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Nyra's pov

I break up with Eli Mercer in front of half the cafeteria, and I don't even feel guilty about it.

Maybe I should. He's been nothing but perfect for three months—attentive, thoughtful, the kind of boyfriend who remembers your coffee order and texts good morning before you're even awake. My friends think I'm insane. Maya spent twenty minutes last night trying to talk me out of this, listing all the reasons Eli is "literally the ideal guy."

But perfect is the problem.

Perfect feels like a performance. Like he's playing a role he's memorized too well, hitting all the right marks without ever breaking character. And the way he looks at me sometimes—not like he loves me, but like he's studying me—makes my skin crawl.

So here we are. Third period lunch. Monday. The cafeteria smells like disinfectant and questionable lasagna, and I'm about to ruin Eli Mercer's day.

He's sitting at our usual table near the windows, already halfway through his sandwich. He sees me approaching and smiles—that easy, confident smile that makes other girls stare. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes so blue they look Photoshopped. He's objectively gorgeous. I know this. Everyone knows this.

I sit down across from him and don't smile back.

"Hey." His voice is warm, concerned. He can already tell something's wrong. Of course he can. "You okay?"

"We need to talk."

Three words. Universal code for this is about to suck. Eli's smile falters, but he recovers quickly, setting down his sandwich and giving me his full attention. Always so composed. So controlled.

"Okay." He leans forward slightly. "What's going on?"

I rehearsed this. I had a whole speech prepared about needing space, about how it's not him, it's me, all the clichés that are supposed to soften the blow. But sitting here, watching him watch me with those too-intense eyes, I can't remember any of it.

So I just say it.

"I think we should break up."

The words hang in the air between us. Around us, conversations continue—laughter, gossip, the clatter of trays. Normal cafeteria noise. But our table has gone silent.

Eli doesn't move. Doesn't blink. For three long seconds, he just stares at me like I've spoken a language he doesn't understand.

Then: "Why?"

"Because I don't feel the same way you do." It's the truth, even if it's not the whole truth. "You're great, Eli. You really are. But I don't think this is working for me anymore."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No. That's kind of the problem. You never do anything wrong. You're always perfect, and it's—" I stop myself, realizing how ridiculous that sounds. Sorry, you're too good of a boyfriend isn't exactly a compelling argument. "It's just not working. I'm sorry."

I expect anger. Maybe hurt. Definitely some kind of emotional reaction.

Instead, Eli just nods slowly, like I've confirmed something he already suspected.

"Okay," he says quietly.

That's it. Just okay.

Not please don't do this or can we talk about it or any of the protests I was bracing myself for. He accepts it with the same unsettling calm he approaches everything else.

"Okay?" I repeat, thrown off.

"If that's what you want." His voice is steady, neutral. "I'm not going to force you to stay with me, Nyra."

There's something in the way he says my name—something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. But his expression is unreadable, and I tell myself I'm being paranoid.

"Thank you for understanding," I say, even though understanding doesn't feel like the right word for whatever this is.

I stand up, grabbing my backpack. This is the part where I'm supposed to feel relieved, right? Free? Instead, my stomach is churning, and I can't shake the feeling that I've just made a terrible mistake.

"Nyra."

I turn back. Eli hasn't moved, but his eyes have that strange intensity again—like he's memorizing this moment, cataloging every detail.

"Be careful," he says softly.

"What?"

"Just... be careful."

It's an odd thing to say. Careful of what? But before I can ask, Maya appears at my elbow, linking her arm through mine.

"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's go."

She steers me away from the table, away from Eli's unsettling stare. I can feel people watching us—whispers spreading through the cafeteria like wildfire. By the end of lunch, everyone will know that Nyra Hale dumped Eli Mercer.

"You okay?" Maya asks as we dump our trays.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." I force a smile. "It's done. I'm fine."

"He took it well."

"Too well."

Maya squeezes my arm. "You did the right thing. If it didn't feel right, then it wasn't right. Simple as that."

I nod, but nothing about this feels simple.

The rest of lunch passes in a blur. Maya tries to distract me with gossip about some drama in her calculus class, but I'm barely listening. My mind keeps replaying Eli's reaction—or lack thereof. The way he just accepted it, like he'd been expecting it all along.

Be careful.

Careful of what?

The warning bell rings, jolting me back to reality. Students begin filtering out of the cafeteria, heading to fourth period. Maya and I grab our bags and join the stream of bodies moving through the hallway.

"I'll see you after school?" Maya says as we reach the junction where we split off to different classes.

"Yeah. Text me later."

She disappears into the crowd, and I head toward the east wing for AP Literature. The hallway is packed, loud with conversation and locker doors slamming. Normal. Everything is normal.

Except it doesn't feel normal.

There's a strange energy in the air—a tension I can't quite name. Or maybe it's just me, projecting my own anxiety onto everyone else. I'm probably overthinking this. It was just a breakup. People break up every day. By tomorrow, no one will even care.

I'm halfway down the east wing corridor when I hear the screaming.

It's shrill, panicked—the kind of scream that makes everyone stop moving. The hallway goes silent for a split second, and then chaos erupts. Students are pushing, shouting, trying to see what's happening. Someone yells to call 911.

My body moves before my brain catches up. I'm pushing through the crowd, craning my neck to see past the wall of bodies blocking the bathroom entrance.

"Back up! Everyone back up!" A teacher's voice, sharp with authority.

I catch a glimpse through the crowd—the bathroom door is propped open, and there's something on the floor just inside. Something that makes my stomach drop.

Not something. Someone.

A shoe. A hand, pale and motionless, fingers curled against the tile.

"Oh my God," someone whispers beside me. "Is that Jordan Hayes?"

Jordan. I know that name. Junior. Varsity soccer. Sits two rows behind me in English.

The crowd is shoved back as more teachers arrive, cordoning off the area. Someone—maybe the same girl who screamed—is sobbing loudly. The principal's voice crackles over the intercom, calm but urgent: "All students proceed immediately to your classrooms. Teachers, initiate lockdown procedures."

Lockdown.

The word sends ice through my veins.

I'm herded away with everyone else, stuffed into the nearest classroom with two dozen other students who look just as confused and terrified as I feel. The teacher—Mr. Garrison, who I don't even have for any classes—locks the door and tells us to stay away from the windows.

No one speaks. We just sit there, listening to the distant wail of sirens getting closer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting Maya.

It's not Maya.

Unknown number. One line of text:

Mistake.

I stare at the word, my pulse hammering in my ears. My fingers are shaking as I type back: Who is this?

The reply comes instantly:

Stay, or they keep dying.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.

Around me, students are whispering, pulling out their own phones, checking social media for information. I hear fragments of conversation:

"—found in the bathroom—"

"—think he's dead—"

"—his girlfriend this morning—"

That last one makes me freeze.

I bend down, fumbling to pick up my phone. My hands won't stop shaking. I force myself to breathe, to think clearly. This is a coincidence. It has to be.

But then I remember.

Jordan Hayes. I saw him this morning. Fourth period English is right after third period lunch, and I always pass the junior lockers on my way. I saw Jordan standing there with his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend?—and they were arguing. I didn't hear what they said, but the body language was clear. Tense. Angry.

And then she walked away.

The timeline clicks into place, cold and precise.

Jordan's breakup happened around 11:30.

Mine happened at 11:45.

Jordan was found dead at 12:15.

Ten minutes before Eli told me to be careful.

I look down at my phone, at the message from the unknown number.

Stay, or they keep dying.

My vision blurs. The classroom feels too small, too hot. I can't breathe.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, underneath the panic and denial, a small voice whispers the truth I don't want to acknowledge:

I just made the worst mistake of my life.

And someone wants me to know it.