The school always sounded different after hours. During the day it's loud enough to blur together, but now each sound stands alone, sharp and exposed. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The squeak of my shoes on tile. The faint rattle of an air vent that never quite shuts off.
I check my clipboard and move down the hallway.
Room 214 was clear. 216 too. She made a small checkmark beside each number, trying not to think about how empty the building felt. She told herself it was fine. Normal. Just another after-school sweep.
Something scraped further down the hall.
I stop.
The sound came again. Metal, dull and wet, dragged against something hard.
"Hello? Is someone there?" I call.
My voice sounds too small.
No answer.
I hesitate, then move forward. The lockers on the left stretch on in identical rows, dented and scratched from years of use. Halfway down, one of them hangs open, bent inward at the hinge.
"I thought I heard something," I murmur, stepping closer. My eyes scan the lockers, half-expecting nothing. Then, a subtle shift in shadow catches my attention.
Someone stood beside one of the bent lockers.
It's Taylor Hebert.
I know her. Everyone does. Quiet. Keeps her head down. Always alone. The girl people whispered about after the locker. The girl no one quite knows how to talk about anymore.
Her uniform is torn and stained. There was blood on her hands. Not a lot. Enough to notice. Her hair clung damply to her face.
I could swear I saw swirls in her eyes.
"Mina?" Taylor said.
The sound of my name lands wrong. Not relieved. Not questioning. Just… flat.
My grip tightens on the clipboard. "What… what happened to you?"
Taylor didn't answer immediately. Her eyes were still. Too still. Fixed. Like she was studying me, not seeing me.
"It is nothing," Taylor said.
I freeze, scanning the cuts, the blood, the unnatural pupils. Every instinct screams that something is wrong, but I can't step back fast enough. Finally, I swallow and take a careful step back. "Okay… just… try to be careful," I whisper, voice tight.
I back away slowly, not turning my back until I reach the corner. Then I leave, shoes squeaking too loudly as I hurry down the hall.
I don't look back.
Later, I'll try to explain it to myself. That Taylor had been hurt. That trauma makes people act strange. That whatever happened in that locker left deeper marks than anyone wants to admit.
But none of those explanations account for the way Taylor said my name. Not like someone asking for help. Like someone checking a label.
When I finish my sweep, I mark the hallway as cleared without going back down it. I tell myself that's fine. I tell myself I wasn't afraid.
I'm lying.