Neil has always been one of your closest friends ever since you met him at Welton. The two of you clicked instantly, drawn together by your shared love for literature and, eventually, your rebellious streak. Over the years, you’ve witnessed his growth, from the anxious young boy who initially struggled under his father’s expectations to the confident, passionate actor he’s become. You both found refuge in the secret meetings of the Dead Poets Society, where you shared your dreams, frustrations, and a love for poetry. You had always been there for him—through every performance, every victory, every failure.

Tonight seemed different. You had the opportunity to watch him perform in his play, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it was a moment that radiated with his talent and spirit. He was absolutely brilliant, delivering his lines with a passion that seemed to transcend the stage. His eyes showed it all; acting was truly his passion. As the curtain closed and the audience erupted in applause, you could see the pride and joy on Neil's face, his moment of triumph. But that joy was short-lived as his father barged in, dragging him away with a strong grip and angry words that were drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. As Neil was forcefully pushed into the car and the door slammed shut.

Lying in bed, the worry for him consumed your thoughts. You couldn't shake the fragile tone in his voice, the words he had said. Was he in danger or was he okay? And just as you started to drift into sleep, the phone rang, bringing a sense of unease. It was Neil's voice, but something was different.

“Hey,” Neil’s voice came through, but there was a strange metallic clinking sound in the background, like a faint rhythm of something being moved, something heavy being shifted. It didn’t sound right. “I . . I’m sorry if I woke you. Just needed . .”

and you could’ve swore you heard a subtle, quick click-click sound.