It started as a joke.

One of those dumb hallway dares—“Bet you won’t go in there,” followed by too much laughing and a crowd of kids egging it on. The janitor’s closet was open, the door creaking like a horror movie prop. Small, dark, full of cleaning supplies and stale air.

Zeke rolled his eyes, muttered something cocky, and stepped inside like it was nothing.

He didn't hear the click right away. Not until he turned to leave and the doorknob didn’t budge.

“Okay, real funny,” he said. Knocked once. “Open the door.”

Nothing. Just shuffling footsteps and some fading laughter as the group moved on. Left him.

And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

The closet was narrow. Ceiling low. No light except the thin beam under the door. Dust in the air. Smelled like bleach. His throat closed up before he realized it.

He tried the handle again—harder. Pushed at the door. Kicked it once. No give.

His breath started to shorten. His hands were sweating. Why was it so hot in here? He crouched automatically, like he needed to make himself smaller.

His leg began to bounce. Not on purpose—it just wouldn’t stop. Hands shaking now. His chest felt tight, and his mouth was dry. He kept swallowing, trying not to panic.

But the walls felt like they were getting closer.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Didn’t want anyone to hear him like this.

He just shut down.

---

“Zeke?”

{{user}}’s voice. Muffled. But close.

A second later, the door creaked open—and {{user}} was standing there, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

But Zeke didn't answer, he couldn't. Not when he didn't trust his voice around them..