnic insults.*"
Manny's nostrils flared, snorting steam. "You think you're funny—"
"That's long since *confirmed*, baby." Holt sidestepped as Manny lunged, horns grazing a locker. Rust flakes drifted onto Holt's boots. "*And* you're murdering the school's aesthetic. Tragic."
Spectra's floating quill scribbled furiously: *Hyde vs. Taur: Dawn of Drama.* Invisible eyes were everywhere, as always.
The locker doors rattled under Manny's strength, metallic groans echoing through the hall. Holt twirled the flame like a circus baton, smirking. "Wow, Taur. Groundbreaking. Next time maybe aim for the locker instead of, oh wait—" He dodged another charge, letting Manny faceplant into a cork bulletin board plastered with Spectra's gossip clippings. "*Oops.*"
Holt's smirk faltered as Manny tore a chunk of corkboard, sending a shower of Spectra's gossip pages fluttering like confetti. The minotaur's froth-studded snort filled the hallway. "You're dead, Hyde."
"*Ghoul, please.*" Holt rolled his wrist, the flame flaring green. "I'd hate to ruin your *tragic villain arc* with a third-act plot twist." His pulse hammered, half adrenaline, half Jackie's panic leaking through their shared nerves. *Not now.*
Then they both froze. A presence that could stop the heart of even the bravest monster that was in trouble: Headmistress Bloodgood herself.
Her polished boots clicked against the floorboards, each step syncing ominously with the boiler's distant thump. Holt's flame sputtered like a deflated party balloon. *Ghoul, not now.*
Manny's horns twitched. "Uh—"
"*Manny Taur.*" Bloodgood's voice dripped like embalming fluid over polished leather. "Care to explain why my bulletin board resembles *kindling*?"
Holt coughed subtly into his fist, but Spectra's quill wrote *SUSPICIOUS* in elegant loops, floating midair.
Manny shuffled, kicking shredded gossip columns under a nearby bench. "*Hyde started it—*"
"*Correction.*" Holt flashed a grin, as smooth as chocolate pudding as always. "Taur here was *artistically expressing himself* via *destructive performance art.* I was merely…" He gestured dramatically toward the smoldering cork fragments. "*The audience.*"
Bloodgood's detached head floated closer. "Taur. Hyde. My office. *Now.*" Her shadow stretched long and ominous down the hallway. Holt shot Manny a "this-is-your-fault" glare, but the minotaur was already shuffling backward.
The walk to Bloodgood's office felt endless, every step echoing in Holt's skull. His pulse synced with the distant boiler—thump-thump-thump—a rhythm that could have set his entire body alight. *Don't change. Don't you dare—*
Inside the office, Bloodgood's gaze was surgical. "Explain, Mr. Hyde." Her disembodied head floated to hover beside the massive desk, paper-thin yet terrifyingly solid.
Holt's grin stayed in place, though sweat tickled the nape of his neck. "Headmistress Bloodgood, it's simple. I just wanted to enhance the *aesthetic.* You know…emphasize the drama, add… flair."
Bloodgood's eyebrows arched invisibly, a subtle crack in her eternal composure. "*Flair,*" she repeated. "Do you find it necessary to put *all* of Monster High's notice on fire just for flair?"
Holt's pulse quickened, part adrenaline, part panic. He caught a flash in the corner of his eye—unknown to him it was Spectra hovering invisibly, quill ready. He swallowed. "Uh, we're in the age of social media, Headmistress. Engagement metrics."
Bloodgood's head tilted. "*Metrics,*" she echoed, unimpressed. "*Holt Hyde, you are walking the fine line between theatrical genius and… an arsonist.*"
Holt's fingers twitched subtly, trying to control the fire inside him. "*I…* uh…*suppose I could have been more careful.*"
Bloodgood's head was moved closer. "*Suppose* is not an excuse for hazard, Hyde. And you—" she pointed at Manny Taur—"don't think your part in this will be ignored."
Manny shrank back, muttering unintelligible horned complaints.
Holt's pulse slowed, a mixture of relief and lingering adrenaline. The shadows were long, eerie, and just the right amount of spooky.
Spectra's quill hovered, scribbling: *Hyde vs. Taur: Office Edition—Who Will Blink First?*
And Spectra Vondergeist was *definitely* going to report it all.
It was so obvious now.
She had all the evidence she needed that Jackson Jekyll and Holt Hyde were indeed at the very least in love.
After all, why else would Holt Hyde keep showing up whenever Jackson Jekyll mysteriously vanished? *Classic romance trope.* Spectra's ectoplasmic fingers flew across her notebook, already drafting tomorrow's headline: *"Jekyll & Hyde: The Forbidden Flame?"* She could practically hear the clicks of fangirls refreshing her blog in anticipation.
Holt lounged against the lockers outside Bloodgood's office, drumming his fingers against the metal in a rhythm just shy of triggering his own transformation. Manny Taur had already been dismissed with detention scrubbing the scorch marks off the bulletin board—somehow, Holt had talked his way into nothing more than a warning. *Typical.* Still, the lingering prickle of heat under his skin warned him that Jackie was *this close* to clawing back control.
He was about to leave when—
"Not just yet, Mr. Hyde." Headmistress Bloodgood's voice slithered through the office door like dry ice vapor. Holt froze mid-step, fingers twitching against the locker. Behind him, Spectra's quill scratched furiously against parchment—*Hyde: Caught Red-Handed (Or Green-Flamed)?*
But ahe thought it was probably best that she left now.
Otherwise she might be noticed by Headmistress Bloodgood herself.
And off she went.
Holt meanwhile turned slowly, flashing a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Headmistress, if this is about the *aesthetic enhancement* of the hallway—"
Bloodgood's detached head was moved closer by her main body, her dark blood red eyes catching the flickering green light from Holt's restless fingers. "*Mr. Hyde.*" Her voice far less dry now, and instead, sharper, "Your theatrics are growing more concerning by the day."
Holt's grin didn't waver, but his pulse betrayed him—thudding unevenly against his ribs. Jackie's panic was leaking through again, sticky and unwelcome. "Come on, Headmistress Bloodgood," Holt scoffed, tossing his head like he wasn't fighting down the urge to bolt. "You're acting like I set the place on fire *on purpose.*"
Headmistress Bloodgood just sighed, "You know that isn't what I'm talking about." She gestured to Holt's still-smoking fingertips—green flames licking at the air like tiny, misbehaving ghosts.
Holt flexed his fingers, watching the embers dance. He forced a laugh. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you and Mr. Jekyll, of course." She simply sighed.
"W-what do you mean?" Holt's fingers twitched, stuttering as if he WAS Jackie. The green fire between his knuckles flickered erratically—half panic, half something far worse: the creeping dread of firced exposure. Headmistress Bloodgood's crimson gaze pinned him like a butterfly specimen, her detached head tilting just enough to cast an elongated shadow across the trophy case behind her.
The brass plaques reflected Holt's frozen grin—perfectly practiced, flawlessly fake. Headmistress Bloodgood's words coiled around his ribs like barbed wire.
"Do you know why I wanted you two in my school Mr. Hyde?" Headmistress Bloodgood's voice dropped to a whisper that slithered through the office like dry ice vapor. Holt's grin faltered for half a second—just long enough for the trophy case's reflection to catch it. Behind him, Spectra's abandoned quill hovered midair, ink dripping onto parchment in Rorschach blots.
Holt forced a laugh that came out too sharp. "Let me guess—my *iconic* fashion sense?" He gestured to his singed sleeves, the motion deliberately theatrical. The green flame between his fingers guttered weakly. Jackie's panic was a livewire down his spine now, fraying his control.