THE SECRET

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Hi guys, trust you are doing great.

I sincerely apologize for the delay in uploading the new chapters. Life threw a few unexpected hurdles my way, but I want to thank you all for your patience and unwavering support.

Please rest assured, exciting and emotionally gripping chapters are on the way, and I promise the wait will be worth it. Stay tuned—things are about to get even more intense!

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The room was quiet. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, bathing the space in a soft silver glow. Jane sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the wall, her thoughts tangled in everything she'd discovered. Suddenly, the cold draft swept through the room again, but this time, she didn't flinch.

He appeared quietly, standing by the door like he had been there the whole time. Jamie.

Jane looked up and smirked slightly, "Took you long enough."

Jamie tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "You're not scared anymore."

"No," she replied, folding her arms. "You keep showing up. Might as well get used to it."

Jamie walked toward her, the air growing cooler as he approached. "Your roommate, Amara, sleeps too deeply, doesn't she?"

Jane raised a brow. "That's you?"

Jamie gave a slight nod. "I needed silence. There are things I must show you. And things that must remain unheard… for now."

Jane studied his face. He looked almost human in the moonlight—if it weren't for the way he shimmered slightly, like light passing through smoke. There was a sorrow in his eyes, but also urgency. And beneath it, a haunting kind of familiarity.

"You said this room belonged to you," she said softly, looking around at the pale walls and old furniture. "Even though it's a girl's dormitory."

Jamie's gaze didn't move from her. "That's because everything here has been rewritten."

Jane blinked. "What do you mean… rewritten?"

"The past. The records. The truth. This school… it repaints history like a cracked wall covered with fresh paint. But the cracks are still there. Beneath."

Jane stared at him. She felt it in her chest again—that unexplainable chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

Jamie turned to the wall behind her bed. "Do you want to know what really happened in this room?"

Jane nodded slowly.

He raised his hand. The air rippled like heat waves on asphalt. Then, slowly, the wall behind her began to change. The paint peeled back, not physically—but as if she was seeing through time. The room around them shifted: colors dimmed, furniture rearranged, bedsheets changed.

Jane stood, heart pounding.

Now, instead of her modern dorm room, she stood in an older version of it. Everything looked dustier, darker. On the floor—chalk drawings. Symbols. A small table with candles. The faint scent of burnt paper lingered.

And there—by the window—sat Jamie.

Not the ghost.

But the living boy.

He was younger, dressed in the school's old uniform, his hands pressed together like he was praying. But the fear on his face…

The ghost-Jamie stood beside her, watching.

"What… what is this?" Jane asked in a hushed voice.

"My last night alive," Jamie said quietly.

Jane turned to him in shock.

"I was here," he continued. "In this room. When they came."

"Who?"

He looked at her, eyes shadowed. "The ones who run the school. The ones who started all this."

As if summoned by his words, the scene shifted again. The door burst open. Dark figures entered. Faces covered. Voices muffled. One held a syringe. Another a book. A third held a candle that dripped black wax.

Jamie's younger self tried to run—but it was no use.

"They said I saw too much," ghost-Jamie whispered. "That I overheard a meeting I wasn't supposed to."

Jane covered her mouth as they pinned the boy down. He screamed. The syringe pierced his skin. His body thrashed, then stilled. The candle flickered out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Then the real room returned.

Jane gasped, stumbling back onto her bed, her breaths quick and shallow.

Jamie looked pale—more so than usual.

"They buried the records," he said softly. "Said I transferred. Faked everything. Even my parents… got hush money."

Jane could barely speak. "That's… why you're still here?"

Jamie didn't answer right away. Then, finally, he said, "Not just that. There's more. Someone… helped them. A student. A friend. I never saw their face. But I remember the voice. And that voice—I've heard it again. Recently."

Jane's stomach turned. "You think it's someone still here?"

"I don't think," Jamie whispered. "I know."

A silence fell over them like dust.

Jane nodded, no longer questioning the oddities surrounding him. Somehow, she felt a connection with Jamie. Whatever fear she had felt before had melted away. She was getting used to his presence—his voice, even his strange, fading scent that wasn't really there but still lingered.

"Sometimes, what's lost under your feet… holds the voices of the dead."

Jamie said slowly like each word had been chosen with care.

"A phone. Maya's. It dropped there, under the staircase. Nobody's found it. It's still there."

"A phone?" Jane repeated. "Why is that important?"

"It holds truths that sting," Jamie replied cryptically, "truths sharp enough to bleed secrets."

Before Jane could ask more questions, his form began to fade again. "Wait! Jamie!" she called out, but he was already gone.

For a moment, the room felt colder. She glanced at Amara—still asleep—and stood up.

Jane stepped into the hallway, her heart pounding. The dorm was unusually silent, as though holding its breath. She made her way down the first corridor, her bare feet brushing against the cold tiles. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer than normal, and the faint creak of the floor behind her made her snap her head around more than once.

As she neared the stairwell, the air around her grew heavier. The dim light flickered above her, and she felt like someone, or something, was watching. Still, she pressed on, moving slowly, carefully.

She reached the bottom of the staircase and crouched. Her hands brushed over the dusty tiles, and her fingers finally touched something. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled it out—Maya's phone. The casing was cracked, dirt smudged on the back, but it was still intact.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, staring at the object in her hand.

But just then, something moved.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure—a tall man, dressed in black, his face hidden behind a dark mask. He darted across the hallway like a shadow come to life. Her blood froze. She stood up so fast she nearly dropped the phone.

The man saw her.

And he started running.

Jane's legs moved on instinct. She bolted up the stairs, her feet slamming against the steps as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind her. The man was chasing her, and he was fast.

She ran down the corridor, panting, her heart crashing against her ribs. Thoughts flew wildly through her head—Was he sent to kill her? Why now? Why her?

She could hear his pace increasing. She didn't dare turn around.

All she wanted now was to reach her room. Her hands shook as she reached for the door—but it was locked.

"No! No, no!" she cried, banging on the door. "Open! Please!"

She turned around.

The man was there.

He was huge, his black coat brushing the floor, and his red eyes burning with fury. He moved slowly now, seeing that she was trapped. In his right hand, he held a large knife. It gleamed under the corridor light, sharp and unforgiving.

Jane backed into the door, clutching the phone tightly. Her body trembled as tears slipped down her cheeks. The man was just inches away when—

The door flung open behind her.

Jane, leaning on it, tumbled backward into the room. The door slammed shut the moment her feet crossed the threshold. She turned quickly and stared, wide-eyed.

The man had vanished.

One second he was there, full of rage, ready to strike. The next… nothing.

Inside the room, Jane sat on the floor, trying to catch her breath. She held Maya's phone in her hands. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the power button.

It was locked.

Just then, the temperature dropped again. Jamie appeared near the window. Without a word, he stared at the phone. The screen flickered—and it unlocked on its own.

Jane looked up at him, shocked. He nodded gently. "Look."

She began scrolling.

At first, there was nothing strange. Just normal photos, call logs, text messages—nothing out of place. But then, something strange appeared. An app. One she'd never seen before.

It was labeled "Echo Vault."

She hesitated, then tapped it.

A loading screen appeared, followed by a gallery. But these weren't normal pictures.

There were images of students—some she recognized. Cindy. Others who were reported missing or dead in the past year. Names and photos, times, and coded notes.

Jane felt cold all over.

She kept scrolling and found more—screenshots of messages, lists of student IDs.

Her hands shook.

She didn't understand everything, but one thing was clear. This phone held the real truth behind Cindy's death. And possibly many others.

Jane swallowed hard.

Someone—or some people—had been hiding terrible secrets.

And now she knew.

Unfortunately, she became big threat, that needs to be taken care of urgently.

At the CIU base, detective Weller sat behind his desk, files scattered before him. He had gone through every bit of evidence, but one thing was clear: Maya's phone was the missing key.

He had asked every staff member, every student he could reach. No one had seen the phone.

Frustrated, Weller decided to take a new approach—he would begin the tracking process. Maybe, just maybe, the phone was still on campus. And maybe it could still be found.

But before he could act, he was summoned.

The Chief Inspector—his superior—wanted to see him.

Weller walked into the large, dimly lit office and saluted. "Sir?"

The Chief didn't look up from his folder. "You're working the Cindy Thompson case?"

"Yes, sir. I believe there's still—"

"Drop it," the man interrupted, finally meeting his eyes.

Weller blinked. "Sir?"

"I said drop it. Immediately. You're to close the file and move on."

"But sir," Weller protested, "I've uncovered links—this could go deeper than we thought."

The Chief's tone hardened. "This is not up for discussion. You are to stop all investigations related to that case. Destroy your notes. That's an order."

Weller stood frozen. He felt it in his gut—something wasn't right. Someone powerful wanted this case buried. But why?

And how high did it go?

"Understood," he said stiffly.

But in his mind, he had already decided—he wasn't letting this go. Not now. Not when the truth was this close.

The room had grown too still.

Jane sat at the edge of the bed, the phone clutched tightly to her chest, her heartbeat louder than the ticking wall clock. Amara remained asleep, too deeply asleep, almost like she wasn't breathing—but she was. Jane checked for the third time, relieved but confused.

A distant creak echoed from the hallway.

She froze.

Then came footsteps—measured and heavy, not rushed. Not afraid. Someone was walking with a purpose… straight toward their room.

She stood, her feet bare against the cold floor. The lock on the door was weak—nothing that could hold back real force. She reached for Amara, shaking her gently. "Amara… wake up. Please, wake up…"

No response.

"Amara!"

Nothing.

The footsteps stopped… right at the door.

Jane's breath caught in her throat. Slowly, the knob twisted. Click.

It opened just enough for the darkness to spill in—then it pushed wide with unnatural quietness.

Three masked men stepped into the room.

They were tall, dressed in black from head to toe, faces hidden behind fabric masks, eyes like glass. Not a word left their lips. One of them closed the door behind them silently, like they were sealing the room off from the world.

Jane backed away slowly, shielding the phone behind her.

The man in front moved first. He walked with calculated grace toward her, reached out—and with one swift motion, snatched the phone from her trembling hands. Another one turned to Amara, still unresponsive. He checked her pulse, then gave a nod.

"They're just girls," the third one muttered—his voice muffled and distant. "But we can't leave loose ends."

The words hit Jane like a blade to the chest.

She stumbled back further, pressing into the corner. "Please... don't…"

The man with the phone stared at it, screen glowing faintly. "Too late," he said simply.

The one closest to Jane pulled something from inside his jacket. A small blade. Sharp. Cold. Silent.

Jane screamed.

Or tried to.

Her voice died in her throat.

"Jamie!" she whispered through tears, in her mind—desperate, trembling. Please, Jamie... please… help me…

No one came.

No flicker of cold air. No ghostly form. Nothing.

He wasn't coming.

The man raised the knife.

Amara stirred faintly.

Jane closed her eyes.

And then—