Chapter 17

Ashton stared at his phone, the screen flashing with yet another call. It had been ringing nonstop, but his fingers refused to move. Eventually, the ringing stopped. Call ended. Then, silence.

After what felt like forever, he finally mustered the energy to pick up his phone. Milo.

With a slow exhale, he raised the phone to his ear.

On the other end, Milo's voice came through, laced with frustration and concern. "Ashton, I've been calling you forever. Why haven't you been picking up?"

Ashton didn't respond.

Milo sighed. "Look, I know Saturday was rough, but… are you coming to school today?"

Silence."I mean… that was probably a stupid question," Milo admitted. "You're probably not feeling up to it."

More silence.

"Ashton, talk to me. I've been trying to call Luke, but he's not picking up either. I'm really worried about him, dude."

Nothing.

"Ashton." A pause. "I'll come pick you up. We can go by Luke's house and make sure he's okay, especially after everything that happened."

Finally, Ashton spoke, voice low and hoarse. "Luke is here."

Silence.

"What?" Milo's voice sharpened. "What do you mean he's there?"

"I have to go."

Ashton hung up, leaving the dead air to swallow the conversation whole. His phone slipped from his fingers, landing somewhere on the bed, but he barely noticed.

The room felt heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. He lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, until finally, he dragged himself out of bed. His feet felt like lead as he shuffled toward the bathroom.

Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water on his face, trying to shake the exhaustion clinging to his skin.

He looked up at the mirror.

The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.

Hollow eyes. Sunken features. A stranger. 

The person looking back at him didn't have the spark he remembered.

His chest tightened. He blinked rapidly, but the face didn't change.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The reflection smirked.

Something inside him snapped. With a strangled yell, Ashton slammed his fist into the glass.

A sharp crack echoed through the bathroom as shards rained into the sink, his own fractured image staring back at him from a hundred broken pieces.

"You're not me," he gasped, cradling his bleeding hand. "That's not what I look like."

He sank to the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth as his breath came in uneven bursts.

"I am confident. A jokester. I don't look like that."

But the mirror said otherwise.

After a while, the tremors in his hands faded. Slowly, Ashton crawled back to his bed, reaching under the mattress. His fingers brushed against the wood, then curled around something cold. Solid. Familiar. He pulled it out, gripping it tightly.

A knock at the door.

"Ashton?" Luke's voice was quiet. "Milo just texted. He's two minutes out. Come downstairs."

Footsteps retreated down the hall.

Ashton stared at the object in his hands. Slowly, he slipped it back beneath the mattress.

Later.

Jasmine Pov.

The sun was already climbing the sky by the time Jasmine strolled back home, the warmth of the morning pressing against her skin.

The small bag of ice cream dangled from her fingertips, condensation beading on the plastic.

She had taken her time walking, savoring the quiet after the storm she had just unleashed.

Two posts. Two carefully crafted bombs set to explode.

By now, the school was probably drowning in chaos—phones buzzing, messages flying, people scrambling to figure out what to believe.

It didn't matter.

She had planted the seeds, and soon, the truth—or at least, her version of it—would take root.

She stepped into the house, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The air inside was still, undisturbed, just the way she liked it.

Jasmine made her way to her room, placing the ice cream on her desk before booting up her computer. The screen bathed her face in a soft glow as she cracked her knuckles, settling into her chair.

Time to clean up.

Jasmine's lips twitched in amusement as she pulled up Parker's phone remotely. You should've been more careful.

A few keystrokes, a click, and just like that—it was gone. The tracker app erased completely, wiped from existence.

No traces.

No history.

Leaning back, Jasmine exhaled, rolling her shoulders. That's one less problem to deal with.

Her gaze drifted to the small leather-bound notebook sitting neatly on her desk. It was worn at the edges, the spine creased from years of use. She flipped it open, scanning the ink-stained pages, every detail meticulously recorded.

She reached the latest entry—one she no longer needed.With practiced ease, she ripped the page from the book. The sound was crisp, final.

Jasmine pulled open her drawer, retrieving a lighter. A small flame flickered to life, its glow reflected in her eyes. She held the paper steady, watching as the fire licked at the edges, curling the paper inward, consuming it entirely.

The ash crumbled between her fingers, falling into the small dish she always kept nearby. By the time she wiped her hands clean, there was nothing left of it.

No proof. No evidence.

Just the lingering scent of burnt paper and the quiet hum of her computer.

Jasmine glanced down at her notebook once more, her fingers tracing the next name on the list.

It was time to choose her next target.

A slow smirk curled at the edges of her lips.

And this one?

This one was going to be fun.