Chapter 6: The Door That Shouldn’t Open

The scratch on the glass wasn't an accident.

"Camille saw her fall."

Not wrote. Not heard. Not guessed.

Saw.

I didn't sleep.

Didn't move for hours, really.

I just sat on the windowsill, staring at the message until the city lights dimmed into sunrise. Every time I blinked, I imagined it — my sister's body falling through the air, the way the wind must've caught her scream.

And Camille? What had she done?

Had she watched from her window? From the roof? Had she turned away?

Or worse... had she smiled?

Killian texted me at 8:03 a.m.

K: Tonight. Meet at 9. Wear black. Bring gloves. Don't ask why.

I didn't ask.

Because I already knew.

We were going back to that door.

The one Camille slipped into. The one behind the faculty building that no one talked about.

The one we weren't supposed to find.

The day passed like a blur of fog and unfinished thoughts.

Jules tried to catch me between classes, asking if I'd seen the flyers for the Winter Gala.

"Everyone goes," she said. "It's this whole thing. Fake snow, lanterns, champagne that's not really champagne…"

I nodded, smiled weakly, and walked away.

Because I couldn't think about fake snow when I kept seeing my sister falling.

9 p.m.

The quad was quiet.

Killian met me by the greenhouse. He wore black from head to toe — hoodie, jeans, boots. A black cap pulled low.

He handed me a pair of latex gloves.

"Security cameras?" I asked.

"Blacked out after nine," he replied. "Trust me. I checked."

He didn't say how.

I didn't ask.

The path behind the faculty building crunched under our feet, sharp and cold and loud in the silence.

When we reached the rusted maintenance door, he pulled a small card out of his pocket.

Not a keycard.

A blade.

Thin, flat, metallic.

"You pick locks now?" I whispered.

He gave me a look. "You're asking now?"

Point taken.

Thirty seconds later, the lock clicked open.

The door creaked — old hinges, forgotten secrets — and we stepped into the dark.

The hallway inside was narrow, lined with storage closets and dusty file cabinets. The only light came from Killian's phone flashlight, sweeping across peeling walls and abandoned signage.

"Where are we?" I whispered.

"Faculty storage. Maybe. Could be part of the old building plans."

He moved ahead, slow and careful, stopping at each door.

All locked.

Until the last one.

A plain white door. No label. No knob. Just a keypad.

"Wait," I said. "Camille didn't use a code."

"She had a key."

"But we don't."

He pulled out his phone again.

"I downloaded an override app," he said. "It might not work, but…"

He tapped, scanned, waited.

Click.

The door opened.

And I stepped into a nightmare.

The room wasn't large.

But it was full.

Stacks of files. Yearbooks. Tapes. Student records. Disciplinary reports. Old faculty rosters and incident logs dating back decades.

And in the center?

A bulletin board.

Covered in photos.

Students. Professors. RAs.

Each photo had a red circle drawn around the face.

Some were crossed out.

Some were not.

And right in the middle — pinned like a centerpiece — was my sister.

Lila Monroe.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Wearing the same dress from the photo that had been left outside my door.

I stepped forward.

"Killian…" I whispered. "What is this?"

He scanned the board, jaw tight.

"It's a pattern," he said. "They're tracking people. Watching them. Deciding who's a threat."

"And crossing them off?"

He nodded slowly.

I turned, hands trembling, scanning the files.

One was labeled: "Subject: L. Monroe – Interference"

I grabbed it.

Inside were pages of notes. Surveillance reports. Meeting logs.

And at the bottom, a line that made my heart stop.

"Observation terminated. Cause of fall: inconclusive. Camille reported subject's behavior as erratic."

Camille reported her.

Blamed her.

Signed off on her death.

I staggered back, mind racing, chest hollow.

"Zara," Killian said, voice low.

I looked up.

He was pointing to another folder.

My name.

"Z. Monroe – Observed. Incomplete."

I opened it with shaking hands.

Inside: a photo of me. On my first day. Sitting in Lit Theory. Two rows ahead of Killian.

The same photo I never saw anyone take.

The notes were newer.

"Potential risk. Pattern similar to Subject L. Monroe."

"Observed contact with K. Vale."

"Possible need for early intervention."

My vision blurred.

They weren't just watching me.

They were planning something.

"Killian, we have to get out of here," I breathed. "We have to—"

SLAM.

The door shut behind us.

We both spun.

Locked.

Automatic.

"No…" I whispered.

Killian ran to it, tried to force it open.

Nothing.

"We're not alone," he said.

Because suddenly, the lights flickered on.

And standing in the doorway was Camille.

She wasn't smiling.

She wasn't even surprised.

She just looked at us like we were disappointing children.

"I told you," she said. "Some doors shouldn't be opened."

And then she hit the lights again.

[Creator's Note – I KNOW, I KNOW 😭💀]

You didn't expect Camille to walk in on them like that, huh?? 👀

But yes, besties — she knows everything. And now Zara and Killian are locked in the room with all the evidence. Just when it felt like we had the upper hand…

How much does Camille actually know? And what happens now that Zara has her file — AND Lila's?

This next chapter's about to shake everything. So get ready 😏

Drop your theories.

Take a breath.

And I'll see you in Chapter 7 🔥

xoxo

–Smith_10