Arwa avoided mirrors that morning.
Not because she feared what she'd see—but because she feared she wouldn't see anything at all.
That she might look into her own eyes and find them blank.
Like the screen after Hadi's scream.
Like the fifth chair before she sat.
She got dressed slowly. Each motion weighed more than it should have, as if gravity was different now. As if her body knew things her brain was still pretending not to understand.
When she stepped outside, Velridge had returned to its polished routine. Crisp uniforms. Coffee steam curling through the air. Voices rehearsed in the rhythm of regular life.
But it all felt like a set.
A stage.
And she wasn't sure if she was an actor or the audience anymore.
---
In Psychology class, the lights flickered again.
This time, for longer.
Professor Daud paused mid-sentence. "Don't worry, just an electrical calibration. Routine."
But Arwa noticed the shift. Samra, two rows ahead, sat straighter. Zayaan didn't even blink. And Rayyan—Rayyan looked directly at her for the first time all morning.
Then looked away.
Guilt curled in her chest. Hadi should've been in the seat beside her. He always scribbled notes too fast. Always whispered sarcastic comments under his breath.
Now—nothing.
Just absence.
And the silence it carried.
---
After class, a message lit up on her phone. No app. No ID.
Just one line:
THE CHAIR REMEMBERS WHO LEFT.
She dropped the phone.
When she picked it back up, the message was gone.
---
That evening, Arwa stood outside the library but couldn't bring herself to go in. She stared at the glass doors until her reflection looked like someone else.
"Lost something?" Rayyan's voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
She turned.
Rayyan was already watching her—arms crossed, posture relaxed, but his expression carved from stone.
"Out of everyone," she asked, her voice low, "why us?"
He tilted his head, not blinking. "Sometimes fate isn't random. Sometimes it's deliberate. Like a test... rigged from the start."
"You're not even surprised," she said.
He gave the ghost of a smile, humorless. "I learned early—being shocked gets you hurt. Being ready keeps you alive."
"For what?"
"For the part where someone breaks."
A pause.
Then he walked past her into the library.
But before the door shut, he said one more thing—softly, over his shoulder:
"Don't let it be you."
---
Back in her room, Arwa finally opened her laptop. She hadn't dared check her emails in case something else had crept in.
But what she found wasn't an email.
It was a file. No sender. No subject.
Just a name.
Nasir_A-308.footage.locked
She hovered the cursor.
Clicked.
A prompt:
"Do you accept surveillance clearance?"
She clicked yes.
The screen stayed black for several seconds.
Then: a feed.
Five boxes. Four active. One… static.
In Box 1: Samra, staring at a wall in her room, motionless.
Box 2: Zayaan, typing frantically, notes and books scattered everywhere.
Box 3: Rayyan. Reading. Calm.
Box 4: Arwa. Herself. Watching this.
Box 5: Empty.
She blinked.
Then gasped.
Because in Box 5—
A figure appeared.
Back turned.
Shaking.
Arwa leaned forward.
The screen glitched.
And suddenly, the fifth figure turned.
Just a glimpse.
Just enough to see—
It was Hadi.
Not how he looked in class. Not even how he looked the last time they'd seen him.
This version was wrong.
Pale.
Eyes hollow.
Lips moving.
Saying something.
Over and over.
But there was no sound.
Until one word finally broke through the static:
"Help."
The feed went black.
---
That night, Arwa woke to tapping.
Not on her door.
On her window.
Her room was on the third floor.
She didn't look.
She didn't move.
But she knew, somehow—
The trial wasn't waiting anymore.
It had come to her.
---