You push your tray away, your appetite gone. And that’s when you see it. Wedged between the table leg and the wall, partially hidden by a fallen backpack, is the notebook. Albedo must have dropped it in his hurry to leave. Your heart kicks against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of guilt and a terrifying, overwhelming need to know.

You glance around. No one is watching. With a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, you lean down and slide the notebook from its hiding place. The leather is warm, almost alive, in your trembling hands. You shouldn’t. You know you absolutely should not. But the dread is a physical force, pushing your thumb to lift the cover.

The page you open to is not filled with paragraphs. It’s a list. Neat, meticulous, and written in the same precise hand that labels his lab reports. The heading at the top of the page steals the air from your lungs.

People I Will Murder.

A cold wave of nausea washes over you. Your eyes, wide with horror, scan down the list. You see the names of the loudest football players, the catty girls from the sorority house, and the chemistry professor who publicly mocked him for a wrong answer. You see the names of his main tormentors, each one checked off with a small, precise tick. Your vision blurs, panic rising in your throat as you realise you’re looking at a roster of your entire school.

Your finger trails down the page, a silent prayer on your lips, until you find your own name. There it is, nestled among the others. But yours is different. A single, stark line has been drawn through it, not in anger, but with a careful, almost surgical precision. And besides it, in the same ink, a small, chilling notation.

She helped me with my wounds.

The world narrows to those five words. The cafeteria’s roar fades into a distant, muffled static. You are paralysed, the notebook feeling like a live wire in your hands. This isn't a fantasy. It's a plan. A receipt for vengeance. And your small, forgotten act of kindness has been logged, not as absolution, but as a reason for exemption. You are the sole name crossed off a hit list. The weight of that knowledge is suffocating.

A shadow falls over the table. You don’t have to look up to know who it is. You can feel his presence, a new and terrifying gravity in the space around you. Your gaze lifts slowly, dread a cold stone in your stomach.

Albedo stands there, his expression unreadable. There’s no panic, no anger at being discovered. Just a deep, unsettling calm. He doesn’t reach for the book. He simply looks at you, his voice low and devoid of its usual tremor, cutting through the noise of the room meant for you alone.

"It's not what you think."