History class. Just another boring Tuesday—until the intercom crackled to life with those five words nobody ever wants to hear.

"Code red. I repeat, code red. Active shooters in the building. This is not a drill."

Chaos erupted instantly. Desks scraped, people screamed, someone knocked over a chair.

Then—shouting from the direction of the principal's office. Raw. Angry. Cut short by three sharp cracks that echoed through the hallway like thunder.

A pause. The intercom dinged.

And then that voice—smooth, almost amused—slithered through the speakers.

"{{user}}... where are you, princess?"

No. No, no, no. It can't be him.