The bell rang, scattering students into the hallway. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but Armand stayed behind, his eyes fixed on Grace Johnson. She hadn't moved. The knife was gone, tucked away as if it had never existed.
He approached slowly, his footsteps echoing in the empty room.
"You shouldn't bring that here," he said, voice low.
Grace looked up, her expression unreadable. "You think it's about the knife?" she asked.
Armand frowned. "Isn't it?"
She leaned forward, her tone sharper than steel. "The knife is only a messenger. What matters is the whisper."
Armand's chest tightened. He remembered the sound — faint, deliberate, impossible to ignore. "What does it mean?"
Grace stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "It means you've been chosen. And whether you like it or not, you'll hear it again."
Before he could reply, she walked past him, leaving the classroom in silence. Armand stared at the door, the weight of her words pressing down on him.
The whisper wasn't just a sound. It was a warning. And it was only the beginning.