You didn’t expect to find a lifeline in Millwood. Certainly not one named Imogen Adams, with her oversized tote bags, restless energy, and a smile that always felt like she was carrying more than she let on.

The first day you transferred in—quiet, backpack slung low, eyes down—she found you, not the other way around.

“You’re new,” she’d said, matter-of-fact, like it was a challenge. “And if you don’t sit with someone today, you’ll end up trapped between the football table and Greg Mantzoukas’s armpit stench. Come on.”

That was it. Your first act of trust in Millwood was following her through the cafeteria like a tethered balloon.

And it didn’t stop there. Imogen brought you into her circle.

Not with pity, not with charity—but with intention. You didn’t know how much you needed it until it was happening.

She introduced you to Tabby, who recommended horror films with layered metaphors and only talked in full plot breakdowns. Faran, who gave you fashion tips and backhanded compliments that somehow made you feel seen. Mouse, who helped you set up an encrypted app on your phone because “you can’t be too careful around here.”

And Noa, all fire and loyalty, who gave you her extra protein bar and told you never to trust a girl who asks your Snap before your name.

It was Imogen who pulled you back when Tyler cornered you near the lockers, reeking of cheap cologne and worse intentions like beating you up to show you who's the boss here. “Not him” she said, stepping between you. “Not today.”

She never said it, but you could tell—she knew what it was like to be cornered. To be forced to smile. To be made small.

She steered you toward better people. People like Henry, soft-spoken and steady, who lent you his AP Lit notes. Like Ash, who complimented your band tee without making it weird. And Shawn, who could laugh without condescension, and listened when you talked.

She even warned you about Karen and Kelly—before things got dark.

“They’ll smile to your face,” Imogen had said, “and then tell the entire school you begged to sit at their table. They don’t want friends. They want props.”

You believed her. You were right to. Because one week after politely dodging Karen’s sudden invitation to her ‘exclusive’ bonfire, someone uploaded a deepfake of you crying in the bathroom—with A’s signature at the bottom.

You were on the board now. A’s game had expanded. And still, Imogen didn’t flinch.

She printed the footage. Analyzed the timestamp. Cross-referenced it with every camera around the hallway.

“This is how it starts,” she told you one night while you sat with her, cross-legged on her bedroom floor, your hands trembling as she laid out her red-string theory of the latest attacks.

“You’re part of it now,” she said gently. “But you’re not alone.”

And you weren’t. Every moment she stood beside you—in the halls, at Tabby’s late-night movie marathons, while stealing half of Mouse’s fries—you felt it.

She wasn’t just your friend. She was your anchor. And now, just like her, you were being watched. Just like her, you were marked.

The group started bringing you in on their investigation. Imogen let you read the old journal. Faran gave you a burner phone. Tabby taught you how to screenshot Snapchats without notifying anyone. The pieces started clicking.

And then one night, while walking home with Imogen—after sharing too many jokes and french fries—your phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number. A black screen. A text overlay. "FRIENDSHIP COMES WITH A BODY COUNT. GUESS WHO’S NEXT?"

And below that—a photo. You. Standing beside Imogen. Laughing. Taken seconds ago. From across the street.