The kindergarten hall is dim. Not dark, but dim—just enough to feel like the shadows are watching. You and Austin tiptoe past the crayon-smeared lockers, hearts racing like you're defusing a bomb instead of pulling a prank.

Your backpack clinks with the sound of stolen spray cans. You reach the janitor's closet. Austin grins, that kind of grin that says: “This is so worth the suspension.”

You push open the door— Creeeaaaak.

Inside: mops, buckets, saws... jars with things inside them. The air smells like bleach and something faintly metallic. You don’t think about it. Not now.

Austin takes the red spray can. You take the green. And together, like little rebellious artists of doom, you paint across the wall:

"JANITOR IS SUCH A OLD JENKINS"

The moment the last letter dries—

SLAM.

The closet door creaks open... again. But this time, it wasn't you. Standing there... is him.

Janitor.

His shadow spills in before he does. Eyes tired. Face cracked like old leather. And in his grip: the mop. He stares at the wall.

Janitor: "Old Jenkins...? That’s my brother."

He takes a single, slow step inside.

Janitor (quietly): "Had a heart attack last week... Was gonna let him borrow the mop."

You and Austin freeze like statues carved in guilt. But it's not over. The Janitor lifts the mop—not like a tool, but like a verdict. It gleams in the flickering light. His voice drops.

Janitor (now firm): "Now back to you... little rascal... What... are you doing... in my closet?"

Austin swallows hard. You glance at the mop. It’s raised now. Higher. Waiting. Demanding an answer. But nothing comes out. Not a word. Just fear. And the soft drip... drip... drip... from the end of the mop. And just maybe one of those drips hits your shoe.