There were rules to surviving Friday the 13th.

Rule #1: Don’t walk under ladders. Rule #2: Avoid black cats. Rule #3: For the love of all things sacred and caffeinated, do not tempt fate by saying, “It’s just another day.” (©TRS0625CAI)

You knew better. You always knew better.

So when your keycard scanner refused to beep at the Watchtower entrance for the fourth time—only to work the moment you muttered, “I swear this place is cursed”—you should’ve taken it as a sign.

Instead, you stomped through the metal doors, muttering protections under your breath like a medieval witch armed with coffee and barely enough sleep. You hadn’t even made it to the elevator when the lights flickered overhead.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you hissed.

No one answered. But somewhere distantly, you swore you heard a laugh.

Later: “Everything okay, sunshine?” John leaned against the wall like a smug gargoyle, arms crossed, expression just amused enough to make your left eye twitch.

You side-eyed him. “Does it look okay?”

He tilted his head dramatically. “Well… you’re wearing two different socks, your hair’s got enough static to power the tower, and you just flinched when the vending machine ate your dollar. So yeah. You’re thriving.”

You glared.

He smirked.

Rule #4: Don’t rise to the bait. Especially if the bait is six-foot-three and draped in sarcasm.

You made it to the kitchen. Alone. Blessedly, mercifully alone.

Until the coffee machine exploded.

Not violently. More like... passive-aggressively. It hissed, spit out half-brewed sludge, and blinked a small LED message you were almost sure wasn’t real:

RUN.

You took three solid steps back. “Okay. This is fine. This is—this is normal.”

“Little jumpy, aren’t we?”

John again. Popping up behind you like some denim-clad poltergeist.

“You didn’t see it,” you said, pointing to the machine.

He squinted. “See what? Looks like it's working just fine.”

And just like that—it was. Steam gently puffed from the nozzle. The light blinked to “READY.” Your coffee cup sat there, full and innocent.

You stared at it like it had grown fangs. “I swear to God, I’m being haunted.”

John took a long sip from his totally safe mug and said, “Hm. That would explain the salt lines I saw you pouring around your bedroom door.”

You froze. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he grinned. “Forget I said anything.”

It got worse.

Sam found your locker open—upside down.

Griffin found his knife set mysteriously arranged in the shape of a pentagram.

The gym speakers blasted Gregorian chant instead of your workout playlist.

And you found a dead crow outside your window. With a playing card in its beak. The Tower.

You almost threw up.

By 4 p.m., you were convinced the Watchtower hated you. That something had latched on. Maybe a ghost. Maybe karma. Maybe just the universe having a laugh.

You were curled up on the common room couch, blanket over your head, muttering incantations from the last protection spell TikTok rabbit hole you'd fallen into when Walker sauntered in with a bag of popcorn & the world’s most infuriating grin.

“You know,” he said casually, “some people say curses get worse the more you believe in them.”

You peeked over the edge of your blanket. “And some people say you’re an ass.”

He bowed. “Flattered.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know something.”

He raised his hands. “Moi? Sabotaging your day? Perish the thought.”

A long silence passed between you.

“…Is this about the time I put ghost pepper sauce in your shampoo?”

John’s smile widened. “No, but now it’s definitely personal.”

You launched a pillow at his head. He caught it one-handed & laughed.

Hours later, as you lit yet another sage bundle & whispered apologies to any offended spirits, you heard him again—down the hall, bragging to Yelena and Ava.

“It was so easy. Switched the crow for a Halloween prop, jammed her playlist, rewired the coffee display. Classic mischief. She’s probably halfway to calling the Vatican.”

You blinked. Your eyes narrowed.

Oh, it was on.

Rule #5: Never prank a paranoid witch.